Future Indefinite

by Dave Duncan

  Dosh had heard it all before. “Time to take up your stations, sisters and brothers!” His helpers looked around in surprise, some of them seeming to start out of a trance. Then they scrambled to their feet and moved off in pairs.

  The Free had come to Niolvale. The sun was setting behind the ragged summits of Niolwall, painting the sky in lurid reds and orange, turning the leafless trees into arabesques of shadow and silhouetting the tall figure of the Liberator. He stood on one dominant rock with a thousand people huddled together on the grass below him, all spellbound. As he so often did, he had chosen a curious place to camp, a boulder-strewn slope. There was a much better site half a mile away, a level meadow alongside a river. Perhaps he had thought the noise of the water would drown out his preaching or that he would be less visible there.

  As soon as he finished, Dosh’s helpers would start moving through the throng, taking up the collection. Dosh had selected them all with care and always sent them out in pairs to keep watch on each other. He believed that nine tenths of the money the pilgrims contributed was being turned in as it should be. Set a thief to catch a thief! Tonight’s take should be better than usual, for a large part of the congregation were newcomers, Niolians who had heard of this latter-day legend and wanted to see him with their own eyes.

  Yes, the crowd had grown during the day. Just from where he stood, Dosh could tell that it was also becoming more varied. The ragtag poor were still there in droves—the old, the crippled, the penniless, women with too many babies, convicts snatched from the Rinoovale mines—but he could see sturdy, healthy farmers. He could see artisans and merchants from the city, escorting plump, well-dressed wives. Some had come by carriage or on rabbits. Mingled among them, of course, were the weird. Always the weird: the lost, the dreamers, the lonely, the failures, unworldly intellectuals, fanatics. Especially fanatics. At least ten members of the Free claimed to be reformed reapers who had been sent to collect the Liberator’s soul for Zath but had changed their minds when they came into his presence. In Dosh’s view those were the weirdest of the lot.

  Or perhaps the Niolian soldiers were. Of the troop that had so dramatically failed to stop the Free entering Rinoovale, almost half had then enlisted in it themselves. Most of them were more fanatic than anyone, even the Warband. At least the Warband mostly demonstrated its loyalty with actions, not floods of words, while the Niolian deserters went around all day babbling their wonderful new vision of life and the universe to anyone who would listen. They seemed to have a need to justify their change of allegiance to every mortal in the Vales. Or were they just trying to convince themselves?

  Most interesting at the moment was a nearby dozen or so men and women wearing the gold earring of the Church of the Undivided. They were taking a risk in flaunting their allegiance here in Niolland, but perhaps they felt safe within this multitude of heretics. Huddled in a circle on the grass, they were arguing in fierce whispers, and Dosh could guess why—the Liberator had his own brand of heresy. His theology was not Undivided orthodoxy. It was still all heresy to Dosh, though. He was D’ward’s friend and a senior helper, but he was not a believer, and if D’ward chose to change his dodge and start touting Gramma Oriilee’s homemade herbal impotence potion, that would be all the same to Dosh.

  “Now you have heard!” the Liberator proclaimed. “You have heard the truth, you have heard the call. Now is the moment when you must decide…”

  This was the finale. Many of the listeners would hurry home now, but some would adhere. More followers would need more to eat, and that also was Dosh’s responsibility. It was a sign of the Liberator’s continuing success that Dosh now needed assistants, and the Warband was run off its feet trying to keep so large a throng organized. Prat’han had begun enlisting locals to help with the crowd control. Niolvale was large and heavily populated; the numbers could only continue to grow in the next few days.

  Unless the queen intervened. Monarchs did not approve of mass gatherings raised by anyone but themselves. The court in Niol must be hearing tales of invasion and uprising, which it could never tolerate, and D’ward had not only spurned Elvanife’s warrant, he had subverted half her army. No official welcoming party had graced the mouth of Thadrilpass this morning as the Liberator led his band into Niolvale. There had been no phalanx of warriors, either. Possibly the military had learned its lesson, but more likely it just needed time to muster larger forces.

  The sharp swords shall drink, spilling blood into the sands. Young men leave their bones where the Liberator has passed.

  Who needed the dread forecasts of the Filoby Testament to know that trouble must be brewing? Think of the gods and the priesthood] So far they had ignored this rampant heresy, but he was preaching rank blasphemy not a dozen miles from the temple of Visek, greatest deity of all the Vales.

  The sermon ended as the Liberator touched his hands together overhead in the benediction of the Undivided. The crowd sighed like the sound of wind in a distant forest.

  Dosh’s bagmen moved in. He watched to make sure that they were following the drill D’ward had stipulated—no entreaties, no harassment. Just hold out the bags and keep smiling. If asked, explain that the money goes only to feed the pilgrims. Above all, give thanks for every coin, no matter how small. If offered only rags or scraps of food, accept them as gratefully. Strange man, D’ward!

  The Liberator departed, heading for his tent within a group of the Warband. The congregation was rising to its feet, stretching, muttering incredulously at what it had heard. Dosh was about to scramble up on a rock to gain a better view of his collectors, when he saw Prat’ban approaching, towering over heads.

  He waited.

  “What’re you grinning at?” he demanded.

  “You. You’re smiling.”

  Dosh was disconcerted. “What’s unusual about that?”

  “Lots. You never used to.”

  “Well, I’m planning to run off with the loot tonight.” He felt himself grin as widely as the big lout. “You think I’m lying?”

  “Not seriously.” The big man leaned on his shield and glanced around. He lowered his voice. “The Liberator wants you to meet him at the pulpit rock when Trumb rises.”

  An odd thrill of surprise. “Why?”

  “He didn’t say. Just you, so far as I know. Said to leave the purse with one of us.” Prat’han glanced down narrowly at Dosh; his mouth twisted. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high if I were you.”

  Dosh pulled back an angry retort as he noted the twinkle in Prat’ban’s eye and recognized that the mockery held no real intent to hurt. Even stranger, his own face returned the grin. “A man can dream, can’t he?”

  Prat’han laughed and jabbed a friendly punch at his shoulder, then turned and stalked away. Fornicating porcupines! Where had that big ox learned sympathy for others’ problems? Or had Prat’han developed a sense of humor? The Liberator had certainly taught him a thing or two.

  And Dosh also, perhaps. What did he want with him tonight?

  25

  “Nobody knows what’s happened to the Czar and his family,” Alice said. “The Bolsheviks have been running a reign of terror since the attempt on Lenin’s life last year, so they may well be dead. Britain and France have troops in the north and some in the south too. We’re very much afraid that we shall be drawn into the civil war in earnest.”

  Mr. Rutherford said, “Good God!” loudly. He was usually loud, a heavyset young man with the bemused air of a bull that genuinely liked china and wasn’t sure what he was doing wrong.

  All around the table, faces frowned at the terrible tidings from Home. Alice felt as if she had not stopped talking for three days. The newly returned Peppers were probably being subjected to the same intense interrogation, but their knowledge would be scanty compared to hers. The Olympians had an insatiable appetite for news of Home and accounts of the war. Their incredulous reaction to her stories made her appreciate how much the England and Europe they knew had changed.

  Realiz
ing that everyone else had finished the soup course, she set to work on hers hurriedly. Yet another dinner party! The faces and the houses varied, but she seemed to repeat the same words every night and all day too, on an endless circuit of dinners and tea parties. When she wasn’t being wined, dined, or pickled with what passed for tea here, she was being escorted around the station on sight-seeing strolls, answering interminable questions. A thousand times she had cursed Julian Smedley, who should have brought the Olympians up to date on events prior to his arrival in 1917; but Julian had been unable to talk about the war. He was over his battle fatigue now, she gathered, but every audience wanted her to start at the beginning, 1914, and deliver an intensive history lesson on the worst four years the world had ever known.

  She laid down her spoon. Footmen paced forward to remove soup bowls and serve the fish. Euphemia had described Olympus as an imitation outpost of Empire—Alice had not seen Euphemia since the day they arrived—and, yes, Olympus did bear a slight resemblance to Nyagatha, where she had spent most of her childhood, and even more to some of the neighboring stations that she had visited a few times. There were overtones of British India, which she could vaguely remember. The formal evening wear and the innumerable liveried servants were familiar, although the natives were as white as the sahibs.

  But there were differences also, not all of which she could quite identify. One was certainly the era. The residents seemed oddly old-fashioned, Edwardian or even Victorian. The women’s gowns were historical, the manners stilted. The wealth was overdone, too. Even in India, few Imperial Government officials would live as well as these people did, every one of them. They all seemed about the same age. Scanning the Chases’ dining room—“banquet hall” might be a better description—she could see no one she would classify as junior recruits and no middle-aged seniors either. It reminded her of a rugby club dinner that she had been taken to once, before the war.

  “Do tell us about these tank things!” demanded Prof Rawlinson from the far end of the table.

  Obediently, Alice began to talk about tanks and aeroplanes and poison gas. They were an unsuitable topic for polite dinner conversation, but she had been seated between Foghorn Rutherford and Pinky Pinkney, with Jumbo Watson opposite her. She was beginning to learn who turned knobs and pulled levers in Olympus, and she suspected those three intended to bring up the purpose of her being here: Edward. She did not want to talk about Edward.

  If this was a relaxing vacation, it had not achieved its purpose yet. She had been billeted on Iris Barnes, whose husband was off on the missionary circuit somewhere, enlightening the heathens. Iris was pleasant enough, in a prudish sort of way. Her house was extremely comfortable, although the walls were not totally soundproof and the lady entertained gentleman visitors at unconventional hours. No matter—the hospitality could not be faulted, and it was certainly pleasant to have an army of servants eagerly satisfying one’s slightest whim. But relax? No, not yet. The crossing had been a gruesome experience of massive disorientation, followed by nausea and muscle cramps. For the first couple of days Alice had hardly been able to stay awake, only to discover that she could not sleep at night. The chronic exhaustion that had burdened her since her bout of flu still oppressed her.

  The fish was delicious, a sort of trout. She was queried about food rationing in Britain. Red meat and red wine appeared. The wine had never known Bordeaux, but she had met worse. She was asked about the war in Palestine and the charismatic Colonel Lawrence. Then came the sweet, a berry tart with cream—she certainly should be able to recover the weight she had lost. It must be about time for the U-boats.

  No, not U-boats. Even before the footmen stepped back from the table, Mr. Pinkney said, “By the way, Mrs. Pearson, were you informed of the latest news about your cousin?”

  “No.”

  The room fell very still.

  “One of our agents arrived tonight. Just before dark. Exeter has left Joalvale by way of Ragpass, That is the story. He is in Nosokvale.” Pinky Pinkney was a quiet-spoken, rubbery man, whom Alice had already identified as one of the powers in Olympus. What his title was she did not know, but everyone else seemed to defer to him, even the resonant Foghorn Rutherford, who was official chairman of the committee that ran the Service—and whose tight-lipped expression hinted that this news was news to him too.

  She could feel all eyes upon her. “He is in good health?”

  “Oh, yes. Apparently. The news is a week or so old, of course. He is collecting quite a following.”

  Alice decided she did not like Mr. Pinkney, his silky, self-satisfied manner, or his center parting. She did not like his habit of smiling with his eyes closed, nor his bombshell public proclamations. To have passed on news of a missing relative in private would have been better form. If she did not like him, she need not pander to his feelings.

  “I never doubted he would.”

  Pinkney’s smile was as polished as the silverware. “Oh?”

  “Edward has always chosen his goals carefully and always achieved them.”

  “But what exactly is his goal this time, mm? This is what we should all like to know. You understand?”

  She shrugged. “I know no more than any of you, probably a lot less.” She caught her hostess’s eye. “This tart is delicious! What sort of fruit is it?”

  Mrs. Chase said, “Lobsterberry,” in very flat tones and without a smile.

  “It tastes much better than it sounds, then!” About to take another mouthful, Alice realized that everyone else was just watching. Pinky had the floor, and they were all waiting for him. He was apparently waiting for her. She put the fragment of pastry in her mouth anyway.

  “What we do not understand, Mrs. Pearson,” Pinky said, “and what we hope you may be able to explain to us, is why your cousin has declared war upon Zath. The so-called god of death. The self-proclaimed god of death, mm? He would have more luck trying to knock down the Tower of London with a crowbar. What he is attempting is certain suicide.”

  Appropriately, a small pink butterfly swooped a few times around the nearest candlestick and then plunged into the flame, vanishing in a brief flash. The dinner guests remained silent. They were all very solicitous about Edward’s well-being, all of a sudden.

  Alice swallowed her mouthful. “As I understand the matter, it was Zath who declared war on him, before he was even born. I don’t believe Edward would ever be suicidal, under any circumstances. He might undertake something extremely hazardous if he thought the stakes justified it.” She went on the offensive. “Explain to me how this mana affair works. I know that he can collect it from his followers and in large amounts it can act like magic. I know that Zath is supposed to have more of it than anyone else. Suppose Edward does challenge him to a duel? What happens? Do they toss thunderbolts at each other?”

  Pinkney frowned, drumming fingertips on the tablecloth. “Perhaps, if he ever got that far. Strangers have certainly slain natives that way. It is, however, extremely rare for one stranger to assault another directly. A duel, as you put it. I’m not sure I can truly answer your question.” He hesitated, then turned his head to peer along the table. “Prof? You’re our expert in such matters.”

  The one they called Prof was slender and sandy haired, with a pedantic, donnish manner. Alice had already decided he was no leader, for men would trust his memory and intellect but not his judgment. He gave the impression that he should be peering at the world through very thick glasses, yet none of the Olympians wore glasses. Now he brightened at this invitation to pontificate.

  “There isn’t much known, just hearsay. I doubt thunderbolts, because it would take as much power to throw one as it would to block one. Both sides would lose mana…. I’m assuming that the contestants are rather evenly matched, of course, which would not be the case here. I think it would be more like arm wrestling—they both push until one goes down. Then the loser is at the winner’s mercy.”

  Pinkney aimed an oily, I-told-you-so look at Alice. “One thing Za
th does not have is mercy.”

  No one was eating, all waiting for her reply. They wanted her to say something like, “Oh dear, then I had better go and find Edward and tell him to stop it at once.”

  She was damned if she would. Whatever he was up to, he would have calculated the odds, weighed the ethics, and made his decision in ice-cold blood. It was none of her business and she would not interfere.

  She spoke along the table to Prof Rawlinson. “How fascinating! Then where does the mana go? If I have—Say I have five pounds of mana, and you have seven, and I challenge you to a duel. Then you win, so I have none left and you have two? Pounds of mana, that is.”

  Prof blinked a few times. “No, I don’t think so. I think you have none and I have twelve.”

  That remark elicited a few surprised glances.

  The foghorn boomed out again. “Really? You sure of that, old man?”

  “Fairly sure.”

  “Dammit! So Exeter is not just likely to die, he’s liable to make Zath stronger than ever?”

  Pinkney also seemed to doubt. “How can you know that?”

  Prof shrugged. “I told you it was hearsay. Don’t think of it as arm wrestling, then. Think of a tug-of-war. Winner gets the whole rope. It’s the Great Game!” he protested, apparently feeling his word was being doubted.

  Alice detected an open goal and kicked. “Well, you admit you are not sure. Perhaps Edward knows something you don’t?”

  That remark provoked an ovation of sniffs and stuffy looks. The diners turned their attention to the lobsterberry tart.

  “I think Prof is correct!” The voice came from a striking blond woman sitting across from him. Alice searched for the name…. Olga somebody. “Years ago one of Tion’s flunkies changed sides, and Tion turned on him. He bragged to me afterward that he had sucked the bastard dry.”

  This time the disapproval was even more general. Alice wondered why, and tried another broadside. “Tion’s the one they call the Youth? I didn’t realize that you were on social terms with the opposition.”