by Dave Duncan
Julian arrived in the company of Dommi, Garhug’n Papermaker, Garhug’n’s wife, and their three children, the youngest being around four. Garhug’n spoke a Joalian that Julian found intelligible—most of the time. He had recounted at length how they had been returning home to Niol from visiting his elderly mother, how they had seen the unexpected assembly at the mouth of Thadrilpass the previous evening, how they had stopped to listen to the Liberator’s sermon, how their eyes had been miraculously opened to the truth. Garhug’n had at once decided to follow the Liberator, bringing his family with him. He was floating on a cloud of religious ecstasy. His mousy, unassertive wife looked worried out of her mind. The children were muddy, hungry, tired, and bewildered.
The first guard was a stocky young man with dark hair and beard. His skin had been burned to walnut by the sun, about the color a Spaniard or a high-caste Hindu might be, had either ever condescended to live outdoors in a leather loincloth. His spear was a wrist-thick pole about six feet long, topped with a shiny metal blade that looked both sharp and deadly. He bared an excellent set of snow-white teeth in a cheerful smile and recited a formula greeting in the pidgin Joalian that served as lingua franca of the Vales.
“The Liberator will preach tonight at Shuujooby. Food will be available. Please move on and let him rest. The blessings of the Undivided be with you.”
Garhug’n complied immediately, chiding his youngest to stop that wailing, urging the rest of his family along.
Julian returned the smile. “He will wish to see me. We are old friends. If he is asleep, of course—”
The smile shrank. “Move along please, brother.”
“I assure you that I have known the Liberator since boyhood and he will be very pleased to see me.” Julian took a step forward and found his way blocked by a large bullhide shield.
The teeth above it were no longer smiling. “Move along, I said.”
Julian was momentarily shocked speechless. Even at Home, a former army officer could expect to bluff his way past a naked savage without raising more than an eyebrow. On Nextdoor his charisma ordinarily gave him the persuasive power of a charging tank.
“Now look here, my good man—”
The guard twirled his spear around in his fingers as if it were a twig and rammed the metal blade into the ground at Julian’s toes. He jumped back instinctively, bumping into Dommi.
“Tonight, in the ruined temple at Shuujooby.” The guard pulled his spear free and aimed the point at Julian’s belt. His teeth smiled again. His eyes did not.
Another Nagian, if that was what they were, strolled over to reinforce him. He was considerably larger. Saint Kaptaan’s charisma was not going to work here. These warriors had been exposed too long to Exeter’s, and he had left orders.
Dommi cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed, in English: “Tyika Kisster! It is me, Dommi Houseboy, from Olympus!”
The warriors frowned at each other, momentarily nonplussed. The first raised his spear as if he were about to use it as a club; the second snapped a word and stopped him.
Julian drew himself up, although he could not meet the taller one eye to eye. “Go and inform the Liberator that Kaptaan Smedley and—”
A voice called out from the bushes, not fifty feet away. It began, “Domini?” and then became unintelligible. Whatever the language, the guards reacted and Domini seemed to understand. With an enormous grin, he hitched his pack higher on his back and plunged into the undergrowth. The guards made no move to stop him.
Julian took half a step and was again blocked by a shield of wood and bullhide.
“You were not summoned.”
Ridiculous! Absurd! That had been Exeter himself calling. So now Julian was going to have to yell out his name also, hawking like a bloody peddler selling fish? He would be damned first. The alternative was obviously just to cool his heels here on the road, and that was almost as bad. He felt his temper rising. He wished he had a store of mana, as Ursula and the others did. It would not take much to jerk these flunkies’ chains, but his magical resources were precisely zero. Dommi would presumably inform Exeter that he was here right away.
Or very soon.
The warriors were starting to grin.
“Move along, please,” said the taller in the exact tone used by London bobbies.
An instant before Julian began bursting blood vessels, Exeter’s voice called out again.
The guards stepped aside at once.
“The Liberator summons you!” snapped the big one. “Move!”
For a moment Julian was tempted to tell them that Edward Bloody Exeter could come and deliver the invitation in person, but then common sense prevailed. He stalked into the bushes with as much dignity as he could muster, going where Dommi had gone.
The ground dipped abruptly to a small pond. Shrubs overhanging a low wall of rock threw narrow shade on a sandy beach, where a dozen or so of the Nagians were relaxing, some sitting up, alert, others lying down and apparently snoozing, although they all had their spears within reach. In the middle of the group, Dommi was on his knees with his pack beside him, chattering excitedly to Edward Exeter. Julian scrambled down the little slope and picked his way over outstretched brown legs. He sensed a faint tremor of virtuality. This snug retreat was a very minor node.
The Liberator wore a gray robe, which might be uncomfortably warm in the sticky heat but would at least keep the sun off. He had the cowl back, revealing a shock of wavy black hair in desperate need of a barber. He was jabbering at Dommi, the two of them grinning and talking all over each other like bosom friends, but speaking Randorian so fast that Julian could make out little except proper names. Seemingly Exeter was being brought up to date on events in Olympus since he had left. Almost all the names being bandied to and fro were names of Carrots, not strangers.
For a moment neither paid any heed at all to Julian standing over them. Then Exeter looked up. His brilliant blue eyes studied the newcomer warily before his mouth quirked in a smile.
“Dr. Livingstone, I presume? Or is that your line?”
Feeling oddly at a loss, Julian said, “Cheers!”
“Good to see you, old man.” Exeter reached up a hand to shake. “’Scuse me if I don’t leap up, won’t you?”
His eyes were bloodshot and sunken. His beard was better trimmed than his hair, but the cheeks above it seemed pale below their tan. His feet were bandaged—just like those of the blond man they had seen earlier who had claimed to have visited Niol last night….
Julian sank down on one knee and accepted the shake with his right hand. Exeter had momentarily forgotten, obviously. He reacted with shock. Then he kept hold of Julian’s flipper while he inspected it.
As he let go, he smiled approvingly. “Bloody good show! Nextdoor agrees with you, I’d say.”
“It’s an improvement.” Julian sat down, crossing his legs and pushing Dommi’s pack out of the way. “What the blazes is the matter with you, though?”
Exeter shrugged. “Too many late nights.” He yawned, and then yawned again, even longer.
Assume a man walked all day, day in, day out. Assume he left his followers one evening and went on foot to Niol and back…. Any man might justifiably look all-in after thirty hours on the road. But Exeter was not any man. He was the Liberator.
He was also memories—school days at Fallow in the golden glow of youth, the too-brief trip to Paris that the War had cut short, the frantic few days in 1917 when Julian Smedley had rescued him from a mental ward and he had opened the door to another world for Julian Smedley and thereby saved his sanity. Was that still less than two years ago?
Julian pulled himself together. “No mana?”
“Not just at the moment. So it was you they sent. I rather expected Jumbo or Pinky.” There were questions hidden in that remark, questions about loyalty and old friendship.
Why had Julian ever promised not to mention Ursula?
“They asked me to come and find out what you’re up to.”
“And Entyika Newton also,” Dommi said quietly.
Whoops!
Exeter compressed his lips so that they vanished briefly between beard and mustache. He said, “A formidable lady, Mrs. Newton, as I recall.” Again there were hidden queries in that steady stare.
Relieved that the cat was out of the bag—although he would not use those exact words to Ursula—Julian said, “Ursula will be waiting for you—us—at Shuujooby.”
The reply was another cavernous yawn, which effectively masked any reaction the information might have produced.
Damnation! Exeter must have been collecting mana these last few weeks. He should be able to banish his fatigue and heal the blisters with a snap of his fingers. Surely he could not have been crazy enough to squander it all on fancy miracles to impress the peasants? Or had he spent it fighting reapers?
Ursula would see right away that he was vulnerable. She would eat him alive. The toughs with their spears and shields would be no defense against her, for Exeter would order them all to go home, dismiss his crusade, and follow her back to Olympus like a pet dog. Hell!
No mana at all? Had it been stolen from him?
“I understand you dropped in on friend Visek last night.”
“Oh, blast!” He rubbed his eyes wearily. “How did you hear about that?”
Touched a nerve, have we? “A little bird told me.”
The warriors sprawled nearby were frowning at their inability to understand the conversation, but Dommi knew English. He was gazing at Exeter with idiotic adoration. “We overheard a fair-haired man narrating this incident, Tyika. He had sore feet likewise.”
Exeter said, “Thanks!” without taking his eyes off Julian, and smothered another yawn. “Remind me to invent taxicabs sometime. Yes, it’s true. His name’s Dosh Envoy. I should have told him to keep his mouth shut. He usually makes oysters sound like starlings.”
“He was babbling brookily this morning. So is Visek male or female?” Julian could win a sizable bet or two in Olympus with that information. Even Olga claimed not to know for certain.
“They’re both—Jack and Jill. So where’s Mrs. Newton?”
Julian’s gaze wandered to the brown-leathery hills, which must be five miles away now, or more. From this distance, bluish ice-clad crags showed above them. “Riding around.”
“Who else is with her?”
“Just T’lin Dragontrader. We came to—”
“That’s all right then. Good.”
“What do you mean, ‘good’?”
A gleam showed in the tired cornflower-blue eyes. “I mean T’lin’s dragons can probably outrun Queen Elvanife’s moas, as long as he doesn’t wander too far into the plains.”
It was Julian’s turn to jump. This was the meanest game of verbal tennis he’d played in years. “That’s why you left two of your Trojans up a tree? You blocked the road with disciples and forced them to go around another way?”
“I detect the mind of a professional strategist.”
Which was no answer. Julian shrugged. “There’s a nasty prophecy about young men’s bones in Niolland.”
Exeter nodded, stretched his arms, yawned some more. He glanced briefly at his entourage, smiled at Dommi, turned his calculating gaze on Julian again. “Time to hit the road. It would be gentlemanly to be there to greet Mrs. Newton when she arrives, wouldn’t it?”
Julian rolled a few curses around in his head. He had promised not to issue any warnings…. If only Exeter didn’t look so damned played out…Hell! He could drop a hint. “Why don’t you take a break, old man, and go on tomorrow, when you’re fresher?”
Exeter seemed to understand, because his smile depicted gratitude like an illuminated vellum scroll. Then he shook his head. “I’d best be on my way. I’m expecting a squad of Niolland’s finest, and it wouldn’t be fair to let them run into Ursula without warning them, would it? Tell me, is it only Mrs. Newton I have to fear, or have the others loaded her up with their mana, too?”
Julian gaped. “Is that possible? You can give mana to someone?”
“Yes, it’s possible. That’s how the little gods pay their dues to the Five.” He reached stiffly for his sandals, and his bodyguard scrambled to their feet, even the ones that had seemed to be asleep. “There’s a whopper of a node at Shuujooby. I want to get there before the troopers do.”
A node would be a fortress for him, but only if he had a store of mana to exploit it. Julian had no mana either, so he couldn’t help, whatever happened.
30
Exeter limped back to the road, obviously finding walking an ordeal. His praetorians fussed around him like mother hens, but he ignored them, pulling up his cowl to hide his face. They would gladly have carried him shoulder-high, of course, but what sort of prophet would he seem then? Soon he called Dommi to his side. The road was narrow and crowded again, now that the sun was past its height, so Julian found himself excluded, walking behind his own houseboy and hemmed in by the armed escort like a felon being led to the gallows.
He tried to make conversation with the spear carriers on either side of him, but he could understand little of their heavily accented Joalian. They were loathe to speak with him anyway, being uncertain just who he was or how their leader regarded him. The red-haired one was obviously the boss’s favorite.
Julian had made no progress with Exeter so far. He still had no idea why the man had changed his mind about the Filoby Testament, nor did he know what could be done about Ursula. He had been expecting to find the Liberator all charged up with mana, capable of at least putting up a fight. Watching the gray-robed figure striding along in front of him, though, he could see charisma at work. Even though they were not on a node, Exeter was bearing himself straighter already, drawing strength from the devotion of his bodyguard and the adoring pilgrims he passed. That would doubtless carry him as far as Shuujooby. It wouldn’t help much with Ursula, or Queen Elvanife’s lancers either.
For a sweaty, mosquito-laden hour, they trudged through the swamp, looping around toward the rocky gullies of Niolslope again. Finally Exeter remembered his manners. Leaving Dommi to walk alone, he dropped back to partner Julian.
“Dommi tells me the war is over.” He looked fitter than before, his blue eyes twinkling again. Perhaps he felt better able to battle wits.
“Apparently. The Huns lost. We haven’t heard much detail yet.” Julian told what he knew, marveling how little it touched him now. He rarely even dreamed of the hell he had known in Flanders anymore. “And you’ve started another,” he concluded. “Another war, I mean.”
“Dear me! The Service is upset?”
“Very. When they hear how you’re changing their doctrine, they’ll all spit fire and brimstone.”
“Their own fault for inventing the demons. What sort of religion is based on lies and slander?”
“Try telling that to Ursula.”
Exeter did not answer. His cowl concealed his face. He had been a devilish-good bowler back at Fallow, never much of a batsman. When he was on bat, he had consistently stonewalled. He had not lost that ability, for he now proceeded to stonewall every question Julian threw at him.
“You don’t hand out gold earrings to your converts?”
“Ain’t got no gold.”
“But you’ve imported baptism!”
“Water’s cheap.”
“I suppose every cult needs some sort of initiation,” Julian mused. “And circumcision would be messy?”
Exeter shuddered. “Please!”
“So you went into partnership with the Pentatheon?”
“They’re not all monsters.”
“And they deal with any reapers Zath sends after you?”
“They have so far.”
If the Five were frightened of upstart Zath, they might accept the Liberator as an ally or use him as a stalking horse, although only a congenital idiot would ever trust any of them. What promises had Exeter made to win that cooperation? How long a spoon was he using? How far had he bent hi
s principles? To ask those questions would be to end the conversation and trample the fragile reawakening of friendship.
“I thought Zath was stronger than any of them, perhaps even stronger than the whole caboodle?”
Exeter shrugged. “Who knows? Who can possibly know, without trying? No one plays the Great Game with his cards showing.”
Julian persisted. “So why doesn’t he come and get you, now that he’s aware where you are?”
“You’re the military man. You send out skirmishers and they fail to return. Do you march your whole army after them?”
“No. I send a stronger force to reconnoiter.”
“I expect he’ll get around to that.” Reapers were only natives, enslaved by mana. They were armed with rituals that could direct the power of their god, but all their strength came from Zath himself.
“If he sends that stronger force, will you be able to detect them? Will the spells show?”
Exeter took a while to reply. Julian could not tell whether he was thinking over the question or just delaying.
“If I have mana of my own, I may be able to detect them.”
“Why don’t you have any mana now?”
“Used it up.”
“Doing what? Turning rods into serpents?” He knew he was prying dangerously, but he got a civil enough answer.
“Running. I did heal an injured ankle, but it was on Visek’s node.”
“Why did that matter?”
“All the witnesses were Visek’s clergy. They gave all the credit to Visek.”
“You’ll gain some back tonight, when you preach at Shuujooby?”
“Hope so.”
Ursula might get to him before he even opened his mouth, unless Julian himself could distract her somehow. To a large extent, mana was its own fertilizer, like money—the more one had, the easier it was to gain more. Physical exhaustion was not the best state in which to preach a religious revolution. Bloody idiot!
