by Dave Duncan
All nine moas made a fuss at being mounted, but the three with passengers were by far the worst. The other six calmed down after a few token leaps. Her lancer was the last to bring his mount under control, perhaps because it was the biggest, perhaps because both Dosh and D'ward weighed so much more than she did. When it began to behave itself, tired by its antics, he was given his lance, which one of the other men had been holding for him. Then Ksargirk Captain shouted an order, and the troop set off along the road. Streaked off along the road! Never had Ysian traveled so fast in her life. The moa seemed to cover eight or ten feet in a stride, but its gait was amazingly smooth. Hedges and trees went hurtling past, a blur in the night. The wind blew cold on her face, and although the saddle was too small for two, she soon decided that she was enjoying herself after all.
Clouds had covered most of the green moon when the weary moas strode into the grounds of the monastery. Two elderly monks were waiting with lanterns at the door of the temple, and one of them wore a golden chain, so he must be the abbot. Ksargirk Captain reined in at the steps, and then sprang nimbly from his moa's back. He made a very graceful landing, and saluted the abbot. A lancer dismounted the same way and took the captain's reins. Ysian looked down at the ground thoughtfully.
Tsuggig Lancer twisted around to peer at her. He was older than she had realized, clean shaven in Thargian fashion, but not really ugly. “You're no boy!” He had not spoken a word to her until then.
"I wasn't the last time I looked."
He made a growly sound, and then chuckled. “If you were when you got on, then you might not be now. But you did good. My pleasure. Can you get down without help?"
"Of course.” Ysian pushed herself off and slid spryly down ... down...
Her legs buckled under her and she fell flat on her back, banging her head on the gravel. Bother! The moa shrilled mockingly and shifted its hooves as if readying a kick. She scrambled up and moved to a safe distance to dust herself off, feeling oddly shaky. The ground seemed too close, as though her legs had shrunk, and much of the rest of her felt as if she had been flogged by the public executioner. D'ward had already dismounted and gone to help Dosh. She took a hard look at the forbidding figure of the old abbot and decided he might not approve of women in his monastery. She had better remain a boy.
Four of them went into the temple, for Dosh was barely capable of standing on his own, let alone going anywhere. He gave the abbot some very snappy orders to look after “his” men, then called on Progyurg Lancer to dismount and help him walk. He hobbled inside with one arm draped over the Thargian's shoulders and the other on D'ward's. Ysian followed.
No one had said she shouldn't.
Her experience with temples was limited. This one was small and dark, no more than a barren stone box, chilly and dusty smelling. It was not nearly as impressive as the temple of Eth'l in Lemod. As the lancer brought the lantern closer, the image of the god emerged from the gloom. Being an aspect of the Youth, Prylis was depicted in the nude, but he held a scroll of learning in a strategic position. Progyurg and D'ward lowered Dosh to his knees.
"Good lad,” Dosh whispered. “Leave the light here."
"Sir!” The lancer departed. He was a nice-looking boy, not much older than Ysian herself, she thought. Not as handsome as D'ward, of course. The door thumped closed behind him.
She knelt and was surprised to see D'ward still standing. He had his arms folded and seemed to be shivering. The temple was cool but not as cold as that.
"Holy Prylis!” Dosh proclaimed. “I have done as you commanded."
Silence.
The flame in the lantern danced. Highlights squirmed on the shiny surface of the statue, but nothing else happened.
"I am the Liberator,” D'ward said. “You summoned me."
More silence.
"Perhaps he's asleep,” D'ward said.
"Gods don't sleep!” Ysian protested.
"I'll bet they do!"
"This is annoying!” D'ward added, but she could tell that he was more angry than that. “I have an army to look after and a war to fight. We must get back before dawn. How do you waken a god, Dosh?"
"Nibble his ear?"
"I'd break my teeth. No better ideas? What's behind that door?"
"A little room with a table. Nothing else. It doesn't go anywhere."
"Prylis!” D'ward shouted. “We've come!"
Even more silence.
"What if you try your ritual? No, I suppose not."
"Definitely not!” Dosh groaned and eased himself down into a sitting position. “Looks like we'll have to wait for morning."
"Damned if I will ... Ah!” D'ward walked over to the door in the corner. He opened it, went in, closed it behind him ... and again there was silence.
After a minute or so, Dosh said, “Go and look for him, Viks'n."
"That's not my name! Only D'ward calls me that!"
"Then, my lady Ysian, will you go and look for him—please?"
She clambered to her feet and walked over to the mysterious door in the corner. Behind it there was only darkness. She went back to Dosh and fetched the lantern. Shadows leaped around the edges of her vision as she carried it. As Dosh had said, there was a little room there, with a table piled high with books. Apart from that, there was nothing at all—no other door, no window, and no D'ward.
Ysian and Dosh waited. After half an hour or so, she realized that she could hardly keep her eyes open and he was unconscious, or at least he could only groan when she tried to rouse him. So she went out and asked the abbot to send some monks in to get Dosh—he should be put to bed and cared for, she explained. She told Ksargirk Captain that he and his men could stand down; she asked the abbot, very politely, if she might have something to eat and a place to sleep. She thought nothing more was going to happen before morning.
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VII
Revealed Check
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40
SMEDLEY CAME DOWN VERY LATE FOR BREAKFAST. HE HAD A SOUR, sandy feeling behind his eyes, and he had cut himself twice while shaving. Worst of all, the underwear he had rinsed out before going to sleep had not dried completely in the night. He would not be able to hire a valet until the war was over. Of more immediate importance were adequate clothing and some fags.
The great Victorian dining table would have seated at least a dozen. Exeter sat alone at it, poring over a thick book propped amid a field of dirty dishes. He looked up wryly.
"Morning,” Smedley grunted.
"Good morning! Beautiful morning! Lovelier now for your presence, of course."
"Put it where the monkey put the nuts. Any tea in the pot?"
Smirking, Exeter removed the cozy and swished the teapot. He removed the lid and peered inside. He pulled a face. “Lots, but I think someone's been washing boots in it."
"Just what I need!” Smedley sat down.
Exeter poured. “The ladies have gone off to shop and call on the erudite Nathaniel Glossop. There's a couple of congealed eggs there and some petrified bacon. I'll warm it up for you—seems there's laws about not wasting food...."
"Just the tea will do, thank you."
Mercifully Exeter said nothing more for a while. He closed his book and carried it out of the room. When he returned without it, though, he was still infernally cheerful. “Looking up Prylis. Not the one I met."
Smedley ended his contemplation of the heap of soggy toast. “Prylis?"
"Chappie who invented the wooden horse. Didn't take out a patent, though, and Odysseus swiped the idea. Probably spoke much better Greek than the one I met. Sure you don't want eggs and bacon?"
"Quite sure."
"We both need our shirts ironed. I'd try it, except I don't know how."
"Me neither,” Smedley lied. To avert further small talk, he said, “Tell me about Olympus."
Exeter crossed his legs and hugged one knee with both hands. He stared for a moment at Smedley with his impos
sibly blue eyes.
"Told you, old man. It's very much like a station in the colonies somewhere, an outpost of civilization in the bush. The tyikank and entyikank live in nice houses, the natives are the servants. Like Kenya, India, or all those other places. Main difference is the natives are as white as we are. Redheads, most of them. The tyikank are a mixed bunch, but a lot of them are English originally. Recruited here. Some aren't. A couple are from other worlds altogether. Some of them have been on Nextdoor a deuce of a long time, but the Service itself isn't all that old. The guv'nor was one of the founders."
"But what do they do?"
"Argue. Plan. Squabble. Go out on missionary work.” Exeter continued to study Smedley as if watching his brain cells twitch. His own face was illegible as the Sphinx. “One committee's still working on the True Gospel. Another runs an intelligence branch, tracking what's going on—politically and theosophically both. Anything that may help overthrow the Pentatheon."
That steady gaze was starting to get under Smedley's skin. “You make it sound as if you don't approve."
"Oh, it's a wonderful idea. A worthy cause. The strangers are definitely parasites. Some of them do a little bit of good in passing, like Tion and his festivals. A lot of them are ... well, horrors."
Smedley poured another cup of tanning fluid. “I suppose if you're going to live forever you don't rush at the hedges?” He looked up, and the blue eyes were still boring into him. “If it's such a wonderful idea, why are you being so shifty about it?"
Exeter sighed, put his foot back on the floor, and turned to stare out the window. “It's just not that simple, old man. It's not like Dr. Livingstone and the witch doctors. It's not Saint Eggbeater burning down the druids’ grove. These Johnnies have power! Real power. Start blaspheming in their temples and you're liable to drop dead. Nothing like a public thunderbolt to impress the masses—and then the mana just pours in to replace what's been spent."
"So start a new religion, a good one! You mentioned a Church of the Undivided. The Service is behind it?"
"It is the Service. The trouble is that the old gods have cornered the market. Say you find yourself a node—there's still good ones around—and you set up a new god, then you get asked what is he the god of? Anything worthwhile will have its own divinity already, and he or she will be an avatar of one of the Five. The Pentatheon have all bets covered. Even the Undivided tends to get identified with Visek, the Parent, so the mana benefits them ... him? Her? Visek's sort of androgynous.... Visek hasn't taken sides yet. I think the Service does him more good than harm. More good than they want to, certainly."
It was definitely not the right time of day for riddles, but Smedley had started this. And he did want to know more about Olympus and the Service. If he didn't find out from Exeter now, he would probably never have another chance. Who could resist the chance to learn about an alternative world?
Or was he just looking for a cause?
"You said some of the gods—strangers—some of them are all-right types?"
"A few.” Exeter began fiddling with a spoon, drawing lines on the tablecloth. “A few are secretly Service supporters. Lukewarm, mostly. Fence-sitters. One or two have converted, but not many have got away with it."
"Converted?"
"Mm. Like the Irish goddess Bríg, who became Saint Bridget. Or Cybele becoming the Black Madonna—back in the Dark Ages, scores of pagan deities became Christian saints. But in the Vales they're all vassals of the Five. If Tion, say, catches one of his minions consorting with the enemy, then he is seriously peeved."
"If Christianity did it in Europe, then why not try Christianity on Next-door?"
Exeter looked up with a smile. “And where exactly is Jerusalem? Who did you say these Romans were? Egypt? The Red Sea? I've been on the other side of this conversation a few times. What I got told then was that one big advantage Christianity had over the pagan gods was that it had a real historical basis, instead of just myth. But that's in this world. On Next-door it isn't."
"So what is the Church of the Undivided?"
"A hodgepodge. A Unitarian concoction of ethics and morals: Christian, Socratic, Buddhist, et cetera—the Golden Rule plus a universal god too holy to be named. That's an attempt to shut out Visek. As I said, that doesn't seem to work awfully well. It's a frightfully antiseptic sort of religion. No passion, you know?"
Smedley reached for toast and butter. “You're saying there's really nothing you can do, then?"
Exeter sighed. “There's nothing I can do, no. I'm branded as the Liberator and anything I tried to do would be warped by the prophecy and lead to killing Zath. That brings on catastrophe."
"Why?"
Exeter looked irritated. “You'll see if you just think about how it would have to be done. It would need an enormous amount of mana. How do I get that? What would I have to become?"
Yes, Julian should have seen that. If Exeter had invented all of this, he must have spent a lot of time working out the details. It was as logical as whist. “You'd have to start playing by their rules, you mean?"
"Playing their game. That's why I shan't ever go back there. As to whether there's anything you can do, old man ... you want to try?"
Smedley was not ready to face that question yet, but his pulse rate had jumped a fraction. “I'm asking what the Service can do."
"Keep trying and hoping.” Exeter's eyes were gleaming. Was he poking fun at the Service? Or at Smedley, for believing this fantasy? Or was he a supporter, coolly understating his enthusiasm? No way to tell, with him.
"But not praying? How do the faithful pray to a nameless god?"
"The whole point is that they don't. They pray to the apostles to intercede for them, because only the apostles can speak to the god. The apostles are not gods themselves, because he's Undivided; they're just the Chosen. Strangers from Olympus, of course.” Exeter smiled wryly. “The Service doesn't have the manpower to put a missionary in every pot, but they do try to have someone drop by every couple of fortnights. You understand why they have to do it that way?"
"So everybody shares in the mana? Does that work?"
"It works after a fashion. A chicken sacrificed to the Undivided in Joal, say, will not provide the Service with anything like the mana it would give Astina if it died to her glory in her temple there. Mana will flow between nodes, but there's a lot of steam leaks out. No other reason?"
Then he raised a quizzical eyebrow and waited.
Smedley began to feel nettled. “You're three years ahead of me and it's too early in the morning."
Exeter laughed, taking pity on him. “Right-oh! The real problem, my boy, it that we're all human. The reason the apostles are set up as a sort of nameless divine committee is that power corrupts, as Alice said the other night. The Service has had agents go over to the other side. They discover what they can do with mana and they like it. Set a chap up in his own chapel and pretty soon he begins to feel like it's his chapel, and these are his people. Sooner or later one of the Five will send a henchman around. Some of our chaps sell out. There was an Italian named Giovani who became Jovanee Karzon, god of wagons. All the best attributes have been taken, but there's always room for more. Did you know the Romans had a patron goddess of the-light-in-rooms-where-women-are-giving-birth?"
"No,” Smedley said grumpily, thinking that he did not want to. Having buttered the toast, he supposed he had better eat the horrid stuff. “You're saying it's hopeless?"
"No. Here's what I think, on the level: It may work! They may overthrow the Pentatheon. They're not fools, they're dedicated and wellmeaning, all of them. But it's going to be a long, long struggle. Two or three hundred years at the least. Christianity took longer. Islam was faster, but more brutal. If you think of mana as being like money, then the Five are stinking rich and getting richer. The Undivided is scratching for crumbs...."
The doorbell rang.
The two exchanged glances. Then Exeter pushed back his chair and stood up tall. He adjusted his tie and s
traightened his jacket. “That may just be the Women's Institute soliciting contributions for the church fete. Or it may not be.” He strode out, closing the door.
Smedley continued to masticate long-dead toast. Why was he so fascinated by the idea of Olympus? Was he just trying to flee from reality—the war, his mutilation, lost friends, the changed face of England? If he nurtured secret fancies of magic giving him his hand back, then he was seriously bonkers. Cold logic said he should not make any decisions yet, not for a long time. On the other hand, his nerves were improving. He had not wept since leaving Staffles. Dreaming of Olympus and Exeter's fantasy world was probably a lot healthier for him at the moment than brooding over his own reality. He had always been too prone to introspection.
He heard voices as the door began to open.
"I'll put the kettle on, then. You go in."
In came portly Ginger Jones, attempting to polish his pince-nez with a silk handkerchief and keep hold of a pair of bicycle clips at the same time. He looked hot. “Morning, Captain!"
"Morning, sir. Any news?"
Ginger put his specs on his nose, his handkerchief in one pocket, and his bicycle clips in another. “No. Oh ... thought you might need these.” From yet another pocket, he produced two packets of Player's.
Smedley's heart melted. “May you be blessed with many sons and your herds prosper!” He fumbled for matches.
"Lord, how would I explain that to the Head?” Ginger sat down chuckling. “Thought I'd drop over and hear some more of the Exeter-Through-the-Looking-Glass saga.” He glanced up as the man in question returned. “I posted your letter. Caught the evening collection, too."
"So it should arrive today,” Smedley said, “if it is going to arrive?"
Exeter sat down. “If it's going to arrive, then it has already arrived. It wouldn't even hit the bottom of the pillar-box. It would go straight to somebody's desk."
The others each waited for the other to comment. Eventually Ginger said, “Explain that, would you?"