by Dave Duncan
“Then Verse fifty-six: ‘The Liberator shall hail the Free in Jurgland.’ There’s a lot more about him promising to bring death to Death and being acclaimed by the multitude. But that one must come next. There’s a verse about the king of Randoria and one about hunger in Thovale.”
Eleal took a large bite of bread and chewed busily to keep her face occupied. “Prophecies aren’t inevitable, though, are they?”
Piol sighed and took a gulp of his beer. “No. If you can break one link in the chain, all the rest must fail. If I were Karzon, I would be trying to kill D’ward before he killed me.” He watched carefully for her reaction.
She laughed gaily. “You don’t look much like a god to me!”
“You know what gods look like, Eleal?”
“Well of course—I mean, no. Only in general. Why mention Karzon? It doesn’t say D’ward will kill Karzon! Only Death, and Zath is just one of the Man’s aspects. Of course I don’t know what gods look like, except on stage.”
“Where did you get so much money, Eleal?”
“I earned it, of course.” At least, she thought she had. In her hasty flight, she had emptied all the little caches where she kept her savings hidden. When she went to count it this morning, she had discovered that her money belt contained about four times as much as she expected. It was odd but certainly nothing to complain about. She could live for a year on it.
“So if you’re right, then I don’t need to go all the way to Joalvale. We can just go over Lospass to Niolvale. If he isn’t there yet, then we’ll go on to Rinoovale.”
“I thought you were going to Joalvale and the Liberator was incidental?”
“Well…It would be nice to see him again.”
The old man nodded in resignation, making the flaps of his neck wave like flags. “If you insist. Have you enough money to buy a sloth and cart?”
“What do I need a cart for? Or a sloth?”
He smiled for the first time since he had arrived. “If you have money, Eleal, then you always have trouble. If you can’t find a better defender than me, then you have serious trouble! You need to discourage the young and greedy. Let’s buy a sloth and cart and load it up with sewerberries.”
“Yuck!”
This time he actually chuckled, just like his old self. “Exactly! Nobody’s going to dig through a load of sewerberries looking for gold. Nobody will come within yards of us! It’s a profitable cargo, too—we may make money, which is better than paying for a ride in a caravan and for guards whom we couldn’t trust anyway.”
Suddenly she felt much better. She leaned over and squeezed his hand. “Brilliant! That’s the Piol I used to know! You write the play and we’ll star in it together. Two tragic figures? You shall be the noble old campaigner, called forth once more to bear arms in a worthy cause! And I shall be your granddaughter, perhaps? A forsaken maiden going in search of the man who betrayed her but whom deep in her heart she still…”
Then fell one of those deathly silences, as if someone had forgotten his lines. A shadow had settled on Piol Poet’s face
“I will write that role gladly, Eleal, if you will play it.”
15
Overhead the sky shone pure Wedgewood blue, although the sun had not yet cleared the peaks. Morning was a symphony of pearly light and cold as a bugger. Rimy grass crunched underfoot as Julian trudged along, shivering inside his furs and fleece-lined boots. He was in no mood or state for an argument, but he could see one coming whether he wanted it or not.
His eyes were gritty. He had slept very little, tossing the night away thinking about Euphemia prostituting herself to bloody Pinkney just for a chance to make one phone call. It made him feel so bloody inadequate, a man who couldn’t defend his woman! It wasn’t the ritual that was the problem—she must know at least one of the keys as well as bloody Pinky did—it was the timing. The Olympus portal connected to St. Galls in Wiltshire and a cemetery in Edinburgh and other places as well. You had to know what hour of day or night it was at Home now and when Head Office would have helpers standing by, or you could find yourself in very hot water indeed. The Committee kept all that information under its hat.
Well, it was over. Pinky had had his fun by now. And here came more trouble. Dommi was at his heels, bent almost double under a bag as big as himself. Pind’l and Ostian, Dommi’s juvenile assistants, brought up the rear with the rest of the baggage. The air was sharp as swords, and yet they wore only flimsy cotton livery. Dommi was bareheaded, although the rest of him was swathed in a ragtag assembly of moth-eaten furs.
The dragon paddock lay upstream from the station, far enough off to muffle the brutes’ incessant burpings. Four dragons were being loaded by a group that included two men in black turbans—simple arithmetic foretold trouble. Turbans came from Nioldom, black was the color of Zath, to be displayed with caution. The only men who ever wore black turbans were T’lin Dragontrader and his hands; it was a sort of uniform with them, dating back before T’lin’s conversion to the Undivided.
Julian was in the soup because Dommi expected Tyika Kaptaan to keep his promise. A man’s word was his bond, and all that. Dommi’s furs must have come from the Carrot village, so the whole valley would know that he was bound for Joalvale with Tyika Kaptaan. He had roused Julian before first light, having already laid out the tyika’s warmest garments, heated a tubful of water, packed the bags, summoned bearers, and prepared a hot breakfast. But two and two made four, on any world, and there were only four dragons in the pen. Olympus owned three of its own, but it was not unusual for all of them to be absent from the valley, as now. Most of those half-clad redheads bustling around would be grooms or polishers or whatever the correct name was for men who shoveled dragon shite, but the dragons themselves all belonged to Agent Seventy-seven, alias T’lin Dragontrader. And both the black-turbaned men were armed, dammit! Julian hadn’t even thought of that problem.
Dragontrader himself he could override; Ursula was another matter alto-blooming-gether, especially at this time of day, after two nights without sleep. Blast Edward Exeter and his blasted prophecies! Still, a man’s word was his bloody bond.
“Dommi?” he croaked.
Dommi took two fast steps to draw alongside, craning his neck to peer up at him from under the pack. “Tyika?”
“You know how to handle a sword.”
A worried frown disturbed Dommi’s honest freckles. “Is regretful, Tyika, that I have never had experience with weapons, excepting the short bow for bird-hunting and—”
“Don’t argue. You know how to handle a sword.”
“As the Tyika wishes.”
Dragons were hay-eating nightmares, a cross between a rhinoceros and the Loch Ness monster, but gentle, helpful creatures in spite of it, the only species capable of crossing from vale to vale without using the standard passes. Exeter had once referred to the dragon as the Rolls-Royce of Next-door, and Julian was looking forward to his first real chance to ride one. With his entourage at his heels, he strode into the center of group. Amid a crowd of freckled, lightly clad Carrots, Ursula was well bundled up in white fur with only her face visible. She looked as friendly as a rabid bulldog, and T’lin’s expression was equally hostile. They disapproved of Dommi’s costume.
“Morning all!” Julian chirruped. He jumped as the two youngsters’ packs hit the ground beside him, shaking the valley. Dommi lowered his more circumspectly. “You’re looking very charming this morning, Mrs. Newton, an Eskimo’s dream. Everything all ready to go there, Dragontrader?”
T’lin raised his massive arms to make the sign of the Undivided. “We are honored to serve, Holiness.”
“Rather! Well, sharp’s the word! Let’s get this stuff loaded, shall we? Then we can be on our way, what?”
“Captain,” Ursula growled, “what does this mean?” She spoke in English, aiming a loaded finger at Dommi.
“What? Dommi, you mean? Oh, need a valet. Can’t handle buttons and all that, you know.” Julian waved his right hand, making t
he fingers of his glove flap.
Her glower darkened perceptibly. “I am sure Dragontrader won’t mind helping you dress, Captain.” Was she implying that she would help him undress? From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggèd beasties…
“Humbug! Dommi’s an excellent cook, and I’m sure he can help out with the livestock too. Can’t you, Dommi?”
With great eagerness, Dommi said, “Indeed, Tyika, I had experience many years as a stripling here in the paddock, helping tending with the dragons.”
“There! That’s settled.” Julian turned away.
“No!” Ursula barked. “This is not a Sunday school picnic, Captain Smedley. We have only four mounts. Goober Dragonherder is a skilled swordsman. So is Seventy-seven, of course, but an additional guard will be invaluable. We won’t take any houseboys.”
The surrounding Carrots raised their pink eyebrows at her tone, although few of them would understand the words.
“Dommi can handle a sword. Can’t you, Dommi?”
Dommi favored Ursula with a gaze of earnest innocence, “Most assuredly, Entyika Newton, I was juvenile fencing champion of the village running three years in my youth, and my father sent me out to Randorvale to study with the noted blade-master—”
She uttered a snort that startled even the dragons. “Tell it to the marines, boy! We’re going to Joalvale. You’re going back to the kitchen. Now, Dragontr—”
“Joalvale, Entyika?” Dommi exclaimed. “But Tyika Kaptaan told me that Niolland would be your most primordial destination, because of the notorious prophecies.”
Tyika Kaptaan had said no such thing and wondered if he looked as surprised as Ursula did. Dommi glanced from one to the other, apparently worried that he might have revealed a confidence.
“Prophecies?” she demanded. “What prophecies?”
Totally at sea, Julian sighed. “Oh, go ahead, Dommi. You tell her.”
Domini beamed with innocent youthful pleasure at this honor and began to gabble. “Tyika Kaptaan explained to me, Entyika, how the words of the Filoby Testament can be construed to elucidate the route that Liberator must follow to reach his intended dread purpose in Thargvale, Entyika, which is where he must going be if the slaying of Zath is his object, which we are all knowing it is, yes? Likewise, Tyika Kaptaan was instructing me how there are eight references only to the Liberator and twelve to D’ward, whom we know to be the same with Tyika Kisster and also himself the Liberator, overlooking a few ambiguous abstrusenesses that may also refer but not specify by name, yes? And of the twenty, fifteen either specify a place or imply one, Tyika Kaptaan says.”
Julian wondered if perhaps he had not awakened at all and was dreaming this. In that case, why was Ursula gaping like a dead fish?
“Incontrovertible it is,” Dommi continued, flushed with excitement until his freckles hardly showed, “that numerous of these place-naming verses may be ordered so as to predict Tyika Kisster’s chosen path, and while it is not certain that he has already left Joalland, where he was observed in motion a half fortnight ago, Tyika Kaptaan pointed out that his chances of interception to the Liberator would be magnified by regressing this indicated itinerary backward, and consequently it will be advantageous to make progression directly to Niolvale—or perhaps Jurgvale, even—and retracing his tracks before he makes them.”
Ursula looked aghast at Julian. “Damn my eyes! You mean he isn’t just letting the prophecies happen, he’s going to fulfill them deliberately to prove he’s the bloody Liberator?”
“Well, surely that’s obvious, old girl?” It was obvious to Julian now that his bottle washer had pointed it out. Resourceful chap, Dommi, the perfect gentleman’s gentleman. Of course Exeter would make it his business to fulfill all the prophecies—half a Liberator would be no bally good to anyone. And of course he would have to do it in some sort of geographical order, and why the blazes had the Carrots worked that out before the votyikank did?
Ursula’s eyes burned dark with suspicion. “Why didn’t you mention this last night?”
Julian shrugged. “I assumed you could all see it as well as I could, old girl.” Nothing untrue there.
“Niolvale or Joalvale, wherever we’re going, we still only have four dragons.”
Not trusting his Joalian, Julian switched to Randorian, which he knew T’lin understood, and flourished his crispest military tone. “We’ll head for Niolland. Dommi, get our kit loaded.” Immediately a wave of gleeful Carrots swept through, bearing away all Julian’s baggage—and Dommi’s also, of course—to pack it in the dragons’ panniers. “I’m sure someone will turn up with another mount in a day or two, Dragontrader, and your man can follow us then.” Before anyone could argue further, he added, “Oh, and do get him to lend Dommi his sword, will you? No use taking along a first-class fencer without arming him.”
16
It was not Dosh’s fault—he could have gone on for hours and almost certainly escaped from Nosokvale, free and clear. The festering moa failed him in the night. Just where Ragpass widened out and merged with the foothills of Nosokslope, the brute began staggering, stumbling, and falling over things. Reluctantly, he rode off the trail and took refuge in a wood. There he unsaddled and hobbled her, then stretched out under a bush and slept.
By the time he awoke, it was well into morning. He ate his last scraps of food before doing battle with Swift, who was still lame and did not want to go adventuring again. When he returned to the trail, he saw at a glance that a company of moas had passed recently. If they weren’t the Joalian troopers, he was a virgin. He considered turning back and decided against it. He had no supplies, he was hungry, and he felt strongly disinclined to run into D’ward and his ragtag rabble again. More to the point, if the cavalry leader knew his business, he would have foreseen the possibility of the fugitive doubling back and left a squad behind to guard the pass.
So Dosh went on, riding down to Ragby, which was a sorry little excuse for a village. Nosokvale was a shoddy land altogether. It must have been fertile and prosperous once, for there were more ruins around than houses, but it was too close to Joalvale for its own health. The Clique and their friends had exploited it, evicting the inhabitants and setting up huge ranching estates. Amorgush owned great tracts of land in Nosokvale.
Knowing no back doors out, poor Dosh had no option but to head east to Lampass with all the speed he could force out of Swift, who no longer deserved her name. He was not so stupid as actually to go into Ragby itself, for the troopers would certainly have mentioned blood money in the village, but the nagging hunger in his belly forced him to stop at an isolated hovel and buy a meal. Either the old couple there betrayed him or he was just observed on the trail; Nosokflat was a tablecloth of grass with very little cover, and by noon Dosh knew he was being watched. He saw isolated riders tracking him in the distance—herders, probably, servants of the absentee landlords. No one was closing in on him, but he must assume that they had sent word ahead to the Joalians. He wondered if there was more than mortal justice hunting him now, if Kraanard’s murder had brought the wrath of the Lady upon him.
When pursuit became chase, he would have no chance at all. Most of the troopers’ moas must be as exhausted as his, but some of them would still be in working order. Reluctantly, he turned around and headed back. In an ironic echo of the previous day and at about the same time in the evening, he entered Ragpass from the opposite end, confident that he must have the same hunters on his trail again by now.
As the track wound up through the Nosokslope foothills, he began to see people, scores of people in small groups, all heading in the same direction he was. They could not be planning to cross Ragpass tonight, for already the grasping shadows of Nosokwall were reaching out over the landscape. Most were clearly local peasantry, the same sort of rabble that had been following D’ward from Joalland—looking even more impoverished and downtrodden. Others were astride llamas or rabbits or rode in carriages. Apparently, word of the Liberator’s arrival had preceded him, and the gen
try were also assembling to view the wonder.
Regrettably, he saw not one solitary moa to make his own less conspicuous. He went with the crowd, which merged with the tail end of the self-proclaimed Free coming down from Joalvale and then flowed off into a side canyon. There, obviously, D’ward had set up camp again, and so had his followers. Fires twinkled in the dusk. Dosh met tantalizing odors of cooking, noting that they were mostly associated with parked wagons or coaches and hobbled animals. Those must belong to Nosokians who had brought provisions, although some enterprising groups were selling meals from carts. What were those without money eating? Probably nothing. There were no berry bushes here—precious little of anything except grass and a few emaciated trees. He could hear children crying, but when did children not? Soon he drew near a steep hillside closing off the little valley. From the ruined walls of some ancient building at its base came the sound of many people singing. If they were singing for their supper, they would have to sing much louder than that.
His situation had improved very little. True, there must be three or four hundred pilgrims here to hide among. He could buy himself a meal from one of those entrepreneurs and pick out some respectable citizens to blandish with his polished charm. If that would not uncover a few temporary brothers or cousins to vouch for him, then his money should, provided the price on his head was not too high. The main thing would be avoid the notice of the Liberator and his—
“Dosh!”
Too late. The three men running toward him bore spears and circular Nagian shields. The big one in front was easily recognizable as Prat’ban Potter, and behind him came Gopaenum Butcher and Tielan Trader—all from Sonalby, all veterans of the Thargian campaign.
Dosh barked at Swift to crouch, and she seemed to collapse under him. He slid down from the saddle, not worrying about hobbling or tethering, for the brute was too spent even to try to bite him. Feeling just as weary himself, he leaned against her flank and waited for the warriors, wearing an unfamiliar sense of failure like a shroud. He had been in tight corners often enough in his life, but rarely had he lacked confidence in his ability to wriggle out again. Now he was too tired to run and could not hope to hide. These men had always despised him; now they could turn him in as soon as the troopers appeared. Here he was, with more money than he’d ever had in his life, trapped by idiots too stupid to be bribed.
