by Dave Duncan
Why did Nextdoor have to be confoundingly interesting?
It was late afternoon when he limped into Sonalby. His feet hurt and his legs ached, and Nextdoor no longer seemed quite so fascinating as it had done in the morning. The peddler had stopped off to trade at an isolated ranch house, leaving him to walk alone for the last couple of hours.
Nagvale was different. Where Sussvale had been lushly tropical, with farms and orchards packed in from wall to mountain wall, here the flat land was semidesert. The grass was scrubby and well grazed; trees were rare and spiny. There were no hedges or fences; houses were grouped into small, widely scattered settlements, which he assumed were ranches. The only industry he had detected so far was herding. The livestock were gangling, hairless beasts as angular as camels would be without humps. The males sported elaborate branched antlers and looked potentially dangerous. He was relieved that none came near the road.
The herders were grown men, and they carried spears and big circular shields. Many of them were astride moas or had moas tethered nearby. He wondered if the weapons were for defense against the male cattle or against predators, and if those predators had four legs or two.
Sonalby was a larger village than any he had seen in Sussvale, although smaller than Suss itself. It had no wall or palisade around it, which meant either that Nagland was peaceful or that the inhabitants relied on their weapons for defense. It sprawled for more than a mile along the bank of a wide, reedy river, which clearly provided building material as well as drinking water. The houses were wicker walled and thatched, none higher than one story. There seemed to be no pattern to them, no streets.
He was parched, footsore, hungry. His first need was to locate Kalmak Carpenter and enlist the aid of the Service. Onica had not lived to carry word to Olympus, so he would have to improvise. Kalmak himself was only a native, not a stranger, but he would recognize the password and put Edward on the road Home.
Nagvale looked more like Kenya than England. From the road he had seen Nagians only at a distance, but he began to catch closer glimpses of them as he approached the town. They were about the color of well-tanned Spaniards or Italians. Most were lanky and leathery, their dark hair and beards long and untrimmed. Seeing both sexes dressed in leather kilts or loincloths, he found himself thinking of them as savages and that discovery annoyed him. Their way of life was well adapted to the climate. They might have a sophisticated literature and culture for all he knew to the contrary, although Eleal had never mentioned the troupe performing in Nagland.
Women going around bare-breasted had seemed quite unremarkable during his childhood in Africa. He found them more interesting now.
The village had no wall or stockade, or even any well-defined borders. He passed the first houses without being challenged. To his left a group of women pounded meal, to his right young men were practicing spear-throwing. Neither group seemed especially promising—or especially interested—although he was an obvious outsider in his Sussian smock. His hair was as black as theirs, but he doubted that anyone else had blue eyes. He had decided to go on a little farther when faint sounds of shouting came drifting out from the town.
The warriors stopped their spear-throwing. The women looked up.
Then the men took up their spears and began to run. The women rose to their feet, hastily gathered small children, and set off to follow.
So did Edward. Pushing his blistered feet faster, he hurried after them. Soon the shouting grew louder; he saw more people running. Something of importance was happening. It could have nothing to do with him, but if everyone was there, then he had better attend also. A stranger caught skulking around deserted houses would be suspected of ill intentions.
He saw smoke. One of the houses was burning, which could hardly be a rare event in a village built like this one. The houses were spaced well apart, undoubtedly for just that reason. With no set street pattern, the people were heading more or less straight to the emergency. He followed until he reached the assembled crowd. He peered over heads. Half the building had gone already, red flames shooting skyward. Through a window he could see the interior glowing like a furnace and could feel the heat on his face, even at that distance.
He sensed something amiss. However strange the language, he could read the tone of the shouting. There ought to be wailing and lamentation. There wasn't. He heard jeering and anger. This was a mob. Someone was in trouble, and ten to one that house had been deliberately torched.
He located the center of the agitation, the men in charge of this riot. Their green robes, their shaven heads and faces, all confirmed that they were priests. They were haranguing the crowd, rousing it to ever-greater fury.
His skin prickled. An outsider had no place in a nasty business like this. Mobs were fickle. Furthermore, green was the color of Karzon, the Man, one of the Five. In the popular mind, Zath was an avatar of the Man, but in Zath's case the vassal was the stronger of the two. Zath was certainly one of the Chamber, and Karzon must be assumed to be so also. This affair might very well concern Edward, therefore, and the sooner he made himself scarce the better.
He stepped back one pace, then stopped as the crowd howled, a hungry, bestial sound. Four men came forward, carrying another prone between them. The priests yelled something. The crowd howled again.
Then the lynch party ran forward to the flaming house, two holding their victim's ankles, two his wrists. They swung in unison, and hurled him bodily through the doorway. They beat a hasty retreat from the heat. The man screamed from inside the furnace. Edward watched, appalled and helpless. He thought he saw the wretch rise to his feet, already wreathed in flame, only to stumble and collapse. There was one more scream and then nothing but the roar of the fire and the wild hollering of the mob.
"Karzon!” they screamed. “Krobidirkin Karzon! Karzon Krobidirkin!"
The priests waved a signal, and the execution squad came forward again. This time they were carrying a woman.
Edward began to push his way through the crowd. He was a stranger; he had charisma; he might be able to do something. He was too late. Sickened, he turned away, hearing the lustful howl of the mob and the woman's horribly prolonged dying shriek.
An elderly man stood beside him. His graying beard hung to his waist, but it did not hide old ritual scars on his scraggly chest. The wrinkled face above the beard was painted with a complex design, mostly in white, but with minor elements in the other sacred colors. He was grinning and rubbing his hands on his leather skirt.
"What have they done?” Edward demanded in Joalian. “What is their crime?"
Filmy eyes inspected the stranger suspiciously. Then the old man bared his teeth and barked out a string of words.
Edward caught very little of the explanation, except for one name: Kalmak. Another howl from the crowd made him look around. He caught a glimpse of an adolescent boy cartwheeling through the air, following his parents into the pyre.
So the priests of Karzon had just taken care of Kalmak. They had also destroyed Edward's only lead to the Service. Without the help of the Service, he could not return to Earth.
No escape! No escape!
He was trapped on Nextdoor, with no way to escape.
He watched in dismay as all his hopes went up in flames.
What was that confounded noise? He was in a bed. A bell ringing? A fire alarm. Not on Nextdoor any longer. Eyes gritty with sleep, head like a swamp. Back on Earth, in England. Dreaming of three years ago. Smedley had set off the alarm to help him escape from Staffles....
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11
AGAIN JULIAN SMEDLEY HAD DISPOSED OF HIS SLEEPING TABLET. AGAIN he struggled to push his feet into laced shoes. This time he had pulled his greatcoat on over his civvies—no old campaigner ever forgot his greatcoat. He had noted where Rattray had put his blues. Rattray was roughly Exeter's height, although much broader. With a stolen bundle under his maimed arm, Smedley stole out into the dim, hushed corridor.
The fire ala
rm was right beside the bathroom door—a real spot of luck, because he was going to provoke a very fast reaction, and he did not want to be caught in the act. He paused for a moment, heart pounding, wondering for the thousandth time if there was any horrible miscalculation in his plan. Suppose nothing at all happened?
Over the top! he thought, and pulled the lever. Noise roared through the silent mansion, louder than the guns opening up at the start of a major battle. He turned the door handle the wrong way and began to panic; he almost fell into the bathroom—should have opened the door first, of course—he counted to ten and then emerged again. Other men were coming out of other doors, nurses flitting like moths already, lights dazzling bright.
He had expected to be first down the stairs, but several men were ahead of him, staggering in the way of the newly awakened. They might be cursing, but the clamor of the bells drowned out all sound. More were already streaming out into the chilly night, some on crutches, some helping the disabled. Like him, many had thought to pull on their greatcoats. Then he was outside on the lawn.
His first error! He had expected darkness, but light was streaming from every window—so much for regulations! The sky was almost cloudless and a gibbous moon had etched the grounds into a silver lithograph. His companions had stopped to take stock, muttering angrily. He pushed past and kept on going, around the west wing and the big greenhouse, past the sheds, across the rose garden, and through a narrow arch into the yard.
Second error! The yard was already full of men, and more were pouring out the kitchen door. He should have foreseen that! And the light would make it impossible to climb the wall unobserved. Oh ... heck. Keep calm! It could be done yet. All it needed was a cool head.
Some meddling officer began shouting, ordering everyone out to the garden. The yard was too close to the house.
Splendid! Smedley backed away and then stood against the wall near the arch, watching the faces coming by him—pale blurs, but he could imagine the angry, unshaven faces, the tousled hair. Cold, shivering men in pajamas. If they knew who had ruined their sleep, they would lynch him. And indoors, the bedridden, the crippled, the crazy...
Where was Exeter? Could he have vaulted that wall and gone on ahead? Not without raising a hue and cry, surely? Had he been rounded up by a guard? If Stringer had reported that the malingerer was preparing to break out, then anything was possible.
Then one of the taller ones...
"Exe—er, Edward!"
Exeter parted from the mob and grabbed Smedley's shoulder.
"Where to?"
"This way."
They moved along the side of the wall, and Smedley plunged into bushes. He heard crackling behind him. A voice shouted, “I say!” in the background. He kept on going. Twigs scratched and clawed at his face, tugged his clothing. There were no more shouts.
The shrubbery offered no foothold, only obstruction. Then it ended. Ahead was a lawn, and there were men on it, although none near the wall. They would all be looking toward the house, wouldn't they? Not staring out into the night?
"This'll have to do!” He panted. “There's glass on top here. Can you manage?” He thrust Rattray's uniform at his companion.
Exeter eyed the height. “I think so. Thanks, old son! You've been a real brick. Never forget this.” He chose a spot clear of branches and swung the garments up to cover the glass.
"Wait! I'm coming too."
Exeter turned to stare at him. “Why?"
"I just am. Don't waste time arguing. I'll need a hand."
Funny ha-ha.
"Don't be an idiot! There's nothing to connect you with this. Don't stuff your neck in a noose!"
"I want to come!"
Exeter put his fists on his hips. “What are you planning?"
"Nextdoor. You're going back, aren't you? Take me!"
"No, I'm not going back! I don't know that I could, even if I wanted to. I don't know how to get in touch with Head Office. I'm not sure that you can cross over with only one hand. No. You stay here."
They were wasting precious seconds! This was madness.
"Exeter!” Smedley heard his voice crack. He felt his face starting to twitch. “Please!"
"Look here, there's no need to implicate yourself! I'll get in touch with you later. Your people still in Chichester? That's where you're going?"
"The coppers!” Smedley said, choking. “They'll watch me!” He was sobbing already. Must he beg, too? Must he explain that if they locked him up he would go out of his mind? “Please, Exeter! They'll question me. I'll give the others away! Ginger Jones! For God's sake—"
"Oh, right-oh!” Exeter stooped and cupped his hands.
Smedley placed a foot and jumped. He got his arms over the wall and heard glass crack, felt pain. He swung a leg up, banged his stump, scrabbled, and tipped over. Fire tore at his leg as it dragged over the coping. He fell bodily onto the grass verge. Impact knocked all the breath out of him. God almighty!
He hurt. He felt sick.
Exeter came down with a curse and hauled Smedley to his feet. Then he tried to pull the uniform loose from the wall. There was a loud ripping noise.
"That's torn it! Leave it. Come on!"
They began to run along the lane, through blackness under tree branches. Smedley could feel hot blood on his ankle. He lurched and stumbled; Exeter steadied him as they ran. The road was muddy and uneven.
"We're going to look like a pair of real ninnies if the car isn't there,” Exeter said.
Smedley tried to explain about the concealed driveway, but he lacked breath. He should have remembered the glass on the wall sooner and brought his own blues as well as Rattray's. Or another greatcoat. Exeter in pajamas would have a deuce of a lot of explaining to do if they ran into anyone.
Twin orange moons dawned ahead of them, reflecting on puddles, shedding uncertain light on the hedges.
"Someone's coming!” Exeter said. “Into the ditch!"
"No! Be ... Ginger...” He'd have seen the lights going on in Staffles.
"Too big for the chariot!"
Smedley made a gasping sound of disagreement. The car went spraying by them and stopped. A door flew open, and Alice's voice yelled, “Edward!"
He should have had the wit to go in the front, beside Ginger. The back was roomy enough, but the other two fell into the car and each other's arms and on top of him, all at the same time. Even before the door slammed, he was in a scrum.
By the time he had escaped to the fringes, the big car had swept past Staffles and was hurtling recklessly along the dark lane. He sank back with a shivery feeling of release. Done it! They had done it! Exeter was bubbling his thanks to Alice and Ginger. The old man was managing the driving very well. All they needed now was a burst tire.
Miss Prescott took Smedley's face in both hands and kissed him as if she really meant it.
"Well done!” she said, sounding quite emotional.
"My pleasure, ma'am. I should warn you..."
"What?"
"Nothing."
He was bleeding like a pig all over her fancy automobile. But there was no light, so it would have to wait. It would stop soon.
"Yes, well done,” Exeter said from the far side. “Anyone mind if I wrap up in this rug?” His teeth rattled.
Alice squeaked in a motherly fashion and helped him. Smedley thought about offering his greatcoat, but that seemed like a lot of effort.
Ginger roared, “Crossroads! Which way?"
"Left,” Smedley said, and they rushed through the village.
"Lights?” Exeter asked, peering back. “What's wrong with the street-lights?"
"Blackout,” Alice said. “The lamps're painted so they just throw light downward ... German planes."
There was a moment's silence, then he said incredulously, “They drop bombs?"
"On London, yes. They used to use zepps—zeppelins. Airships. We started shooting those down, so now they use aeroplanes. Big jobbies, with four or five engines."
"But bomb
s? On civilians? Women and children?"
"Indeed they do. Now you tell me exactly where you've been these last three years, baby Cousin, because I'm—"
"No! First you tell me all about this war!"
"You don't—You really have been away? You don't know?"
"I don't know a thing except what I've overheard when I wasn't supposed to be listening. I saw a bit of a battlefield. I thought I'd died and gone to hell. It's still going on, after three years? I'd never imagined it would be like that!"
"Nobody did! It turned out much worse than anyone ever thought it would be."
Smedley was trying to remember the way in case Ginger needed guidance. He stopped listening as Alice talked about the war—planes and U-boats and trenches, the Tsar deposed and the Yanks coming someday. He fingered his leg and discovered his pants leg and sock were soaked. He had gashed his calf in two places. It was sticky, but he thought the bleeding had more or less stopped. It throbbed nastily. It was his right one, unfortunately, hard for him to reach.
A lorry rumbled by in the opposite direction, and he realized that they were on a main road now. If it didn't go to Canterbury, it would go somewhere. Every mile made their escape more likely, as long as they didn't end up at Dover. He was shivering with reaction.
"Speak up!” Ginger shouted over his shoulder.
"Sorry,” Exeter said. He had started to tell his story. “I've been in another world. Can you believe that?"
"We'll try,” Alice said. “How did you get out of the hospital in Greyfriars?"
"I had supernatural aid. Call him Mr. Goodfellow. I don't know his real name. Perhaps he doesn't, any more."
"He made you invisible? No one saw you."
"I didn't see them. I just walked out, on crutches. Then we were met by a man named Creighton. Colonel Julius Creighton. Said he dropped in at Nyagatha once. Remember him?"
"Can't say I do."
"Average height ... Doesn't matter. He was Service. And so was the guv'nor."
It was strange to hear that old familiar voice, would know it anywhere. Those dry, quiet tones in the dark, bringing back memories, bushels of memories.