Past Imperative_The Great Game

by Dave Duncan

  That evening he peeled yamlike tubers for the cooks, fetched firewood, washed clothes, and helped to lay out the evening meal. The fare was sparse, but tomorrow should bring better fortune. The day’s rehearsals had gone well. Old friends in Suss had promised to attend the opening night.

  That evening, sprawled on the grass outside their hut, the players for the first time had leisure to discuss their new recruit. Understandably, they wanted to know just who he was and where he had come from and what he was planning to do. He explained as well as he could that he was a visitor from a very far country and did not know why the gods had brought him to Sussland. He would eagerly help in any way he could in return for his daily bread and a roof over his head. Eleal’s tale was being regarded with justifiable incredulity, but Dolm vouched for him. The discussion went on a long time as those voluble, arty people passed a rare free evening doing what they enjoyed doing most—talking.

  In the end the decision was made by the formidable Ambria. Edward would not be discussed outside the group, she decreed. The name “Liberator” would not be mentioned. He would be a traveling scholar from Nosokland, which was sufficiently distant that no one would question his mangled grammar and peculiar accent. “Choose a name!” she commanded.

  Edward shrugged.

  “D’ward’s a nice name!” Eleal said. Everyone laughed.

  It was certainly not uncommon, Piol remarked, being the name of a minor Tion avatar, god of heralds and envoys.

  “Then D’ward Scholar he shall be!” Ambria decreed. Talk turned to other topics.

  Probably only Edward knew how she came by her infallibility, for he had been trained in leadership. He had watched her read the group’s wishes and put them into words, sensing where her followers wished to go before they themselves knew. Then she had led them there. She displayed no doubts. A man could learn from her.

  Thus D’ward Scholar became one of the Trong Troupe.

  He, in turn, accepted them. They were a strange group, but they had many admirable qualities. They were devoted to their art, cheerfully enduring poverty and hardship for its sake. They had a strong mutual affection and they rarely bickered. They knew one another’s strengths and weaknesses, and worked within them. Politics and commerce they ignored, their religion was simple, their god benevolent. A world of such people would not be a bad place.

  The following morning he again walked the streets with his placards, and he chose some odd parts of the city in which to advertise drama. He had observed waterwheels outside the walls, but the factories were not mechanized. Nevertheless they were true factories, employing dozens of people, with clear divisions of labor. He discovered something that he thought was a small blast furnace, although it was not in use. He saw both coal and coke. This was a culture waiting for an industrial revolution.

  In the afternoon he went with Dolm Actor to purchase firewood, which was apparently an artistic necessity. Suss was one of the better towns of the Vales, Dolm said—proud to be the home of a major god and anxious to live up to his standards. Its citizens were devoted to freedom and democracy, which often meant social chaos. New laws must be approved by an assembly of all the citizens, leading to riot, destruction of property, and even deaths, but such mishaps were regarded as the price of liberty. In their own eyes Sussians were a sturdy, self-reliant people; their neighbors thought they were crazy anarchists. Of course, Dolm explained with a chuckle, Joalvale lay over the next pass and in reality Sussia was part of Joaldom. Edward decided that further understanding must await mastery of the language.

  That afternoon he joined the whole troupe in a late lunch, another skimpy repast of fruit and vegetables. The first performance of the Varilian in Suss would begin just before sundown, and everyone was in a state of nerves. Again they had gathered on the grass outside the shed. The shade was welcome, the sun ferocious. Insects buzzed around the sweaty people, biting painfully whenever they had the chance. Tempers were touchy. It was no secret that the finances were exhausted. Only a favorable reception of the play lay between the band and disaster.

  Edward was just as edgy as they were. His feet and legs ached and his sore tooth was hammering a red-hot chisel into his jaw. He feared he had another attack of diarrhea pending, when he had not properly recovered from the last one. An able-bodied scrounger might be acceptable if he were willing to help, but he could not expect the troupe to care for a useless invalid. He knew that the unfamiliar diseases of this world might kill him sooner rather than later.

  Conversation turned to the evening’s proceedings, with Ambria distributing responsibilities.

  “And what will D’ward do?” asked Klip Trumpeter, a pimply adolescent. More than anyone else, he seemed to resent the freeloader—possibly because his own value to the troupe was questionable at best.

  “D’ward will help pass the hat,” Dolm said, dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I think he will do very well at that.”

  “He will collect gold!” Eleal proclaimed. Everyone ignored that absurdity and went on with their various discussions.

  Edward was sitting across from the charming Uthiam, not entirely by accident. She was married, but he enjoyed looking at her. “Tell me, please,” he said. “Query…T’lin?”

  She looked surprised, doing lovely things with her eyebrows. “T’lin Dragontrader? Eleal’s friend?”

  He had learned now that names were trades. What exactly this T’lin traded in, he was uncertain, except that it was something to ride on. He nodded.

  She shrugged. “He comes and goes. A bit of a rascal, I think, but he seems fond of Eleal. If you believe her story, he helped rescue her from the temple in Suss. We run into him two or three times a year.”

  He got all that on the first try, except for the last bit, which he asked her to repeat. Two or three times a year? How long was a year? Could he bear to wait that long, or must he risk appealing to Tion?

  Uthiam said, “Why do you want T’lin Dragontrader, or is that a rude question?”

  “I think he may be able to help me.”

  She gave him a thousand-ship smile. “He must know the Vales as well as anyone. Stay with us and you’ll meet him sooner or later.”

  “You’re all very kind. I wish I could be more useful.”

  “You are useful! Have you ever done any acting?

  One schoolboy production? “A little.”

  Heads turned.

  “Would you care to say a few words?” asked Piol Poet. The little man was genuinely interested, his eyes bright. He wrote the plays; he was the scholar, a likable old gentleman.

  “You would not understand them, sir.”

  “But we may see if you have talent!”

  Only if they had very sharp eyes, Edward thought. But a good laugh would help cheer them up and could not hurt him. He finished chewing a mouthful of the carroty root with the ginger flavor. “All right.” He rose to his feet. If he were being honest with himself, he would admit that what he really had in mind was a test of some of his wild-eyed theories.

  Other quiet conversations ceased. More heads turned to watch him. Reviewing his very limited repertoire, he chose the Agincourt speech.

  “I’ll give you a speech by a warrior named…”Henry would sound female to them. “Kingharry. His men must fight many more men.” He struggled to put his thoughts into words. “He begins with scorn for those who want to leave. He says that they can go if they want to. He has too many…no…he has enough men that their deaths will hurt their land if they lose, understand? And then he tells of the glory that will be theirs if they win against such great odds.”

  “Sounds like Kaputeez Battlemaster’s speech in the Hiloma,” Trong pontificated.

  Edward left the shade, out into the scorching sunlight. He detoured by a stack of properties to arm himself with a wooden sword, then took up his stance before a group of shrubs, his knees starting to quiver with stage frig
ht. He must just hope that Shakespeare would sound as impressive to them as Piol’s poetry did to him. He was going to perform in a foreign language before an audience of professionals? He was crazy! He reviewed the opening lines, wiped sweat from his forehead. Idiot show-off! Then he turned to face the watchers under the trees, the eyes, the expectant silence. He noticed the secret smiles. He took a deep breath. Mr. Butterfield, the English master, had always told him to speak to a deaf old lady in the back row. He spoke to Piol Poet, who was slightly deaf and well to the rear.

  “What’s he that wishes so?” he said sharply. “My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin: If we are marked to die, we are enow to do our country loss.”

  He saw the frowns, the shock as they realized that this was a language like none they had ever heard before.

  “I am not covetous for gold…”

  He began to raise his voice. He had caught the poet’s interest already—Piol’s eyes were wide.

  “We would not die in that man’s company that fears his fellowship to die with us! This day is called the feast of Crispin…”

  Dolm was smiling. Eleal was agog. Trong, old ham, was frowning. But he had them! It was working! Creighton had known.

  “Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot…”

  The excitement was rising. He could feel their empathy, their professional response. Not his minuscule talent, not the roll of the bard’s poetry, not challenge and bluster—no, there was other magic at work here. Fallow would have laughed him to shreds had he blustered like this, but ham was what the troupe enjoyed, so he gave them ham. He postured and flailed and roared the deathless words.

  “And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

  From this day to the ending of the world,

  But we in it shall be rememberéd:

  We few, we happy few, we band of brothers—”

  The troupe was totally caught up in the bravado, and so was he. He stalked the field of Agincourt before them, a juvenile warlord reviling the potent French multitude, defying death in the name of fame. He was one with his audience. The troupe’s joy flowed out to him, he ate it up and sent it back to them in glory.

  “And gentlemen in England now abed

  Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

  And hold their manhood cheap while any speaks

  That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day!”

  He waited, puzzled that no one had picked up the cue. The greatest inspirational English ever penned faded away into the alien trees. Suddenly he was back in the dusty orchard before the ramshackle hut, and the troupe was on its feet, cheering and applauding and screaming for more.

  Laughing with relief, he bowed in acknowledgment.

  His gut had stopped hurting and so had his tooth. He felt tremendous.

  Creighton had called it charisma.

  Generals, politicians, prophets, and sometimes actors.

  55

  ELEAL HAD KNOWN ALL ALONG THAT D’WARD WOULD BE a wonderful actor, and she was delighted by the family’s reaction to his performance. As soon as she saw Trong going off by himself, she ran over to him and said, “Grandfather?”

  The big man jumped and looked at her as if he had never seen her before. Then he went down on one knee and—much to her astonishment—hugged her tightly. His beard tickled. She noticed how rough and coarse his face was, scarred by years of makeup.

  “Darling Granddaughter! I missed you! It is wonderful to have you safely restored to us.”

  Well! He might have said so two days ago!

  “I missed you, too. And one day you must tell me all about my mother.”

  He turned his face away, registering extreme pain. “It is a tragic tale, child.”

  “I expect it is, but we don’t have time for it now. I have a suggestion.”

  “Indeed?” His astonishment seemed somewhat excessive.

  “Indeed!” Eleal said. “I think D’ward would be much better as Tion in the Trastos than Golfren Piper is.”

  She had feared he would dismiss the idea out of hand, but the old man considered it seriously. “He has a very strange accent, Eleal.”

  “But Tion has very few lines to say, and I know D’ward could learn to say those clearly. Besides, would it even matter? Do you think the audience would notice? He would be so convincing!”

  Trong smiled, which he rarely did. In fact she could not recall him ever actually smiling at her before. “Perhaps he would! But it would hardly be fair to Golfren.”

  “If he didn’t mind, would you?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Tion is usually shown with fair hair, and D’ward is dark. And the Youth never wears more than a loincloth. D’ward may have a very hairy chest, and that would not look right.”

  “He can use a wig and he doesn’t have any hairs on his chest.” He did have marvelous eyelashes, though.

  Trong flinched. “Oh. Well, I will think about it.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather!” Eleal said, and kissed him. He was still kneeling, staring after her, as she skipped away.

  She had thought that the priests of Ois had stolen her pack, but apparently Ambria had saved it. So she had its familiar weight on her shoulders as the troupe set out for the amphitheater. She had a proper built-up boot again, too, which made walking much easier. She sidled next to Golfren, and waited until she had him to herself.

  “Golfren?”

  “Eleal? Up to your tricks again?”

  “Certainly not. I mean, what tricks? I just wanted to ask your opinion of something.”

  He smiled down at her, eyes twinkling. Golfren had nice eyes, but they were not nearly as bright a blue as D’ward’s. D’ward was altogether more handsome.

  “I smell trouble. Ask away.”

  “Don’t you think it would be nice,” Eleal said carefully, “if we could give D’ward a small part in one of the plays? So as he could feel like one of the group?”

  Golfren cleared his throat. “Well, that depends. What part did you have in mind?”

  “Oh, I was thinking he would make a very good Tion, in the right sort of play.”

  “You were, were you? Well I think he might—in the right sort of play.”

  “I knew you would agree with me,” Eleal said.

  Piol was talking with D’ward all the way, and Eleal did not get a chance to talk with him until after they had arrived at the amphitheater. She changed quickly into her herald costume. As this was not Narsh, she did not need extra clothes to keep warm. She went in search of Piol, and found him in the middle of a circle of props, spread out on the grass.

  “Piol Poet?”

  “Yes?” he muttered abstractly. The trouble with Piol was that he so often had his mind on other things.

  “Don’t you think D’ward is a wonderful actor?”

  Scratching his stubbly beard, the little man said, “Mm?” and then, “Hmm? Yes, I do.” He glanced at his list and then peered all around.

  “Good! Don’t you think it would be advisable to give him a small part in one of the plays?”

  “Mmm? But which part?”

  “I think he would make a great Tion in the Trastos! Golfren thinks so too, and Trong agrees.”

  “Can you see Karzon’s sword anywhere?”

  Eleal sighed and picked up the sword, which was lying right by her feet. She poked at Piol’s tummy with it. “Why not let D’ward play Tion when we do the Trastos?”

  Piol spoke to his list. “What? Who? But Tion has to play his pipes!” Sussians preferred plays that made Tion seem like the most important god in the Pentatheon, of course, but this year Piol had ignored tradition, as he so often did. He had written Tion’s part for Golfren. Golfren looked splendid in a skimpy loincloth, but he couldn’t act. So Tion mostly just stood
by while the other gods argued. D’ward could do that just as well as Golfren, even if he didn’t have golden curls!

  At the end, when the doomed Trastos Tyrant fell into despair and called on Tion to help him—when the audience would be expecting Tion to make a big speech—Golfren came in and played his pipes instead. It was a big surprise. It had gone over well in Mapvale, fairly well in Lappinvale. What Narshians thought didn’t matter.

  “No he doesn’t!” Eleal said crossly. “You just wrote it that way because you don’t trust Golfren not to butcher his lines!”

  “We can talk about it some other time. Take this flask over to the spring and fill it, will you? And stop threatening me with that sword!”

  “No, listen!” Eleal poked him again. “Tion inspires Trastos with courage to go and fight even though he knows he’s doomed. Of course you could give Tion more lines to speak instead of the silly piping, so the audience would know what it meant. A rousing speech like the one D’ward did tonight, but in Joalian, of course, and why are you laughing?”

  “Me, laughing? I wasn’t laughing! I was thinking about the soldier in the Varilian.”

  That was Golfren Piper’s other role, and he was just terrible in it.

  “What of it?” she demanded warily.

  “We could turn him into a general.”

  “D’ward could do that very well, too,” she said. “But we can’t change the Varilian now, in the middle of a run. And it really wouldn’t be fair to steal all Golfren’s parts. No, I think D’ward should play Tion in the Trastos.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Piol knelt down to look in the makeup box. “Golfren might not mind losing his lines, but he loves to play his pipes. Fetch that water.”