Future Indefinite

by Dave Duncan

  So Julian was not going to be staying long in Olympus and the Carrots knew it. They had ears like hawks!

  “I’ll need a snack before I turn in. I’m famished.”

  “At once, Tyika. Would tea and bubbler sandwiches be sufficiencies?”

  “You know I love bubbler sandwiches.” Julian roused himself to attend to his ablutions.

  Dommi headed for the door, then paused. “Tyika? If it is not too much presumptuousness…”

  “What say?”

  “When you go to meet the Tyika Exeter…may I come also?”

  Julian was so startled he rubbed soap in his eyes and swore. The Liberator problem was none of Dommi’s business! He could not recall Dommi ever leaving the valley before, and Ayetha was close to term. But he had been Exeter’s houseboy once, and Exeter had always had a gift for inspiring loyalty—when he had been house prefect at Fallow, the juniors had worshipped him. If the Filoby Testament had not kept him out of the war, he would have made a great officer. None of which concerned Dommi.

  “I haven’t been told I am going anywhere to meet anyone.”

  Dommi murmured, “Of course, Tyika! I beg the tyika’s pardon,” and padded away.

  Julian began contemplating a long evening. The dinner at the Pinkneys might be more important than any formal Committee session, for the real decisions would be made there, over port and cigars. And of course Dommi had been careful to tell him that his mistress was back, but her husband was not.

  9

  A cruel wind wailed along the street, inciting dead leaves to ran races, whipping up the rank smell of horses from the stones. It tugged at Eleal’s cloak and tried to snatch her precious load from her arms. It threw dust in her eyes. In this corner of the town the evening’s activities would not normally begin for hours yet, but twilight was coming early under the storm clouds and she must complete her business and be well away before it did. Bending into the gale, she trudged with her uneven gait—clip-clop, clip-clop-clip. The wind repeatedly tried to push her off balance or rip the cloth wrapping from the burden she carried.

  Jurg was a fine town, her favorite town in all the Vales, but all towns had seamy corners and River Street was seamier than the backside of a patchwork quilt, a fetid alley that made the area near Cherry Blossom House seem dull as a virgin’s diary. She had only ever ventured here before once, and then in broad daylight. The Cherry Blossom whores came regularly, but always around noon, and even then Tigurb’l Tavernkeeper sent bouncers along to protect them. Eleal could have asked a couple of those thicks to escort her this evening, but they would have been more dangerous than the ill-reputed denizens of River Street. They would have demanded to know what she carried wrapped in that rag and then promptly relieved her of it. The brighter ones would also have cut her throat so she couldn’t tattle back to Tigurb’l.

  It had cost more than five Joalian stars. If she let it slip, it wouldn’t be worth a copper pig. If she fell and went down on top of it, she might not be, either. The sucker was as tall as a two-year-old child—and heavy. The push of the wind was uneven. The cobbles were uneven. Her legs were uneven. Clip-clop…clip-clop…clip…

  There were few other people around. The town mice had fled the coming dark and the cats had not yet emerged. The one or two men who came hurrying past all looked at her as if they could not believe their eyes—this was no place for a woman alone. She should have borrowed some less pretentious garments, too. Her cloak alone had cost almost half a star, burgundy-colored Narshian llama wool with white goose-fur trim.

  But here was her destination. Amid all the shabby tenements, run-down stores, and mysterious anonymous doorways stood a grand pillared entrance, far older than all of them. The original proprietor was still in business, for the portico bore a massive metal hammer, the symbol of Karzon. Usually the holy buildings in a city were clustered close together. Isolated temples like this one were so rare that Eleal knew of no others—it was as if the god who lived here had been spurned by the other gods of the city, as if they would not associate with him. This was the home of Ken’th, avatar of the Man in Jurg.

  She dared not pause to catch her breath, although her heart was racing like a cheetah. One more effort to think this project through and her courage would fade like mist. Blinking the wind tears from her eyes, she hurried up the steps, clutching her precious bundle. Clip-clop, clip-clop…The old tiled steps showed signs of wear. That amused her, because no one ever admitted to worshipping at the temple of Ken’th. Mother Ylla, that horrible hag, had told her once that only boys and old men did—she had overlooked harlots.

  The door stood open. It was a small door for so large a portico, and the interior beyond seemed dark. Again, Eleal felt her nerve waver. Her insides had tied themselves into hard knots; her arms shook so violently that she feared she was about to drop the figurine. That would ruin all her plans! But gods should be approached with humility and reverence, not this burning anger, this vitriolic craving to get even. Who ever brought a plea for justice to the Man? Justice was the prerogative of the Maiden, especially her aspect of Irepit, who had once sent one of her nuns to save Eleal from a reaper and must therefore be well disposed toward her. Unfortunately, Astina’s aspect in Jurg was Agroal, goddess of virginity, not at all the right goddess to handle a problem like this—nor one that Eleal Singer would dare to petition, whereas she had a special call on Ken’th. Get even! I will be revenged on D’ward! She clenched her teeth and lurched forward into the temple. Clip! Clop! Clip!

  The circular chamber was small for the home of an important god, but that was because Ken’th attracted solitary worshippers, not great congregations. To her intense relief, it was presently inhabited only by a restless wind, which rustled leaves it had brought in as offerings and stirred the draperies covering the walls. High, narrow windows above them shed little light on the gloomy hall. In the center, two oil lamps burned on the low dais, their flames jumping nervously—they could not be half as nervous as she was! Above them stood the figure of the god.

  Unlike the Youth, the Man was normally portrayed clothed, but of course this was Ken’th. Lit mainly from below by the lamps, the carving was impossibly priapic. She had been only a child on her previous visit, yet even then she had been confident that the anatomical details were based on wishful thinking. Now she knew that from experience, but she could also tell that the sculptor had been much more skilled than whoever had painted the pornographic murals in the upper rooms of Cherry Blossom House. The musculature was superb. The set of Ken’th’s hands on his hips and the tip of his head demonstrated male arrogance beautifully—man the irresistible. The face bore an expression at once sensuous, demanding, and callous. She thought of her mother, wondering if she had come here of her own free will, or if the god had sought her out somewhere else.

  Eleal limped closer. She should kneel, she supposed, and yet she felt strangely reluctant to do so. Her heart was fighting to escape, a terrified bird in a bony cage.

  A curtain swished open, revealing a dark little room behind. She jumped, almost dropping the figurine. A man strode out silently on bare feet—a priest, of course, although he did not look like a priest. Male servants of other deities wore long robes, and most shaved their scalps and faces. Being Ken’th’s and on duty, this one had only a green wrap tied around his loins. His hair hung to his shoulders, his beard merged with the fur mat on his chest. He was tall and well-built, an exemplar of young manhood, but the temple of virility would have many more applicants to choose from than most did.

  He came around the plinth and stopped near one of the lamps, regarding her with approval. “You are welcome to this holy place, beloved.”

  Eleal clutched the figurine tighter—much tighter and she would break it. “Thank you, father,” she said, and was annoyed to hear the quaver in her voice.

  He nodded slightly, eying her burden curiously. “I see you bring a substantial offering. How may I aid you? What mercy do you seek from mighty Ken’th?”

  “I
wish to speak with the god himself.”

  “An elderly husband, perhaps? An embarrassing delay in conceiving?” He would be willing to remedy the matter, with the god’s help and a suitable fee. He might even waive the fee in her case.

  “No, father.”

  He smiled, unable to conceal his eagerness. “Then too much success in conceiving? You wish the god to withdraw his blessing? This, too, may be arranged, beloved.”

  That was why the harlots came. It would be all much the same to him, for although that ritual included some complicated preliminaries to appease the god and ensure the required result, all Ken’th’s rituals included coitus. All that involved women, anyway. What happened with the boys and old men, she did not know and did not want to.

  “Not that, either. I wish to speak with the god.”

  A flicker of impatience. “Present your offering, make your prayers, and then I shall aid you in the rites.”

  “No. I—I wish to meet him in person.”

  The man blinked. Then he grinned broadly. “You are ambitious, daughter! Whatever your need, I am authorized to represent the god in the performance of his sacrament.”

  Eleal had never met a man who did not think that of himself, and she could recognize the too-familiar eagerness in the priest’s manner. He advanced a step. She backed away. He noticed her limp and frowned.

  Unable to think of anything more to say, Eleal pulled the cover from the figurine, a female dancer poised on one toe, about to take flight from its plinth, carved Niolian crystal flashing in the lamplight. Its beauty was heart-stopping. She had spent all afternoon haggling with the dealer, and even then he had emptied her purse to her last twelfthpiece. Surely such an offering would earn the god’s attention?

  The priest sucked in his breath. “You bring a rich gift, lady!” he admitted. “It is fitting.” He tore his eyes away from the carving to study her again, noting the quality of her robe. She could almost hear him concluding that a woman who wore such a garment to visit River Street must be out of her mind.

  He reached out. “Let me take it for you.”

  “No!” She moved it away.

  “Then lay it on the dais, carefully.”

  “No! I wish to give it to the god in person. I want Ken’th in the flesh!”

  “You are verging close to blasphemy, daughter!”

  His tone annoyed her. He was little older than she was.

  “Tell the god that—”

  “Give me that carving before you drop it.” He reached out again.

  Again she lurched back. Seeing she could not evade him any longer, she turned and hurled the figurine at the feet of the idol. The crash echoed from the stone walls; a hail of diamonds danced across the floor. The priest cried out in horror.

  “There!” Eleal shouted. “I have given my offering to the god! Now let him hear my prayer!”

  The priest backed away, watching carefully where he put his feet. “You are crazy, woman!” His voice was unsteady. “You commit sacrilege and blasphemy! Begone, lest Holy Ken’th smite you in his wrath!”

  “I want Ken’th!” she yelled. “I have words for his ears alone!”

  “Go! You are out of your wits, I say. Beware that he does not curse you, so that no man will ever consummate his holy sacrament with you.”

  “He is my father!”

  The young priest curled his lip in disgust. “One of those, are you? Be thankful to mighty Ken’th for giving you life and do not trouble him further.” Coming around, staying clear of the shining fragments, he grabbed her arm so hard that she cried out.

  “I have a special service to offer him!”

  “Begone, madwoman!” He began pulling her to the door.

  She struggled and clawed at him. He took hold of her other wrist and manhandled her easily, practically carrying her.

  It was not working out as she had planned. She had thrown away everything she had ever earned and would have nothing to show for it. She was going to be balked of her revenge. “I want to tell him of the Liberator!”

  “I am sure you do. And you doubtless have a few prophecies he should hear also. Pray to him in the privacy of your bedroom, and he will hear.” They had reached the door. “Out with you!—and do not linger in these streets, for the god’s presence here makes men bold. It is no place for a woman alone.”

  With that cold warning, the priest threw her out. The door slammed behind her as she sprawled down on the rug.

  10

  Rug? Not a woven rug but a thick alpaca fleece. She raised her head to look into a cheerful log fire, crackling and sputtering in a stone fireplace. She could have sworn that the priest had thrown her outside on the steps. His words had said so. To her left, a leather couch…another couch on her right. She was indoors in a large and comfortable chamber.

  She moaned in fear and pushed herself up on her arms. She had sung in the king’s house when she was a child and she gave private recitals now, so she knew how the rich lived. She had seen nothing to better this: floors of polished wood overlain with soft fleeces, walls bearing shelves of books, racks of bows and spears, mounted trophy heads. The furniture was solid, upholstered in browns and russets, subdued and harmonious. Scents of beeswax, leather, and wood smoke hung in the air. Bewildered, she rose to her knees. This was very much a man’s room, a rich man’s den, cozy and friendly and appealing.

  She peered around for a door but saw only full-length drapes of umber velvet, which might equally well conceal windows. None was close enough to explain how she came to be where she was. This was certainly not that fusty little cubicle she had glimpsed in the chapel. On the shelf above the fireplace stood two gold candlesticks, a golden vase of autumn flowers—and a carved crystal figurine of a dancer poised to fly. She scrambled to her feet to stare at it. It stood a little higher than eye level, and with candlelight dancing over the shiny facets, she could easily imagine that it was already flying. There could never be two identical and yet she had smashed…

  “Thank you. It’s very beautiful.” The voice came from somewhere behind her.

  There had been no one there a moment ago. She knew who must have spoken, who must have re-created the dancer. Her prayer had been granted. She spun around and simultaneously sank to her knees, touching her face to the rug, not daring to look upon the god without permission. Her heart thundered in her throat.

  The Man was an ambiguous deity. Creator and destroyer, he must be both feared and adored. As D’mit’ri he was the builder of cities; as Krak’th he shook them down. As Padlopan he was sickness; as Garward, Strength. He was husbandry and battle. As Zath he was Death, as Ken’th he quickened the womb to bear new life. As Karzon he was all of them.

  Piol Poet had written the Man into his plays many times, but never as Ken’th, although there were many fine legends of the Lover. Most were variations of the tragic tale of Ismathon, the mortal who pined away and eventually slew herself rather than live without his love. The Trong Troupe would never have performed any play with Ken’th in it.

  “It is an exceptionally fine piece,” the god said, his voice coming closer. “It cost you dearly, so whatever it is that troubles you must be a serious matter.” Then he chuckled. “Are you comfortable down there?”

  She had not expected a god to chuckle. “Er…yes, Lord.” She raised her head a fraction and saw two bare feet. A strong hand reached down and raised her. She kept her face lowered until a finger lifted her chin and she met his smile.

  Back in her theater days, she had seen Karzon in his various aspects depicted by many actors—Dolm, Trong himself, Golfren, men with other troupes. He was always portrayed with a beard, often in armor, and whenever possible by a large man. Ken’th did not look as she expected at all. He was younger, for one thing, and not especially big, although his arms and shoulders were solid enough. He had curly hair and a Niolian-style mustache. He wore a sleeveless shirt and knee-length breeches—in green, of course. At least the color was right. But there was no sense of divine majesty about
him. Nor did she sense any stunning, overwhelming sexuality. He was just a chunky, cheerful young man, handsome in a rugged sort of way, faintly scented with musk and lavender. He was smiling reassuringly. His eyes…perhaps the eyes…

  “Why not begin by telling me your name?”

  She struggled to find her wits. “Eleal Singer, Lord.”

  “Welcome to my house.” He unfastened her cloak, glanced at it approvingly, and tossed it over a couch. He took a step back to look her over. “Mm! You are not only a startlingly beautiful woman, Eleal Singer, but you have exquisite taste in clothes!”

  She gasped out her thanks. She had money to indulge her whims now, and this gown was her newest and best, just bought for winter. She had not worn it before—fine white wool, decorated only with big rhinestone buttons down the front and brocade on the collar. She always chose clothes with long skirts to hide her boot; she suspected that the long sleeves and high collar were a reaction to the skimpy things she wore to perform. It was snug around the bodice, though, with a high, tight waist supporting her breasts, and from there it fell full and loose. To have her clothes praised by a god was a heady sensation. She avoided his eye, feeling herself blush.

  He led her to a russet leather couch, seating her next to the fire and settling down beside her. She clasped her hands on her knees and stared at them as if she were a fourteen-year-old with her first man.

  “And you claim to be my daughter? Who was your mother?”

  “Itheria Impresario.” When there was no reaction, she continued. “She disappeared for a fortnight, here in Jurg. I know very little about her. She bore me and then she just died, and I was reared by my grandfather, Trong Impresario, and his wife—his second wife, Ambria. She said my mother hadn’t been a bad woman, she had…” Been seduced by the god, but she couldn’t say that. “Pined away for love?”

  Ken’th sighed faintly. “That does happen, I’m afraid. I don’t recall the name. It could have been me. I’m not usually quite that fickle—only a fortnight? But it is possible, I suppose.” He slid an arm around her, making her heart flip.