Past Imperative_The Great Game

by Dave Duncan

  Eleal Impresario? That did not sound right! She would continue to call herself Eleal Singer. After all, her singing brought her wages—token wages, perhaps, but real copper money. Trong Impresario’s granddaughter! Why had he never told her? It wasn’t her fault her mother had been wicked! What of her mother? What had she been called? Had she been an actor? Beautiful? Ugly? How old when she died? How had she died?

  Eleal glanced around at the others, wondering if any of them had known this secret. Surely K’linpor must have! He was avoiding her eye, watching the priest and priestess working their way around the circle. Uncle K’linpor!

  “I am sixty-five years old, my name is Piol Poet…”

  The whole temple was emerging from night now as the high windows began to shine. Luridly tinted carvings covered every surface. Walls and pillars were mantled in gods and flowers of painted stone, the floor was bright mosaic, dominated by the Ø symbol of the Lady. Reds and greens, ivory and gold leaf…Eleal had never guessed there could be so much riotous color in drab Narsh. Perhaps all the color in Narshvale had flowed into this holy place.

  A flicker of movement caught her eye. The solitary male worshiper had emerged from the alcove and was heading for the door, his sacrifice completed. The woman appeared also, fastening her robe, hurrying after him. Was she heading home to husband and family, and had she been performing a penance or merely offering sacrifice to win the Lady’s favor?

  “I am thirty-three years old, my name is Dolm Actor…” The reaper contributed his coin, then flashed a triumphant smile across at Eleal. How many souls had he gathered to Zath since leaving her room?

  Eleal looked away quickly, and watched a line of red-robed priestesses filing in from some unknown doorway. Each took up station in an alcove. Early-rising worshipers were appearing also, peering curiously at the ceremony in progress.

  The drums thundered and stopped. At the Lady’s feet, the hoarse recitation became audible again. Supporting the priestess’s deadweight, the young priest lowered her until she was sitting on the floor. He knelt at her side. Steadying her with one brawny arm, he lifted the vase to her lips.

  “Join hands!” commanded the fat man. Eleal’s hands were grabbed by Ambria and Trong. The drums started again. The young priest forced the girl’s head back and tilted the vase—enough for her to drink, not enough to spill the coins. Scarlet fluid dribbled over both of them, but she coughed and choked, apparently taking some of it in her mouth. Satisfied, he lifted the loop over her head and passed the vessel out to a waiting hand. Then he dragged her to the center of the circle and left her there, lying like a corpse alongside the silver bowl. He stood back and watched intently.

  Many more priests and priestesses had surrounded the troupe. They began to chant—softly at first, rapidly growing louder. Blurred by their own echoes, the words were an archaic form of classic Joalian. Eleal gathered only that they praised the Lady and beseeched her to vouchsafe guidance. The beat was capricious, unsettling. Her heart thumped painfully.

  The little priestess had begun to twitch. The singing surged higher. She screamed. She beat her fists on the floor. Louder and faster went the drums. She thrashed as if in pain, yet her face was flushed. The silver bowl went clattering across the floor, splashing eggs. She paused, lifted her head, and looked around the circle that confined her, madness in every move, every twist of her face. Her hands clawed at her robe and ripped it off, revealing a willowy, wasted body, flushed and sweating.

  Without warning she was on her feet, lurching at Eleal, hands clawing for her, eyes burning with hatred. Eleal tried to leap back; Trong and Ambria staggered but did not release her. The priest caught the maniac just in time and tried to haul her back to the center, but she fought him in frenzy, screaming and frothing. Amazingly, it became a real fight. The priest was as tall as Trong, young and husky; she was a scrawny stripling half his size with limbs like spade handles, but in moments she had bitten and mauled him, shredded his robe and opened bloody tracks on his face with her nails. Twice she almost broke free altogether, heading for Eleal, twice he caught her in time. He was trying to restrain her without doing hurt; she had no such scruples. They fell to the floor and struggled more there. The drums and singing echoed deafeningly.

  In another bewildering change, she cried out and went rigid, head back, limbs spread, sprawling over her opponent. The man threw her off and backed away on hands and knees, bleeding and gasping as if he had been wrestling bear cats.

  Her eyes flicked open. “Athu!” she roared, in a voice as deep and resonant as Trong’s—an impossible voice for that child-sized body. The drumming and singing stopped instantly. “Athu impo’el ignif!”

  It was the voice of the oracle. Outside the circle, priests began scribbling on parchment as the words of the goddess reverberated through the temple. Again the dialect was too archaic for Eleal to follow. She thought she heard her name a few times, but then she thought she heard several names she knew, and probably none of them was intended. The priests seemed to make sense of the torrent, though, for their pens moved rapidly.

  It died away into animal gurgles and stopped. A drum tapped. The singing resumed, a triumphant paean of thanks and praise.

  Red-robed priestesses pushed in to attend the unconscious oracle. The circle fell apart. Wives and husbands embraced in relief at the end of the ordeal. Trong released Eleal’s hand. Ambria hauled her close and hugged her fiercely. In a moment she felt wetness. Bewildered, she looked up and realized that the big woman was weeping.

  20

  IT WAS OBVIOUS WHY THE TEMPLE RARELY ASKED THE LADY for an oracle. The little priestess had been carried off, wrapped in a blanket. Her burly guardian had limped out, clutching a rag to his bleeding face and leaning on a friend. A young boy had brought a bucket and knelt to wash stains from the floor.

  The richly adorned priest with the big belly was chuckling as he pawed over a group of parchments, discussing them with other elderly priests and priestesses. They all seemed pleased.

  The troupe stood apart, huddled together, waiting to hear what the goddess had decreed. Eleal clung tight to Ambria’s big hand and tried not to see Dolm Actor’s patronizing sneer.

  Then the fat priest waddled over to them, still clutching the records. “The Lady has been most generous!” he boomed. “I have never seen clearer, more explicit directions.”

  There was a worried pause. “Tell us!” Ambria said.

  “Just the two of them, I think.” He checked one page against another. “Yes, just two. The one named Uthiam Piper?”

  Uthiam whimpered. Golfren’s arm tightened around her.

  “Three fortnights’ service, it would seem,” said the fat man. He shrugged his pillowed shoulders. “Not as severe a penance as I would have expected, really.”

  Uthiam’s cheeks were ashen. She raised her chin defiantly. “I have to whore here for forty-two days?”

  Shocked, the priest raised his shaven brows. “Sacrifice!”

  “For what?”

  “For your sins and your friends’ sins, naturally. They are free to go—except one, of course. One remains. I am sure you made out that much. It is a small price to win so much favor and forgiveness, for yourself and your loved ones. Many women learn to enjoy it.” He leered slyly.

  He had eyes like a pig’s.

  Little Piol Piper cleared his throat. “I thought—” He stopped. He was the scholar. If any of the laity had understood those ancient words, it would be Piol.

  “You thought what?”

  The old man clawed at his silvery, stubbly beard. “I thought an alternative was offered?”

  The priest nodded, his dewlaps flapping. “But not a reasonable alternative for a band of wandering players, I am sure.”

  “How much?” Golfren yelped. His fair-skinned face was paler than any.

  The fat man sighed. “One hundred Joalian stars.”

 
“Ninety-four, you mean! You know we have that much!”

  The priest pursed his thick lips sadly. “You cannot bargain with a goddess, actor.”

  “But I was to give that money to Tion that he might favor my wife in the festival.”

  “Your wife will not be attending the festival this year. She will be serving the goddess, here in the temple. The mammoth herders who risk their lives daily in the pass will certainly not be rash enough to offend Holy Ois.” His fat smirk left no doubt that the men would be advised of the danger.

  Golfren looked close to tears. “That gold was my father’s farm and his father’s before him! And we only have ninety-four.”

  Everyone looked at Ambria, Uthiam’s mother.

  Her hand in Eleal’s was sweating. Her voice was hoarse: “If we make up the difference, Holy One, it will leave us penniless. The fare to Suss is reputedly higher this year than it has ever been. We are poor artists, Father! Our expenses are heavy. The festival is our only hope of recouping our fortunes so that we may eat next winter. Will the Lady ruin us?”

  The priest’s eyes narrowed inside their bulwarks of lard, appraising her. “If you travel with the Lady’s blessing,” he said reluctantly, “I believe the temple could arrange passage for you.” It was indeed possible to bargain.

  “Today! The festival begins tomorrow. We must travel today!” Hints of the old Ambria were emerging.

  “One hundred stars and you go today,” the priest agreed.

  Ambria sighed her relief. “And the other one?”

  “Mm?” He chuckled and consulted the parchments again, comparing them. “Oh, yes. Eleal Singer…or Eleal Impresario…the goddess called her something else…No matter. She must remain. Must enter the service of Great Ois.”

  Somehow Eleal had expected this. She shivered. She felt Ambria’s hand tighten on hers.

  “There is no ransom for her?” Piol demanded.

  The fat man scowled. “Ransom? Watch your tongue, actor!” He looked around suspiciously. “Are you offering one?”

  “You have taken every copper mite we possess!” Ambria shouted.

  “Ah!” He shook his head sadly and consulted the scripts again. “In any case, we are given no choice in her case.” He glanced at Trong, who was projecting utter despair. “The, er, misadventure occurred in Jurg?”

  “Yes,” the big man muttered, showing no surprise.

  “Of course!” The priest chuckled, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Mighty Ken’th again! But the Lady is a jealous goddess! She demands the child.” He glanced around the group. “Come, you are being let off lightly! A hundred stars and the girl.”

  Eleal also looked around. No one would meet her eye except Dolm Actor, who wore a distinctly I-told-you-so sneer.

  “She will be well cared for,” the priest said. “Trained in the Lady’s service. It will be an easier, more rewarding life than you can offer her.” He waited, and no one replied. “In a couple of years…But you know that.”

  Getting no response, he beckoned with his fat soft fingers, summoning a woman almost as large as himself. “Take this one and guard her closely. Farewells would be inappropriate,” he added.

  Ambria released Eleal’s hand.

  21

  INSPECTOR LEATHERDALE HAD LEFT A MAN OUTSIDE THE door, as Edward soon realized. Conversations came along the hallway, stopped while they should have been going by, and then resumed again in the distance. Beds and carts slowed and squeaked as they were navigated around the obstacle. Perhaps the jailer had been there all the time, but he was one more indication that Edward was a murder suspect. As the guard could hardly be intended to prevent the criminal escaping, he must be hoping to eavesdrop on conversations. There was no other conceivable reason to waste a policeman’s day, was there?

  The room was depressingly square. The walls were brown up to about shoulder height, where there was a frieze of brown tiles; above that the plaster was beige. Having nothing better to do, Edward catalogued his assets. Item, one brass bed with bedclothes, pillow, and overhead frame. Item, one chair, wicker-backed, hard. Item, one bedside cupboard in red mahogany. Item, one small chest of drawers to match…one bellpull just barely within reach…one iron bed table on wheels, with a flip-up mirror…one wicker wastepaper basket…. He had a jug of tepid water, a tumbler, an ashtray, and a kidney-shaped metal dish suitable for planting crocus bulbs. The cupboard contained a bedpan and a heavy glass bottle with a towel around it. Robinson Crusoe would have been ecstatic.

  A distant church tower was the only thing visible outside. The window was open as wide as it would go, but no air seemed to be coming in—it couldn’t be this hot outdoors, surely? What a summer this had been!

  So he had left school at last and in little over a week become prime suspect in a friend’s murder. He thought of Tiger, the school cat, and how he had liked to sit under the tree where the robins nested, waiting for the fledglings—two fledglings.

  Poor old Bagpipe! He’d never had a fair shake with his wheezing. And now this. There’d have to be an inquest, of course. How would their classmates take the news? How many would believe Edward Exeter capable of such a crime? He decided they would judge by the evidence, just as he would. At least this was England and he would be tried by British Justice. It wasn’t as if he must deal with Frenchies, who made you prove yourself innocent. British Justice was the best in the world, and it did not make mistakes.

  At least, he did not think it did. Trouble was, he had no idea what the case against him might be. Could he possibly have gone insane, a sort of Doctor Exeter and Mr. Hyde? Was that why he couldn’t remember? Lunatics were not hanged, they were shut up in Broadmoor and quite right, too! If he had a Hyde half who went around stabbing people, then his Exeter half would have to be locked up also.

  The bobby had treated him with kid gloves, and that was a rum go. A mere witness would be quizzed much harder than that—especially a witness who couldn’t remember anything. He was a minor and an invalid, and the policeman had been very careful and respectful so that he could not be accused of bullying. Edward could recall much worse wiggings from Flora-Dora Ferguson, the maths master. Leatherdale must be absolutely sure his case was watertight, so he was in no special hurry to hear what the suspect might testify.

  At that point in his brooding, Edward heard a familiar voice raised in the corridor and thought, No! Please no! Visiting hours began at two o’clock and it couldn’t possibly be even nine in the morning, and yet he knew that voice. He also knew its owner would not be blocked by any hospital rule in Greyfriars, nor by any matron, no matter how intimidating. Nor even by a uniformed constable from the sound of it.

  “Gabriel Heyhoe, don’t be absurd. You’ve known me all your life. I dried your eyes when you wet your pants at King Edward’s coronation parade. If you want to prowl through this bouquet in search of hacksaws, then go ahead, but meanwhile stand aside.”

  Mrs. Bodgley swept into the room like Boadicea sacking Londinium. She was large and loud. She overawed, and yet normally she somehow combined a booming jollity with as much majesty as Queen Mary herself. She had been the star attraction at Speech Day for as long as Edward could remember and the boys of Fallow worshiped her.

  Today she swung a familiar battered suitcase effortlessly in one hand, and she was dressed all in black from her shoes to her hat. A black glove threw back her veil.

  “Edward, poor chap! How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. Oh, Mrs. Bodgley, I am so sorry!”

  Warning beacons flamed in her eyes, as a policeman loomed in the doorway behind her, his helmet almost touching the lintel. “What exactly do you mean by that statement, Edward?”

  “I mean I’m sorry to hear the tragic news about Timothy, of course.”

  “That’s what I thought you meant, but you must learn to guard your speech more carefully at present!” She towered above him, peering over
her ample black bosom as Big Ben looks down on the Houses of Parliament. “The remark might have been construed as an apology. I brought your things. Your money I extracted and gave to Matron. I put the receipt for it in your wallet. And I brought this book for you. Here.”

  He stuttered thanks as she thrust the book at him. “But—”

  “Timothy was enj…said it was the best book he had ever read, and I thought you would need something to pass the time. No, don’t bother thanking me. I’m sure he would have wanted you to have it. And apart from that I had better not stay and chatter or Constable Heyhoe here will suspect me of perverting the course of justice. I want you to know that we—I mean I—do not for one moment believe that you had anything whatsoever to do with what happened and nothing will ever convince me otherwise. I for one know that there was a woman’s voice in that cacophony, even if the general…but we must not discuss details of the case, Edward. Furthermore, I intend to see that you have the best legal advice available and if there is any need for money for your defense, should things come to that unhappy pass, then it will be forthcoming. I have already so instructed my solicitor, Mr. Babcock of Nutall, Nutall, & Shoe. So you are not to worry, and Doctor Stanford assures me that your leg can be expected to mend with no lasting ill effects.”

  He opened his mouth and she plunged ahead before he could say a word.

  “Timothy always spoke very well of you, and the few times we have met I have been greatly impressed with you, Edward. I know that your housemaster and Dr. Gibbs rated you highly and I trust their judgment—most of the time and certainly in this. So do not fret. The whole terrible affair will be solved, I am quite sure. Now we must not say another word on the matter!”

  With a grim smile, she swirled around and flowed out of the room, the policeman backing ahead of her. Edward looked down at the book he was holding, and it was a blur.