Future Indefinite (Round Three of The Great Game)

by Dave Duncan

  Ursula was watching intently, but she looked more angry than impressed.

  "What happened?” Alice demanded. “Can either of you explain? Does this sort of thing go on all the time?"

  Ursula shook her head. “It was aimed at him, definitely. Ken'th?"

  "Probably,” Edward said. “Stand back and I'll—"

  Pebbles rattled. The young fair-haired disciple came hurrying in. His face had a sickly pallor and there was blood on his knees and hands. He held a long strip of blood-soaked leather. From the way he offered it to Edward, it was heavy.

  The two spoke for a moment. The disciple pulled a face, but nodded. He dropped his burden—it fell with a metallic clunk—and headed back out the way he had come. Someone was going to have to organize a burial for that other victim, and probably he had just been given the horrible job.

  A rising murmur of voices indicated that the disciples were coaxing the crowds into the cave again.

  Edward turned back to Eleal. Ursula caught Alice's arm and led her out of the way, over to the fire. Her fury was obvious now. She nudged the mysterious parcel with her foot.

  "That's what did the bruising. A money belt."

  Alice's brain resisted the implications. “How? And how can you know that?"

  "The buckle's ripped right through the leather."

  "Yes, but—” No, don't think about it. “Where did the jugular come from? Where did it—"

  "It's sorcery,” Ursula growled, “very horrible sorcery. You think I'd have gone after a real jugular with nothing but a burning stick? If there had been a jugular in the cave, it would have attacked somebody hours ago."

  "But where did it go?"

  The answer to that was a disbelieving glare. “Dosh has found another body, a priest. Someone bashed him on the head with a rock and took his gown."

  "I don't understand!"

  "Oh, work it out, girl!” Ursula shouted. “All cats are gray in the dark. All robes, too. If you wanted to get by the guards ... We knew Eleal Singer had some sort of spell on her. We knew it made her come looking for the Liberator. We knew there was a compulsion, we just didn't know what else it did. Even I could see traces of it on her. I couldn't see one on you or Jumbo, but that didn't—"

  "Jumbo! Shouldn't one of us go and find Jumbo and—"

  Ursula threw up her hands and turned away. “Oh, go right ahead! Go and find him. I can suggest a good place to look. Are you completely stupid? Must I carve words in stone for you? Go to Jumbo by all means. He was a good friend of mine, Mrs. Pearson. A good friend for almost a hundred years. He deserved better than that horrible, shameful death. It's one more reason to settle accounts with Zath. Go to Jumbo. Tell him we're sorry. Tell him he's forgiven. There's no hurry. He isn't going anywhere now."

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  47

  Eleal floated back up to consciousness, aware first of a revolting taste in her mouth. She tried to spit out whatever it was. A strong arm reached under her shoulders and raised her; someone held a gourd of water to her lips. Water dribbled down her neck, between her breasts. Coldness, darkness, and her eyelids seemed to be crusted with mud. She forced them open, shivered convulsively. Faint light, coldness again, and awareness that she wasn't wearing anything. She was on a very lumpy, prickly bed ... someone holding her upright.

  "Relax, relax!” said a voice. A man's voice.

  She clutched at the blanket and pulled it up to cover her nudity. She turned her head and found herself looking into a concerned pair of very blue eyes.

  "You're all right,” D'ward said. “You're not hurt. You'll be quite well in a moment. We're trying to help you. Wash your mouth out again."

  She discovered more aches and scrapes. Her elbows and ankles, especially. Her teeth felt as if someone had worked them over with a mallet.

  D'ward holding her up. Her head against his bony shoulder. D'ward wiping her face with a wet, pink cloth. Had she been injured, somehow?

  "What?” she said, and her tongue felt wrong in her mouth. “What happened?” She tried to focus, but his face was too close, a blur.

  "You had a brush with very nasty sorcery, but you're all right now."

  He lowered her. She still held the blanket under her chin. He was kneeling beside her.

  "Relax! You're still not thinking straight. Take a little longer."

  Why did her teeth hurt so? Vague, confused pictures whirled in her mind: D'ward in his priest's gown with the hood over his head, walking along a passage below her ... a man with a mustache ... take money to D'ward ... Woeful maiden, handsome lad, Met on lonely way...

  She peered up at him. He smiled at her, and she could make out the smile. How had she come to be lying in bed with no clothes on and D'ward beside her? She smiled back. If that was about to happen, then she would as soon it was D'ward as any.... What was wrong with her teeth?

  "Starting to feel better?"

  "Yes. What—what happened?"

  "You saw a man in a robe and thought it was me."

  She closed her eyes. That did sound right, but where? And what had she been doing? She opened her eyes again and tried to nod.

  D'ward blinked at her a few times. “You're all right, Eleal. It's all gone now. The curse is gone."

  Then the missing pieces dropped into place. She stiffened in horror. “D'ward! I came to find you! I jumped—"

  "Never mind. It's over."

  "Just going to surprise you ... I started to sing—"

  He seized her shoulders and squeezed them hard. “It's all right, I say. It wasn't me! It's all right."

  "I didn't want to sing ... didn't mean to sing—” Her voice was shrill. She felt tears, panic, and terror. Her limbs thrashed and trembled.

  He steadied her, strong hands on her shoulders. “It is all right, Eleal! It's all over!” He made soothing noises, whispering. She calmed abruptly. The whirling terrors settled like leaves after a gust of wind has passed.

  He said, “Oh, Eleal, Eleal, darling! You saved my life and—"

  "What?"

  "Yes! There was another curse, see? A man after me. So you saved my life again, and this time it was my turn to wash and nurse you.... Well, it was my helpers—not me. I mean, I didn't even peek..."

  That struck her as funny. She laughed. “You think I would mind if you peeked?"

  "Perhaps not as much as some,” he agreed awkwardly.

  "You think I didn't peek at you when I had the chance?"

  "Er ... That was a long time ago. The main thing is that the curse is gone."

  She closed her eyes and saw the man with the mustache.

  "He kissed me!"

  "I expect that's his preferred technique."

  "He sent me to find you, kill you?"

  "Don't worry about it."

  She shivered and lay still, thinking hard. “I was coming to tell you that I believe in you, not in the imposters."

  "Good. Truly that makes me very happy."

  "I came to give you my money."

  "You don't have to."

  "Some of it was his. He gave me money!” Memories were coming back. The room, the crystal figurine.

  "I'll certainly take his money, if you like. And put it to a good use."

  "And let me stay with you? Keep me safe, in case he tries to—punish me for failing?” She opened her eyes and watched to see what he would say.

  He looked worried. “You don't have to stay, Eleal. You have two good legs now. You can go and chase that acting career you wanted."

  She wanted to stay. Very much she wanted to stay, and things that worked on most men would not work on D'ward. Not quickly, anyway.

  "But most of those plays—they're lies! They're about the evil sorcerers who pretend to be gods. Those plays are bad, D'ward, aren't they?"

  He rubbed a wrist across his brow and looked even more worried. “If you take them seriously they are."

  "Then what's to become of me!” A sob escaped her.

  "Join us if you want. Glad to have y
ou. I need someone to help with the preaching."

  "Preaching? Me? You don't have to mock me.” She writhed under the blanket.

  "I'm not mocking you at all. You heard me last night at Joobiskby—I'll bet you could repeat almost everything I said and bring the house down with it."

  She had been doing better with her eyes closed, so she closed them again. “He kissed me! I still feel his mustache on my lips. I dream of him. I'll never forget how he kissed me.” She squeezed out a tear.

  D'ward chuckled, very close to her ear. “You haven't changed a bit, you minx!” he whispered. “You've just learned a few more tricks. I'll see if someone can find some clothes for you."

  His lips touched hers for a moment. She grabbed with both arms but he was gone already.

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  VII

  And now we nave sent down unto thee evident signs, and none will disbelieve them but the evildoers.

  The Koran, II:99

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  48

  On the third day of his quest, with rain still sheeting down as hard as ever, Julian Smedley trudged into Losby. He found the church there in disarray—which was hardly surprising, for all Randorvale was in disarray. A third of the hamlet was stricken; a dozen people had died already. Old Kinulusim Spicemerchant wheezed and sweated on his sickbed. His equally aged wife was up and about already, but still weaker than wartime beer, while young Purlopat'r Woodcutter, the baby-faced giant, had fled to the hills with his wife and children. Julian summoned a few of the faithful to Seven Stones and held a brief service to cheer them up. Then he went on his way. Having no mana, he could do no healings.

  He had gathered more discouraging news: Rumors were flying that this inexplicable pestilence was the work of the Church of the Undivided. He was not too surprised. People always found scapegoats for disasters—Christians burning Nero's Rome, Jews causing the Black Death by poisoning wells. Whether or not the orthodox clergy had originated the slander, the Pentatheon would certainly use it to good effect; the Service's efforts to humanize the religion of the Vales were utterly doomed now. They might have survived the Liberator himself, but in trying to stop him, the Service had brought in the Spanish flu and was going to die of it.

  On the fourth day, Julian came to Thurgeothby, a homely little ranching village at the mouth of Soutpass. The rain had ended, leaving behind a bone-chilling wind. Randorwall towered above him in the crisp sunshine, white and almost painfully beautiful against a pale winter sky. He was not looking forward to the long climb and even less to the vale beyond it, for Lappinland was not a happy place. Beyond Lappinvale lay Mapvale, and then he would be into country new to him.

  In Thurgeothby he could have dropped in on the local preacher and would certainly have done so had he wanted lodgings for the night, but the day was young yet. Instead, he went to see Urbiloa Baker, who was agent Twenty-nine in the political arm of the Service and should be able to advise him on current affairs in Lappinland. She was a tall, angular widow of middle years, white haired and customarily well dusted with flour. Both residents and transients frequented her shop, and she had a gift for extracting significant information from idle chatter. She greeted him blankly, as if she had never set eyes on him before, so they went through the cloak-and-dagger rigmarole of exchanging passwords. Then she took him through to her kitchen, hot and smelling deliciously of baking bread, sitting him at a table with some hot, soft rolls and a pitcher of buttermilk.

  The news she broke to him while he ate was general knowledge that he could have gained from almost anyone in Thurgeothby. The flu was raging there as it was everywhere in Randorvale, with the deaths, as usual, especially high among young adults, the mainstay of the population. The pestilence was at least as lethal here as it had been back Home: healthy one day, bedridden the next, often dead in three. Children and old folk were mostly recovering, although slowly. The Church of the Undivided was being blamed—nonsensically, for its members succumbed like everyone else. Many had fled, some been driven out. Houses had been burned.

  As if that were not bad enough, Soutpass was closed. Lappinvale was a Thargian colony, ruled by an iron-fisted military governor, and he had sealed off the pass to keep out the infection. Travelers from the south were being turned back. That was typical Thargian despotism and it wouldn't work—information traveled the Vales only by word of mouth, so the flu would arrive at the same time as the news. In retaliation, the Randorian government had forbidden entry to anyone coming the other way, but the king had not sent enough soldiers to enforce his decree and the permanent garrison was too incapacitated by flu to do anything. So a few traders were still trickling into Randorvale.

  Julian leaned his elbows on the dough-stained table and gazed bitterly at the twinkling grate under the oven while he pondered his alternatives. There did not seem to be any. He knew of no other pass to Lappinvale; if there was one, the Thargians would certainly have blocked it. He could backtrack almost all the way to Olympus and then try the Narshvale road, but there he would be into the highest ranges of the Vales. Even if he could get through to Narshvale in this weather, there were no roads at all from Narshvale to Lappinvale or even Mapvale. Only dragons could cross that country. To reach Jurgvale, he would have to go round by Sussvale and Fionvale, which would take far too long and was probably impossible at this time of year anyway. He was apparently doomed to wait here in Thurgeothby until the Thargian garrison lifted its useless quarantine.

  Of course the Liberator's crusade might eventually come to him, but if Exeter did make it this far, it would mean he had survived Zath's efforts to murder him. Then Alice would need no rescuing by Julian Smedley. His situation tasted nastily like failure.

  He sighed and accepted it. Only fools struggled against the inevitable. Within the next couple of days, the Thargians would certainly learn that the pestilence had outflanked their swords.

  He looked up at Urbiloa, meaning to ask her if he might lodge with her until then. The calculated suspicion in her shrewd eyes stopped the words in his throat. Urbiloa wore no earring. Political ran its own stable of agents, separate from the church. They all had their own agendas, their own motives for spying, although most were rewarded with gold as well, so they could be blackmailed if necessary. Some of them were not even aware that the Service and the church were related. For all Julian knew, the Thurgeothby baker was a devoted follower of Eltiana, mother goddess of Randorvale.

  He reached for his purse. “Well done, Twenty-nine. Good report. I must be on my way."

  She did not try to stop him leaving. She sent no pursuit after him.

  He headed east, along the mountain front, and found shelter at the lonely home of Tidapo Rancher. Tidapo was a hearty, brawny man, full of joviality and self-reliance, always glad to offer hospitality to a visiting apostle. His wife was the Undivided supporter, but he tolerated her whims, probably from a total lack of interest in anything as impractical as theology. He greeted Saint Kaptaan cheerfully and made him welcome. At dinner he apologized for the way the children were coughing, but no one in the household seemed to have heard of the plague sweeping the vale, or at least no one took it seriously.

  Two mornings later, Julian had had his fill of both the rancher's trivial chatter about livestock and his wife's religious fervor. The children and the hired men were all abed with flu by then. The sun was still shining and it was time to try the pass again. Julian thanked his hosts, blessed their house, and retraced his steps to Thurgeothby.

  As he had hoped, southbound travelers reported that the blockade had been lifted. They said that half of Lappinvale was down with the sickness already, which was certainly an exaggeration but bad news anyway. The Liberator had left Niolvale, last reported at Roaring Cave, on Lospass, several days ago.

  That night Julian camped with a band of traders, who charged him extortionately for the privilege of bedding down at their fire. They were very worried by the damage that the sickness would do to business. Like hi
m, they were bound for Jurgvale, so their knowledge of the Liberator came only from hearsay. They did not think he would do business any good, either.

  Julian descended into Lappinvale the next day. There he began to have trouble with the language and was repeatedly forced to exercise his limping Joalian. Even that was of less use than he had hoped, because the Thargian overlords discouraged its use—Thargian itself being a throat-burning screech that he could not even attempt. He found the natives sullen but with good reason, for Thargians were hard taskmasters, and they had ruled the land for more than a century.

  Two more hard, cold days brought him to Mapvale. Smallest of all the vales, it was famous only for its blossoms, which were not in evidence at the start of winter. Historically, Map-land had always been too trivial to interest the great powers, so it had rarely endured conquest—invading armies just walked across it and up the other side. Of course, on the way through they conscripted boys as soldiers and girls as harlots, but everyone expected that. Those were predictable perils in a primitive land.

  The natives wrung a subsistence economy from the export of fruits and nuts. Although very poor, they seemed happier than the Lappinians—smiling, chanting greetings in an incomprehensible dialect that must be close to Niolian, for it had a singsong lilt to it. They struggled to understand his Joalian and to reply in kind. He did not think this friendly reception was all due to his stranger's charisma; they were a genuinely friendly people. He asked what they knew about the Liberator but could not follow their answers. Much pointing to the north and sign-talk of walking suggested that Exeter's crusade was still in progress.

  Julian supposed that was good news.

  Hamlets were few. There were no decent roads at all. He spent the day trudging along lanes that wound like snakes through trees and across fields of leafless shrubs. The ruts were frozen hard under his feet, so that he was in constant danger of twisting an ankle. Hour by hour the snowy ranges marched with him on either hand. When he met anyone or saw a man at work—usually gathering firewood—he would ask for Thamberpass and always the finger pointed east. Onward he would go again. The air smelled of snow. The weather was turning colder.