by Dave Duncan
Daylight came grudgingly, a drippy, gray morning. It must be Twenty-second Fortnight already, so bad weather was hardly surprising, even in Niol. Narshvale would be thigh-deep in snow by now. So might Lospass. She was not dressed for winter and neither was Piol.
The road wound across the flats. Rain clouds drifted overhead, trailing gray tendrils. Niolwall and most of Niolslope were hidden. Just as the marshy paddies began to give way to gently rolling pastures, she noticed that the Liberator and his bodyguard were coming up behind, and drawing closer. They moved in spurts. It seemed as if D'ward was hailing almost everyone he passed by name, sometimes striding on by, other times slowing for a few minutes’ chat upon the way. Then he would lengthen his stride again and so would the shield-bearers, and he would move on to the next group.
Perhaps he would be in a better mood today—a hug and a kiss for old times’ sake....
Piol was managing well. He was slow but sure, he said; he could keep this pace up all day, just as long as nobody rushed him. They ate the last of their rations without stopping.
D'ward's party caught up with them before Eleal expected. The first she knew was a voice at their heels:
"Piol Poet?"
Piol was too unsteady to look around while walking. He stopped and turned to peer at the speaker inquiringly.
"I am Dosh Envoy. The Liberator asks a word with you."
Piol said, “Oh?” and “Oh!” and “Of course!"
"And I will keep you company, Eleal Singer.” The little blond man smiled pleasantly enough, but he nudged her forward.
"Why Piol? Why doesn't he want to speak with me?” She allowed herself to be conducted along the road while Piol fell back to be immersed in the bodyguard.
"I don't know, lady. I would love to know that. He granted you a miracle and then threw you out. I was sort of hoping you would tell me why. Are you a reaper?"
"A what? Of course not!"
Dosh was not the stripling she had thought. Seen by daylight, he was undoubtedly older than she was, and while that might be innocence steadying the gaze of his baby-blue eyes, it was creepily like the cynical contempt she had seen so often in Tigurb'l Tavernkeeper's.
"I'm the Eleal of the prophecies. That's why I got the miracle."
"And I'm nosey. That's why I'm asking. Would you tell me what happened at the seven-hundredth festival, when the Liberator came into the world?"
"That's a very good smile—most winsome. Have you acted professionally?"
He laughed, not at all abashed, pushing wet hair out of his eyes. “Lady, I have done things professionally that would shock you to the core.” His teeth gleamed. “Or would they?"
"I ought to slap your face for that."
"Go ahead. I deserve it. D'ward has shown me the light; I'm trying to reform and it's harder than I expected. I am sorry if I offended."
"Did he tell you to cross-examine me?"
Dosh nodded cheerfully, hitching his shield higher on his back. “He said I would find your story interesting, if you would tell it. I met him not long after you did, a few fortnights later, in Nagvale."
"Oh, that was where he ran to, was it?"
"Wouldn't you run if Zath were after you?"
Eleal walked at least a hundred steps on her new leg before she could answer that question. It opened doors she had never thought of. She had always thought of the Lord of Art as a defender, but he might not defend heretics. “Would Tion have betrayed him to Zath?"
"Very likely. I would trust almost any of them before Tion."
She shuddered at the blasphemy. “You are personally acquainted with gods, are you?"
"I thought they were gods, too,” Dosh said calmly, “until a few days ago. I've met at least four, probably five, because I think I was Tion's pathic for a few years. There's a chunk of my memory missing. I'll tell you about them if you'll tell me how D'ward came into the world."
"You first."
"No, you first."
The trail rose gradually into the hills. Forest closed in. The rain became colder.
Dosh was granted a very brief account of the Liberator's arrival in Sussvale. Eleal was a shrewd little minx, and he had to hammer her with questions to obtain a reasonably full account of what had happened. She was astute and willful and pretty, he decided, but not as worldly wise or ravishing as she thought she was. He found himself almost regretting his present state of grace, for there could be no doubt who would have been ravished had she met the old Dosh in a mood for girl.
He eventually decided that she genuinely did not know how D'ward had managed to escape from Sussland. That was a nagging mystery, because the Youth must have known the Liberator was prowling on his turf. It was very much out of character for Tion to ignore a handsome young innocent, which was what D'ward had been in those days, and to let the Liberator leave in peace would have been rank defiance of Zath. Eleal had no inkling of Pentatheon politics, though.
When he was satisfied that he had learned as much as he was going to, Dosh picked up the story. He was just describing the army's escape from Lemodvale when a group of shield-bearers moved past them to take up station ahead. D'ward himself arrived, walking at Dosh's other side, using him as a barrier between himself and the girl.
She said, “D'ward!” Her smile was quite convincing. It didn't quite convince Dosh, though.
"Stay there, please,” the Liberator told her. He had his hood back, and his black hair was sparkly with rain. “Why didn't you go back to Niol?"
"Aren't you pleased to see me again?"
"You I am delighted to see, and Piol too. What I don't welcome is your curse."
"Curse?" If that reaction was faked, then she was first-class.
"There's a spell on you, Eleal. I'm not quite sure how I know that, but I do, and my friend Ursula agrees. She is wise in such matters."
"I don't know what you mean! That's a ridiculous, horrible idea."
D'ward sighed. “Who did it, Eleal? Which of your supposed gods?"
She grew shrill. “You're talking nonsense! Curse indeed!"
"Piol says you were living in Jurg, so the most likely culprit is Ken'th, who happens to be your father, as I recall. Why did you throw up your job and come looking for me? Come on, Eleal, we're talking murder here.... Do you really want to kill me?"
"Of course not!"
"Would you let me kiss you?"
"Of course ... I mean perhaps.” Now she was certainly hiding something.
D'ward sighed. “We'll be in Jurgvale tomorrow. You can go home and resume your career."
"I can start a career, you mean! Didn't Piol tell you? I sang in a brothel. I was a whore, D'ward! That's what cripples do to eat."
There were other ways to earn a living, Dosh thought, although he had heard that they paid poorly. She was limping again, but he could not decide whether that was from habit or because her muscles were unaccustomed to an even gait. Or it could be just a ploy to win sympathy.
"No troupe would hire me. I was starving in the gutter, D'ward! But now that's all behind me, thanks to you, and you think I want to kill you?"
The Liberator had turned his face away and pulled up his hood against the rain. “I see why you would have wanted to."
"But I didn't understand!” she proclaimed. “I admit I felt hurt when you ran out on me, D'ward, but I was only a child. Now I am a mature woman and can see things more clearly. I didn't know Tion would have turned you over to Zath."
"Well, I thought he might. What do you think, Brother Dosh?"
"About what, master?"
"Can I trust her?"
"I'm sure you're going to. I wouldn't, of course. How does one recognize a curse on someone?"
The Liberator shrugged. “It isn't something you could ever learn to do. I couldn't have seen this one if it had been done properly—which is another reason to think that Ken'th is the culprit. He's quite a minor sorcerer.” He nodded to the girl. “You can come as far as Jurg with us, Eleal Singer, and welcome.” He strode f
orward very quickly, and the shield-bearers followed.
"Which brothel?” Dosh asked.
"Mind your own business!” Eleal spun around and limped back down the road to where the old man was following.
It wouldn't be the one Dosh had worked in.
Different clientele.
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38
Alice came awake suddenly, in the shocked where-am-I? awareness of a strange bed. The room was almost dark, with just a hint of light around the shutter, and the rattling of that shutter had wakened her. The weather had broken; she sensed a strong wind gusting outside and the dampness of rain. Unfamiliar scents of spice or potpourri added to the strangeness, and someone very close to her ear was breathing in a measured half-snoring rhythm. There was a man in her bed.
Then her memory awoke also and began supplying answers. She was in Boydlar Rancher's house in Jurgslope, the foothills of Jurgwall, and the man on the other side of the bolster was Jumbo Watson. Valian peasantry were always willing to offer hospitality to wayfarers, and Jumbo was not above using his charisma to obtain the best. The best in this case was Boydlar's own feather bed, for although Boydlar had a large rambling house, he had an even larger rambling’ family to fill it. Jumbo, always the gentleman, had announced that he would roll up in a blanket on the floor. Alice had told him to put the blanket between them, and she would trust him to behave himself. So here she was, bundling with a man she had met only a week ago.
Her affair with Terry had gone even faster, but that had been a wartime emergency. Jumbo Watson was not a terrified, doomed boy. Gentleman or not, he had taken more than his share of the covers. She pulled gently. He snorted, but in a moment he was snuffling regularly again.
Boards creaked overhead. Something mooed or lowed in the distance. The Boydlar family would be astir at dawn, she supposed, but there was no reason why she should not go back to sleep for an hour or so.
A week ago she had been hiding in her hermitage in the flats of Norfolk. Now she was roaming the ranges of another world on the back of a dragon. And loving it! Miss Pimm had been absolutely right. This impossible adventure had jolted Alice Pearson right out of her depression. If that rain she could smell was going to hang around—from the look of the clouds at sunset, Jumbo had predicted that it would—then future days might not be quite so much fun as the last few. But a little damp wouldn't kill her, whereas Norfolk might well have driven her loopy.
Jumbo rolled over. She could not have found a better guide or traveling companion than Jumbo. She wished she knew how old he was. He seemed about twenty-five and yet he told tales of Uncle Cam, who would be almost eighty if he were still alive. She wondered if Edward looked his age now. Trying to imagine the expression on his face when she turned up to meet him, Alice went back to sleep.
Breakfast was served in a huge, stone-flagged kitchen that could have belonged to any prosperous rural family in Europe. Kettles simmered on the great hob, metal pans hung gleaming on the walls, and the Rancher family swarmed in and out: husky workers, frail old crones, wet-mouthed toddlers. Things that looked like cats snuffled under the table like dogs. Boydlar's wife—named Ospita or Uspitha or thereabouts—was a red-faced, cloud-shaped woman, who seemed to be everywhere at once, tending children, dropping loaded platters on the table, pushing reluctant adolescents out the door to attend to chores, and talking all the time very loudly, mostly to Jumbo.
Alice understood less than nothing of what was said. On the first night of their journey, Jumbo had tried to pass her off as his sister from Fithvale, which was a long way away. That ploy had not worked very well, because everyone in the Vales spoke at least a few words of Joalian. Since then she had been his sister who had been deprived of speech by a sickness, and whom he was taking to the temple of Padlopan in Niol to be healed. So Alice communicated in gestures and everyone was duly sympathetic.
Three children were chased out. Two more appeared, followed by Boydlar himself, all wet and pink from the weather, with his scanty hair hanging in streaks. Ospita made a comment; he laughed and riposted, setting his listeners laughing louder. It was an idyllic scene of rural domesticity. Whatever the evils of the Pentatheon, this section of the Valian peasantry seemed happy and prosperous, and a great deal healthier than any working-class family back in England's city slums. No world wars troubled them, no clamoring traffic or industrial strikes. If she had to spend the rest of her days in rural solitude, she would prefer the Vales to Norfolk.
The food she had been given was delicious, even if it did seem to be the illegitimate offspring of an omelette and a meat pie. It was also four times as much as she could eat. While she was forcing down a few last mouthfuls in an effort not to insult her hostess too much, there came a stamping of boots outside. The door flew open to admit a swirl of wind and rain, plus a tallish young man in a leather cloak and hat. The usual jovial greetings flowed to and fro. Then he removed his hat, shaking the rain from it.
Alice realized she was staring and looked down at her food hastily, only to discover that her appetite had gone completely. The unintelligible conversation eddied around her without pause, so her rudeness had either not been noticed or was being ignored. The newcomer seemed to be conveying some news to Jumbo, speaking in a slurred gabble. Her eyes kept stealing furtive glances. She should have known that every Eden had its serpents—the young man was missing half his face, his left arm, and most of his shoulder too. In a nightmare leer, his mouth reached back to where his ear should have been, showing teeth and parts of his skull. The injury was not recent, but it was very horrible. Not high explosives, not machinery ... The only explanation she could imagine was some sort of wild beast, some monster like the bears and wolves that Europe had killed off centuries ago.
What you gain on the swings, you lose on the roundabouts.
* * * *
Clouds had settled in around the Boydlar house, reducing the ranch buildings to faint ghosts and the scenery to nothing at all. The rain was a steady fine drizzle but not as cold as it looked. Migraine and Apocalypse, who preferred their water solid, were belching and burping in disgust. They set off at a moderate run, but a mile or so along the trail, as soon as they were safely out of sight of their former hosts, Jumbo called a halt for talk.
"You going to be warm enough?"
"I shall be both warm and dry,” Alice assured him from within her voluminous furs. “I cannot guarantee that I shall not smell abominably, though."
He laughed. “A hazard of the road, my lady! That one-armed chappie was Ospita's nephew, and he brought news. Your cousin was in Niolvale two days ago, with a large following. Thought to be heading for Lospass."
Alice released a long breath. She was surprised how welcome that news was, how much she had secretly dreaded news of another kind. “Then we should meet up with him tomorrow?"
"We should meet up with him this afternoon, I'd say. Jurgvale's quite narrow. Yes, easily."
"Good!” Nevertheless, Alice wondered how Edward was going to react. She would have to explain right away that she had not come to meddle.
Jumbo was eying her quizzically. He must guess what she was thinking. “Right oh? Ready to zomph?"
"Yes ... no. One thing. What happened to that poor boy?"
"Which—Oh, Korilar? From the look of him, I'd say he'd had a very narrow escape from a mithiar."
"What's a mithiar?"
"Well, that's the Joalian name. Don't know the local term.” Jumbo pulled a face. “If you can imagine a ten-stone tarantula, or a black panther with saber teeth and six legs, you'll be getting close. We call them jugulars. They attack on sight—grab you with their claws and tear you to bits."
Alice glanced around at the fog. “You never mentioned those before, Mr. Watson."
"They're not very common,” he said solemnly. “I've never spoken with a man who's met one, except possibly Korilar just now."
She distrusted the twinkle in his eye. “I can guess why not. Have you spoken with people who
met one later?” She realized she was inviting him to display his humor. Jumbo had a very good sense of humor and knew it. The fastest way to a man's heart was always through his vanity, but why was she playing up to him like this? She had caught herself at it several times yesterday.
"Of course. Seriously, you don't see jugulars very often—and never for long."
"Only when they spring at you?"
"No, only when they spring at other people!” Jumbo laughed and shouted to the dragons to zomph.
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39
When Julian Smedley told T'lin Dragontrader that he wanted to go home as fast as possible, the big man took him more literally than he intended. T'lin made a beeline for Olympus with very few stops, and four dragons could transport two riders much faster than four. Julian discovered that he was expected to eat and sleep in the saddle, but pride would not let him countermand his own orders, so he ate and slept in the saddle. The fine weather had broken at last, and the dragons raced joyfully through driving snow, over crag and crevasse. How they managed to stay in contact, Julian had no idea. Most of the time he seemed to journey entirely alone through a blinding white fog, but T'lin and the spare mounts always reappeared eventually.
He had leisure to brood on Edward Exeter's megalomania—the disease was obvious enough, the cure was not. You call him crazy because he used to be your friend. You would label anyone else as straight evil and not beat about the bush. Crazy or evil, he was a mass murderer and must be stopped before he did more damage. How, though? With all the mana he had sucked up by martyring his friends, it would take the entire Service to have any hope of overpowering and defanging him, but the Service had already tried and failed. There was no way to tell whether he had recruited Ursula to his team honestly or by using mana on her, and it did not matter. Obviously his Olympian opponents would not have sent her against the Liberator without giving her all the mana they had been able to supply. The Service had shot its bolt. Only Zath could stop the Liberator now.