Present Tense [Round Two of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  "I can't. The magic may have been removed, since it does no good now, or it may be still there. But when I was a kid at Fallow and Head Office were keeping an eye on me, then the letters I put in that box went straight to them. I hope there was a spell invoked by that address written in my handwriting. I may be wrong—there may have been a guardian living in the neighborhood, in which case he or she will likely have gone now. I think Creighton would have told me if there had been, but I don't know. Told you it was a long shot.” He shrugged.

  "Indeed!” Ginger muttered. “I'm trying to remember if I heard the letter drop."

  Smedley did want to believe. “It's rather like the portal idea, two worlds touching at a point."

  "Mana can certainly be used to warp space,” Exeter said, “especially on nodes. The inside of Krobidirkin's tent was bigger than the outside."

  "Wonderful idea for luggage."

  "Or blocks of flats.” He grinned. “Imagine the rent you'd collect! You remember that business with the long strip of paper you give a twist to and then paste...?"

  "Möbius strip?"

  "Probably. Sounds right. Old Flora-Dora spent half a term trying to get the idea into my skull. All I remember now is that you start at a point and go all the way round, and when you come back you're on the wrong side. It gave me nightmares. Now the chappie Prylis I mentioned last night had a library, a corridor lined with books. At the end you turned right, and there was another corridor lined with books. At the end of that you turned right again. You went around and around in a square—round and round and round, and you never came back to where you started. All the windows had a north view. This was all behind the church, and yet there was nothing there."

  "I hadn't thought of the Fallow postbox in quite that way,” Ginger said. “No use taking it apart to look?"

  "None. The question is,” Exeter added, “if it works as I hope it does, then whose desk does it lead to? Head Office or the Blighters? I warn you—this may turn out to be a jolly interesting day."

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  41

  GOLBFISH MOVED THE ARMY OUT AT DAWN. HE DID NOT LIKE DOING so, but the Liberator's orders had been explicit. No one demanded to know why he and not D'ward was setting up the order of march; among five thousand men, the commander's absence would not be noticed for a while yet.

  Golbfish himself stayed near the front with Kolgan at his side. The big man's sword arm was in a sling, his face haggard with pain. When the inevitable battle came, he would not be able to fight. If the gods were merciful and the army miraculously won its way home to Joal, he would certainly be put on trial before the People's Assembly. The verdict and sentence could never be in doubt. His beard showed more white than red now.

  Food supply was becoming critical. Armies usually went marauding in the autumn, when harvests still filled the barns; no sane infantry ever went anywhere without cavalry to support it. Even Golbfish knew that. Plumes of dust in the distance showed where the Thargian scouts were tracking the invaders and watching their progress. The enemy had mobility—if the Joalians turned aside to pillage, the livestock was removed and the stores destroyed long before men on foot could reach them.

  "Why don't they attack?” Kolgan demanded more than once. It was all he ever spoke of. “Why don't they harass us? Why not molest our patrols? Why are they letting us go?"

  To that paradox there was no answer. At first the enemy had picked off Joalians whenever they could and left Nagians alone. Now they ignored Joalians also, not meddling even with small bands. All they did was ravage their own land, then stand aside to let the invaders pass. No people should behave like that, least of all the proud and warlike Thargians.

  Around mid-morning, the road crested a height of land. Golbfish paused a moment or two to look back at the weary multitude trailing behind him. “It shows already,” he muttered.

  "What does?” growled Kolgan.

  "Yesterday they sang as they marched. Today they're not singing. They're slouching and straggling more than marching."

  "They're hungry.” Kolgan turned away. Golbfish stayed to watch a little longer, but then he too resumed the journey. Yes, lack of food was a major problem, but lack of D'ward was a greater one. The army might not be aware yet that he was absent, but it was missing him.

  The road curved down into a wide valley, but instead of crossing the river, it turned to the north and headed straight toward Thargwall. Consulting his maps as he marched, Golbfish concluded that the river must be Saltorwater; a conspicuous notch in the peaks probably marked Saltorpass itself. If the army could cross over that and reenter Lemodvale, then there was some hope of Joalian reinforcements coming to the rescue. Unless his slimy half brother had changed sides already, Joalia must still hold Nagvale and probably Siopass.

  But Saltorpass was the first problem and a perfect site for an ambush. Thargia was in a much better position to bring up reinforcements than Joalia was. If Golbfish were running the Thargian campaign, he would let the invaders into the pass and then bottle them up from both ends. A few days’ starvation would force complete surrender, which would yield the maximum harvest of slaves. Golbfish was certainly not running the Thargian campaign, and the men who were might prefer a more violent ending, with Saltorwater running red. That would be more Thargian, more traditional.

  The valley was wide and relatively treeless, the fields divided by unmortared stone walls. Here and there, ruined farms still smoked, but the people and their livestock had gone. The only consolation Golbfish could find in the situation was that his right flank was now protected by a raging milky torrent. He withdrew the patrols from that side and spread others farther to the left, but he sensed the jaws of a trap closing around him. He was hungrier than he had ever been in his life.

  Wherever D'ward was, he would not be able to rejoin the army until darkness shrouded this barren landscape. He had said he would return, and he had meant what he said, but Golbfish could not help but wonder if the Liberator had gone to meet his ordained destiny elsewhere.

  About noon, patrols signaled enemy activity to the north. Shortly after that, forces could be seen gathering on the height of land to the west. There was a lot of dust to the south, too.

  The herald came in the middle of the afternoon, and he came from the south. By then every man in the army knew it was surrounded. He was a welcome sight, so he was allowed to pass unmolested. Talking would at least put off the battle for a while. Riding a white moa and bearing a flag of truce, he raced along the columns, being waved forward with no worse abuse than jeering and insults. Undoubtedly he was counting and assessing as he came. He would not be much impressed by that footsore, bedraggled array. Joalians had lost their shiny smartness; Nagians were no longer painted savages. They had merged into a hungry, hopeless rabble.

  Advised of the herald's coming, Golbfish hurriedly summoned a few of the closer troopleaders to form a retinue. The Liberator's absence was obvious now. They growled mutinously when he refused to explain. He had no time to explain and no explanation that he was willing to give them anyway. Kolgan sneered in the background, saying nothing to help. D'ward had left Golbfish in charge and Kolgan knew that, but Joalians found loyalty an elusive concept. The Thargians would insist on dealing with a Joalian, so Kolgan was going to be battlemaster again by the end of the negotiations.

  What was there to negotiate, though?

  Shogby?

  Centuries ago—according to a legend that the Thargians insisted was vile slander—they had surrounded a Randorian army at Shogby and had offered mercy. If one quarter of the invaders would surrender and go voluntarily as slaves to the silver mines, they had said, the remainder would be allowed to depart unharmed. After long debate, the Randorians had accepted, drawing lots among themselves to select the sacrificial victims. The next day the Thargians had surrounded the departing three quarters and offered the same terms again.

  The first ice of winter and the word of a Thargian, said the proverb.

  Th
e herald reined in before the leaders. His ceremonial whites were drab with dust, his mount was labored and steaming, but he stared down from its back with predictable arrogance and the traditional sneer of his craft.

  "I come in the name of Holy D'ward!"

  Not the Liberator—D'ward Tion, god of heralds. His ritual was brief and to the point. He leaned down, holding out a leather bag. Golbfish dropped a silver coin in it. The herald shook it to demonstrate that there were now two coins in there and that he was therefore bound equally to both sides. He straightened up and came right to business.

  "I bring terms from the ephors to your commander."

  Golbfish held a spear and shield, wore a loincloth. At his side, Kolgan was clad in Joalian armor and helmet. Around them stood the motley retinue of both peoples, most wearing a random assortment of garb and weapons so that their individual races were not immediately evident—but the herald's gaze was fixed on Golbfish alone.

  That was odd. No, that was bad. It probably meant that the Liberator had been captured and interrogated. But apparently the envoy wanted to deal with Golbfish, and D'ward had left him in charge. His childhood ambition, he recalled, had been to write great poetry. “I am leader. Speak and be brief."

  The herald's grim smile implied that there was very little to argue about. “The noble Ephors Grarknog and Psaamb send these words: They have twice your number at your rear. Your flank is held by an army little smaller. The noble Ephor Gizmok blocks the pass ahead with a force greater than any I have yet named. The ephors would—"

  "That's good!” Golbfish barked. “Glad to hear it. We have been getting very bored lately.” His companions laughed on cue. The sound was brittle.

  "The ephors would meet with you at sunset. In—"

  "The usual Shogby terms, I presume?"

  The herald scowled. “Will you hear my message or not?"

  "If you will stop insulting my intelligence I will give you a few more minutes.” Being deliberately rude was a new experience and quite enjoyable.

  "Then hear. In token of their good faith, the noble ephors have refrained from attacking your men these past several days, as you must know. Moreover, they have now halted all movement of their forces and will not advance farther until after the parley. They point out that you are totally at their mercy. Nevertheless they wish to offer you terms."

  "Women chatter, men act. Tell them to write their terms on their swords and deliver them in person.” Golbfish gestured dismissal and started to turn away.

  "They will offer safe passage for all your men, back to Joaldom!"

  Golbfish returned to his previous orientation. He was ignorant of military matters, but he did know history and he did know politics. He also knew how the haughty Thargians must feel about the presence of invaders within their home vale. Nothing in the world would persuade the ephors to let them escape scot-free.

  "Oh, begone!” he shouted. “You foul the air with your lies and posturings."

  "You will not even agree to a parley?"

  "I have better things to do with my time than talk about Shogby!” Golbfish was amused how airily he threw that mortal insult at a Thargian warrior. Even a lifelong coward could be assertive when he had an army at his back. “Go tell the Milogians of mercy!"

  That was worse. The herald's pallor showed even under the road dust. “You may yet suffer the fate of the Milogians!” His voice croaked with fury.

  Golbfish had run out of insults. “Begone!” Again he started to turn away.

  "Hear me out!” the herald yelled. “The ephors will come in person to your camp. They will bring with them the Most Holy K'tain Highpriest, primate of all Thargia.” He swallowed as if the next part was going to taste ever worse. “In support of the terms they will offer, the ephors will furnish whatever hostages you demand, including their own sons if necessary."

  Golbfish realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it quickly. He glanced at his companions and wondered inanely why he had not heard the clatter of jaws dropping all around him. “Ah ... That's all?"

  The herald shuddered. “Could there be more? In all our great history, no such offer has ever been made to an enemy of Thargia. I agreed to deliver it only on condition that my tongue will be cut out when I have returned with your answer. This has been promised me."

  Golbfish looked at Kolgan, but the Joalian seemed to be too shocked to speak. He felt little better himself. Even if this was all a trick, merely to make such an offer should be suicidal humiliation for the ephors.

  "Why?” he demanded of the herald. “Your words are beyond belief. You claim to have us at your mercy and then throw yourselves at our feet? You will have to explain, or I must assume that Thargians have merely discovered humor."

  The man wiped his forehead, where sweat had turned the dust to mud. “I have exceeded my mandate. Pray ignore what I said about tongues. Grant me your answer."

  "At sunset ... within our camp ... How many?"

  "I am to ask for twelve, but accept fewer if necessary."

  Either the herald was insane, or Golbfish himself was. He made the stiffest demand he could imagine. “You will deliver fifty fat bullocks to our lines within the hour. Your forces will hold their present positions. At sunset you may send just five suppliants—two ephors with one son apiece, plus the priest. Unarmed, on foot, in civilian clothes."

  An army crushed by defeat would have howled at such humiliation, but the herald barely hesitated. “You are leader of the Nagians and you grant them safe conduct upon your personal honor?"

  Odder yet! Why had the man been told to make that strange stipulation? Why Nagians, when the Joalians were the real enemy?

  Then Golbfish realized what was different this time, what was warping warfare, history, religion, and politics into this nightmare tangle. He licked his lips to hide a sudden smile. “I am leader of the Nagians and the Joalians both, and I grant safe conduct upon my honor."

  "Then it is agreed! The curse of Holy D'ward to Eternity upon him who says otherwise."

  The herald wheeled his moa and flashed away like a leaf in a whirlwind. He was only a speck on the horizon by the time Golbfish emerged from a screaming, cheering riot of Joalians and Nagians. They were clapping him on the back and pumping his hand; they were hugging him and kissing him.

  Nobody, they exulted, had ever humbled a Thargian emissary like that. Never. Fat bullocks within the hour? Ephors unarmed and on foot! Ephors surrendering their sons? In the end he was hoisted shoulder-high and paraded through the army as his feat was shouted from troop to troop. They seemed to believe that he had suddenly become a military genius. He found it amusing. He knew D'ward would, if he were there.

  He did not try to explain to them. The herald had spoken with the leader of the Nagians. The Thargians thought they were dealing with the Liberator. What was going to happen when they discovered their error?

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  42

  "THAT'S IT!” EDWARD SAID. “HARROW HILL! WHAT ELSE?” HE jabbed a finger at the map and looked up, beaming triumphantly.

  Alice doubted things could be so easy. “They show standing stones there,” she agreed, peering. “Why Harrow?"

  "Anglo-Saxon. Hearh meant a hilltop sanctuary."

  "Is there any language you can't speak?” Julian demanded.

  "Chinese. And I'm not much good in Thargian. You need a sandpaper throat to pronounce it. But this looks right, and here's the village where we met the Gypsies—Vicarsdown. See the meadow by the river? It all fits."

  The five of them were gathered around Mrs. Bodgley's dining room table, examining the maps Mr. Glossop had provided. He had also sent a list of half a dozen megalithic sites around Greyfriars, but obviously Edward was already convinced he had found the one he wanted.

  Alice distrusted enthusiasm. “Second choice, just in case?” she asked. Harrow Hill was only nine or ten miles from the Dower House, so she could guess what was going to happen this afternoon.

  She had had a
busy morning, visiting old Glossop with Mrs. Bodgley and then shopping in Greyfriars. The town itself had not changed in three years, but the effects of the war had been depressingly obvious. That a wealthy lady would have to fetch her own groceries instead of having them delivered—that had been one big difference. The eerie scarcity of young men had been another. Not that their absence had been all bad. Buying men's underwear in Wickenden Bros. Gentlemen's Outfitters might have been a lot more embarrassing had the clerk not been a woman.

  Edward completed his survey of the list and shook his head. “Looks like Harrow Hill or nothing. We can run over there after lunch. It's a lovely day."

  "Is old Elspeth up to another outing?” Smedley asked.

  Mrs. Bodgley shook her head. “Better not. Her wind isn't what it used to be. Mr. Glossop allowed us to borrow his bicycle, though. It's a lady's model of unimpeachable antiquity, but if you don't mind being seen on it, Edward, it should take you there and back."

  "I don't mind being seen. Being noticed might be sticky. Running into old Inspector Leatherdale, for example."

  "Why don't you take my bike?” Ginger suggested. “Miss Prescott will doubtless be pleased to accompany you.” His expression was unreadable, light reflecting off his pince-nez.

  About to suggest that Julian go in her place, Alice caught herself in the nick of time. She had not brought any clothes suitable for cycling, but Edward was beaming at the prospect. “I'd love to,” she agreed. “Very kind of you."

  "Then that's settled!” Mrs. Bodgley said heartily.

  "Ripping!” Then Edward frowned. “One thing, though ... we shall have to take an offering."

  The lady blinked. “What sort of offering? Kill a white lamb, you mean? Or a five-bob note?"

  "Something significant.” He looked apologetically at Alice. He was flat broke, of course.

  "I think I may have something.” Mrs. Bodgley swept from the room.

  An awkward silence remained. This was the twentieth century. Pagan gods were a permissible subject for conversation, but actually making sacrifice to one would be behavior beyond the bizarre.