Past Imperative [Round One of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  "Certainly not!” Again Sister Ahn tried to look down her long nose at him, but he was still much too tall. “I was vouchsafed a vision of this, in a dream. It was very clear."

  T'lin Dragontrader moaned and covered his face with his hands. Eleal bit her lip to restrain a snigger. There was silence, until Gim said hesitantly, “It was odd that the guard did not come after us, sir."

  "Not odd at all!” the nun sniffed. “I gave them my oath that I had seen what I said. Sisters of my order are impeccable witnesses. Courts have accepted the sworn word of a Daughter over the testimony of phalanxes of magistrates. You owe me your life, Dragontrader. Or if not, at the very least they would have impounded all your worldly goods. I have paid fairly."

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  36

  CREIGHTON SEEMED TO HAVE AN INFINITE CAPACITY TO astonish. First he had produced ancient woodland gods out of pagan legend, and now Gypsies. Gypsies were thieves, poachers, charlatan fortune-tellers, and altogether not the sort of people whose company any self-respecting gentleman would cultivate. Nor was this encounter a sudden impulse, for he had obviously been recognized. A man was approaching. There was no smile of welcome on his face, but he was not scowling either.

  "Get your bag,” Creighton said, “and then wait here.” He jumped down.

  Edward followed and retrieved his suitcase. Without a word, the Gypsy took charge of the dogcart and pony. He was nattily dressed, although his clothes had more elaborate pleats and stitching than those of any ordinary Englishman. His waistcoat was too fancy, his hat brim too wide, and he had a colorful kerchief around his neck. He returned Edward's smile with a sullen glance and led the pony away. Only now did Edward register that the dogcart was an outlandishly gaudy affair of shiny brass fittings and bright-hued paints. So were three or four of the wagons, in varying degrees. Others were plainer, scruffy by comparison.

  Creighton was already in conversation with an elderly woman sitting by the fire. She was so muffled up in bright-colored clothes that she resembled nothing more than a heap of rainbows. She said something, nodding, then looked up to stare across at Edward. Even at that distance he sensed the piercing dark eyes of the true Gypsy. He tried not to squirm.

  Waving to him to follow, Creighton headed for one of the gaudiest of the wagons. When Edward arrived, he was regarding it with distaste.

  "I don't suppose the police can put the bite on you in here, old man,” he said, “but I can't answer for fleas.” With that, he trotted up the ladder. Edward followed. By the time he was inside, Creighton had stripped off his hat and jacket.

  There was barely room for the two of them to stand between the chairs and table and stove and shelves and various bundles and boxes. The air was heavy with an unfamiliar scent, and everywhere there was color—reds and greens and blues rioting on walls, furniture, garments, and bedding. The ceiling had not been designed for a six-footer. At the far end were two bunks, one above the other. From the assortment of clothes littered everywhere, this was home to a large family, and the lower bunk had pillows at both ends. In the middle of it lay a notably new and clean pigskin suitcase. Edward assumed it had been stolen, but when Creighton had stripped to his undervest, he began stowing his shirt and waistcoat in it.

  "Close the door, man! They said we could help ourselves to anything we find. I don't suppose there's much here that will fit you. Have to do the best you can."

  Edward began to undress. “Sir, you said the guv'nor was killing time in Africa. My uncle Roland accused him of engaging in devil worship because—"

  "Terminology depends on whose side you're on. One man's god is another man's devil. I'll explain about your father later.” Creighton was rummaging through heaps of garments.

  "And where does Christianity fit into this?"

  "Anywhere you want. Good King George and his cousin the Kaiser worship the same god, don't they?” Creighton held up a pair of pleated black trousers and frowned at them. “Britain and Germany pray to the same god. So do the French and the Russians and the Austrians. They all trust him to grant victory to the righteous, meaning themselves. Here—these look like the longest.” He handed them over. Then he selected a pink-and-blue shirt and wrinkled his nose.

  "Something wrong, sir?” Edward inquired, discovering that the pants did not reach his ankles.

  Hrrnph! “Just wondering about, you know, cleanliness."

  "I don't think you need worry. They will. You must be paying them handsomely? Or Head Office must be?"

  Creighton shot him a glare that would have softened horseshoes. “Just what're you implying?"

  "Well, anything that's been worn by a gorgio will be mokadi, and will be burned as soon as we leave."

  "What?"

  "Mokadi—ritually unclean. In fact I suspect they'll burn the whole wagon."

  "Burn the?...” The hazel eyes scowled out from under hedges of eyebrow in the sort of glare Edward had not faced since he was one of the crazy imps of the Fourth Form. “What the devil do you know about Gypsies?"

  "They quite often camp at Tinkers’ Wood, sir, near the school,” Edward said blandly. “A family named Fletcher.” He reached for a rainbow-embroidered shirt.

  "Out of bounds, I hope?"

  "Er, yes, sir."

  "They're swindlers and horse thieves!"

  "Oh, of course!” Fascinating people—even as a prefect, Edward had sneaked out at night to visit them. “They'll steal and lie and cheat any gorgio who comes within miles. That's just their way. But isn't it also true, sir, that they've been known for centuries as the finest spies in Europe?"

  A reluctant smile twitched the corner of Creighton's mouth. “I daresay."

  "The true Rom are about the most fastidious people in the world.” Edward was enjoying this. “They make high-caste Brahmins look like slobs."

  Hrrnph! “I suppose their fleas are frightfully pukka, too?"

  "I doubt if they're as fussy, sir."

  Creighton laughed approvingly, and proceeded to dress. Edward wondered if he'd just been tested in some way....

  "You feel spooky at all?"

  "No, sir. Should I?"

  "This is a node, I think."

  "It is?"

  "Well, of course here I'm no more certain than you are. I can always detect virtuality on Nextdoor, but here's trickier. The Rom prefer nodes for campsites, for obvious reasons. The headman's name is Boswell, by the way, but the real power is his mother. You look awfully sweet in that shirt. Old Mrs. Boswell's a chovihani—a witch, and a good one. Be respectful."

  "Oh gosh, sir! I grant you I saw a miracle this morning. I met Puck himself, an Old One. I know I would not have believed this yesterday and it was the experience of a lifetime—but please! Do I have to believe in Gypsy witches now?"

  Creighton flashed him another menacing, hazel glance. “Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon, Bismarck, Jenghis Khan.... You ever study any of those men in your fancy school, Exeter?"

  "Some of them."

  "They all had a lot of what's called charisma. Know what I mean by that?"

  "Er, leadership?"

  "More than that, much more. It's a faculty to absorb their followers’ admiration and focus it. A charismatic leader can persuade men to believe what he tells them to believe, to die for his smile, to follow him anywhere he goes; the more he demands of them, the more they are willing to give. He grows by their loyalty and induces more loyalty because of it. Generals, politicians, prophets—sometimes actors have charisma."

  Creighton paused in his dressing, and sighed. “I once saw Irving play Hamlet! Incredible! Half the audience was weeping, and I don't just mean the ladies. You must believe in faith healing? Well, in extreme cases, a charismatic leader can literally inspire miracles. And a chovihani has charisma. You'll see."

  Hunger and lack of sleep had made Edward short-tempered. Argument burst out of him before he could stop it. “Come, sir! Charisma is one thing. Magic's something else!"

  "Is it? Sometimes it's hard to tell w
here one ends and the other begins. So you plan to enlist, do you?"

  Thrown off-balance, Edward said, “Of course!” His country was at war—what else could he do? Let the beastly Prussians take over Europe? If they won, they'd attack the British Empire right afterwards anyway. They had to be stopped now.

  Creighton sighed, and bent to scrabble through a pile of socks. “Well, I suppose I might have felt the same at your age. Do you know Germany has invaded Belgium? The British and French are going to try and stop them, and sheer hell is going to stalk the plains of Flanders. The oracular reports are terrifying. The last few days have darkened the entire century. But I suppose at your age you feel immortal."

  "It is my duty!"

  The colonel straightened up and scowled. “I think you have a greater duty, although you don't know it yet. I think I have a duty to your father to save his only son from being hanged for a crime he did not commit. But I'll make a bargain with you. My friends and I saved you from an assassin. We've rescued you from a murder charge that would undoubtedly have sent you to the gallows. We've cured your leg. I think you owe us a little something, don't you?"

  Put like that, the question had only one answer.

  "I owe you a lot, sir, a devil of a lot."

  "Too bloody Irish you do! I'm calling in my debt, Exeter. Pay now."

  "Pay what?” Edward asked grumpily.

  "Parole. I want you to—I demand that you—put yourself under my orders. You will obey without question!"

  "For how long?"

  "One day. Until dawn tomorrow."

  "That's all? Then we're quits?"

  "That's all."

  "You're asking for a blank check!"

  "How much did you have in your account last night?"

  Creighton was not without charisma himself. Edward could not meet those eyes glittering under the hedgerow brows.

  "Thruppence! Very well, sir, I agree."

  "Right. Word of honor, of course?"

  Strewth! What did the cocky little bastard expect? Edward stared cold fury at him and said, “I beg your pardon?"

  Creighton nodded placidly. “Good. Then make yourself respectable and come on out. Rabbit stew for breakfast, I expect. Or pheasant, if we're lucky.” He pushed rudely past Edward and headed for the door.

  "Sir? What did you mean—"

  "Without question!” Creighton snapped, and disappeared down the steps.

  There was indeed stew for breakfast, and it might have contained rabbit. It certainly contained many other things, and it tasted delicious to a hungry man. Edward tried not to think about hedgehogs and succeeded so well that he emptied his tin plate in record time.

  He sat on the ground in an irregular circle of Gypsies, mostly men. Woman flitted around in attendance, never walking in front of a man. The women's garb was brighter, but even the men seemed dressed more for a barn dance than for country labor. There were about a score of adults in the band, and at least as many children, most of whom were hiding behind their elders and peering out warily at the strangers. The campsite was an untidy clutter of wagons and tents and basket chairs in various stages of assembly. Heaps of pots and clothespins indicated other trades. A dozen or so horses grazed nearby, and the skulking dogs seemed to belong.

  Creighton sat at the far side, deep in conversation with the ancient chovihani. Edward could hear nothing of what was being said, although there seemed to be some hard bargaining in progress. The few words he overheard near him were in Romany. He could not but wonder what the masters at Fallow would say if they could see him now in his grotesque garb. His wrists and ankles stuck out six inches in all directions. He was barefoot because he had been unable to find any shoes to fit him. The only part of his apparel not too small for him was his hat, and that kept falling over his eyes.

  A slender hand reached down to his plate. “More?” asked a soft voice.

  "Yes, please! It's very good."

  He watched as she carried the plate over to the communal pot and heaped it again with a ladle. Her dress made him think of Spanish dancers, and she was very pretty, with her head bound in a bright-colored scarf and her dangling earrings flashing in the sun. Her ankles ... Some ancient instinct caused him to glance around then. He saw that he was the object of suspicious glowers from at least half a dozen of the younger men. Good Lord! Did they think? ... Well, maybe they were right. Not that he had been considering anything dishonorable, but he had certainly been admiring, and that was forbidden to a gorgio. Nevertheless, he smiled at her when she gave him back the plate. She smiled back shyly.

  Eating at a nomad's campfire, he could not help feeling he was slumming, yet he knew that these were a proud people, and to them he was probably as out of place as a naked Hottentot at a dons’ high table in Oxford. There was a lesson there and he ought to be learning from it. The guv'nor would have been able to put it into words.

  The second helping he ate more slowly, feeling sleepiness creeping over him—he hadn't really slept at all in the night. There were so many things to think about! Could he trust Creighton, in spite of what the man had done for him? He was certainly being evasive. He claimed to have visited the guv'nor at Nyagatha, and he had known about Spots. He had pointedly avoided saying where he had come from, except for cryptic references to somewhere called “Nextdoor.” He had contrasted it with “Here,” without stipulating whether “Here” meant England or all Europe. The Service he talked about—what government did it serve? Some semiautonomous Indian potentate? The Ottoman Empire? China? China was in disarray, wasn't it?

  Everywhere was in disarray now, and yet Creighton had never once hinted at the possibility of the war interfering with whatever his precious Service served. And what could the Chamber be? He had certainly implied that it was in some sense supernatural; if it was, then the Service must be also.

  So what on Earth did that make Nextdoor?

  Replete, Edward returned his plate to the owner of the ankles and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He wanted a wash and a shave, but sleep would do for starters.

  Creighton called his name and beckoned.

  He walked around the fire, being careful not to step on anything sharp. Creighton was paying court to the old woman. Perhaps she really was a phuri dai, a wisewoman, but Edward knew enough about Gypsies to know that their leaders were invariably male. Furthermore, the man beside her was sitting on a wooden chair, while everyone else was on the ground. That made him unusually important. Edward went to the man.

  Boswell was probably in his sixties, thick and prosperous looking, with a patriarchal silver mustache. His face was the face of a successful horse trader, unreadable.

  Edward doffed his hat respectfully and said, “Latcho dives."

  The man's mustache twitched in a smile. “Latcho dives! You speak romani?"

  "Not much more than that, sir."

  Still, Edward had scored a point. Boswell said something very fast in Romany—probably addressed to his mother, although he was watching Edward to see if he understood, which he did not.

  Edward bowed and squatted down before her, alongside Creighton. She looked him over with the most extraordinary eyes he had ever seen. Her gaze seemed to go right through him and out the other side and back again. He barely noticed anything else about her, except that she was obviously very old. Only her lustrous Gypsy eyes.

  "Give me your hand,” she said. “No, the left one."

  He held out his hand. She clutched it in gnarled fingers and pulled it close to her face to study. He was able to glance away, then. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Creighton, who frowned. Then the old woman sighed and closed his fingers into a fist. Here it came, he thought—you will go on a long journey, you will lose a close friend, your dearest love will be true to you although you may be troubled by doubts, et blooming cetera. She was going to be disappointed when she told him to cross her palm with silver.

  She was looking at him again, darn it!

  "You'ave been unjustly blamed for a terrible cri
me.” Her voice amused him. It was straight off the back streets of London, almost Cockney.

  "That is true!” He tore his eyes away and reproachfully glanced at Creighton.

  "I told Mrs. Boswell nothing about you, Exeter."

  Oh, really? Edward would have bet a five-bob note—if he had one—that Creighton had told the old crone a lot more than he thought he had.

  "You will go on a long journey,” she said.

  Well, Belgium was a good guess, and quite a long journey.

  "You will have to make a very hard choice."

  That could mean anything—pie or sausage for supper, for instance. “Can you be more specific, ma'am?"

  Creighton and Boswell were listening and watching intently. So was everyone else within earshot.

  Mrs. Boswell twisted her incredibly wrinkled face angrily, as if recognizing Edward's disbelief. Or perhaps she was in pain. “You must choose between honor and friendship,” she said hoarsely. “You must desert a friend to whom you owe your life, or betray everything you hold sacred."

  Edward winced. That sounded too specific!

  "If you make the right choice, you will live, but then you will have to choose between honor and duty."

  "I beg your pardon, ma'am. How can honor and duty ever come in conflict?"

  She turned her head away suddenly in dismissal, and he thought she would not answer, but then she added: “Only by dishonor will you find honor."

  Bunk! Edward thought, more nettled than he wanted to admit, even to himself. “Honor or friendship, then honor or duty ... Do I get a third wish?"

  She did not reply for a long moment. Just when he had concluded that she would not, she whispered, “Yes. Honor or your life.” Then she waved him away without looking around.

  Soon the Gypsy caravan was ambling along the lanes of summer England, heading Edward knew not where. Creighton, having snared his victim with an oath of obedience, now refused to answer questions, or even hear them. Time for forty winks, he said.

  "How are you at dancing?” he inquired brusquely while they were undressing.

  Edward admitted he could probably manage a slow waltz.