Future Indefinite

by Dave Duncan

  Dosh realized it was intended for him. He also realized that the other four were not rowing, they were frantically fending off logs, ice, and other debris, using the oars as poles. Both ends of the boat were pointed; he was at the stern. A shower of spray half blinded him. The thwart tried to buck him overboard.

  “Speak slowly!” he said and repeated it in Lemodian, which he had learned in bed from Anguan, four years ago.

  One of the sweating troopers knew enough Lemodian to swear in it vividly. He concluded his invective with, “You want us to sink?”

  Dosh turned his attention to the river. It was a ghastly heaving soup pot of black water, surging in glistening waves, frothing and juggling tree trunks, many of which were bigger than the boat, some still furnished with branches and roots. Uphill one minute, downhill the next. They wanted a lookout? No. When a trooper kicked a wooden bucket at him, he realized they wanted him to bail. He should have known not to expect charity from Thargians.

  He reached for the bucket and promptly tipped headlong into the bilge and a melee of struggling men. Spluttering and cursing he sat up, edged back out of the crew’s way, and began to bail.

  He bailed until his arms were ready to fall out of their sockets, until the night became a nightmare of bailing. The ancient cockleshell sprang more leaks with every impact. Bilge surged back and forth, drenching him. One moment he was half afloat, the next he thudded down on the boards again, and then another wave would throw him over backward against the thwart.

  Mestwater flowed into Saltorwater which flowed into Mid’lwater which flowed into Thargwater, spreading out to a great width, drowning fields and forests. The current seemed just as fast, if a little smoother. Collisions became less frequent—fortunately so, because the little craft was steadily settling lower in the water. The troopers began using their oars more for rowing and less for fending, struggling to keep the waterlogged boat in the main channel, away from the half-submerged trees and fences that marked its normal banks.

  Dosh’s cramped muscles moved more and more slowly. The bilge grew deeper, tipping the boat as it surged. Eventually one of the Thargians snatched the bucket away from him and started throwing water overboard at three times the rate Dosh had been managing. He hauled himself up on the thwart out of the way and curled into a knot to try and get warm.

  The first light of morning was brightening the sky now, but a mist was rising from the river. A bridge came hurtling out of the fog. The sergeant screamed orders. Oars creaked in the oarlocks. The boat wallowed sideways, straightened, and hurtled between two piers on a long spout of water. The underside of the bridge shot over their heads with inches to spare, and they plunged down into foam. For minutes it seemed they must founder. Dosh clung to the gunwale to avoid being washed overboard. Then the man with the bucket gained on the flood and the boat was still floating. Another man took over the bailing.

  Soaked and shivering, Dosh peered out at the ghostly fog and wondered about escape. The troopers were shouting and pointing, identifying landmarks. Obviously they were very close to Tharg itself now, but they were also very close to sinking. If they decided to lighten the boat, Dosh knew what they would throw overboard first. The water was running very close to the top of a levee, well above the countryside beyond. Vague shapes of trees and buildings loomed out of the murk and then vanished again.

  The troopers were as exhausted as he was. The sergeant’s yells grew louder and more urgent. The two men still rowing strained to obey and the helmsman leaned on a third oar, but their efforts had no effect. The irresistible river swept them straight for a levee—steep, muddy, and partially undercut, so that great trees had canted outward and overhung the water or floated in it like booms, still anchored by a few roots. The boat struck just upstream, stabbing into the mud, tipping perilously. The current spun the stern around into a tangle of branches and twigs, slapping and cracking over them. The Thargians threw themselves flat. As the boat began to pick up speed again, Dosh saw a thick trunk across his path and stood up.

  The impact winded him, doubling him over. He scrabbled with frozen fingers as someone’s head knocked his feet from under him. Then he was sprawled over the log and the boat had gone. His perch trembled ominously; black water raced past underneath him. He managed to get a leg up and lay there, nauseated and shivering, but safe from the Thargians.

  The tree creaked and shuddered as more roots pulled free. He worked his way in along the trunk to the bank and clambered up to a footpath. The river raced by below him, and all the rest of the world was washed away to shadows by white mist. Deathly cold had seeped into his bones and his whole body was shaking. He must keep moving or freeze. He removed his boots to get the water out of them, then found his fingers were too stiff to retie the laces properly. Letting the boots flap, he began to jog. By the time he realized that he was heading toward Tharg, he had gone too far to think of turning back.

  Besides, he probably had more chance of finding some food and shelter in the city than in the country. And there was D’ward. Unless his boat’had sunk, he was probably in Tharg now, perhaps already confronting Zath. When the prophecy was fulfilled, he might have a moment for Dosh.

  D’ward was his only hope. The Free assumed he had betrayed the Liberator. Why in the world would he ever do such a thing—for money? That was infinitely unfair, because it had been a Joalian’s offer of thirty silver stars to betray the Liberator that had led Dosh to him in the first place. He hadn’t taken that money, so why would he have changed his mind after all that D’ward had done for him? He must find D’ward to clear his name.

  Tired, cold, starving, he staggered on as well as he could, muttering prayers through chattering teeth. As the day brightened, the fog grew thicker not thinner. Nothing was clear or solid anymore. His repentance had brought him no better luck than his former sins.

  He met no one on the path; he seemed to inhabit a ghost world all his own. AH the friends he had cherished would be against him now; he was a traitor to the Free and a heretic to the Thargians. The track became a road, then a street. His story was repeating itself. Four years ago he had come to Tharg with the Liberator. Then the ephors had been planning to execute poor old Golbfish, thinking he was the Liberator, and D’ward had wanted to take his place on the anvil. The Man himself had stepped in to stop him throwing his life away. Golbfish had died anyway, fulfilling the prophecy: “Shame! Shame! To the Man goeth D’ward, saying, Slay me! The hammer falls and blood profanes the holy altar. Warriors, where is thine honor? Perceive thy shame.”

  Now D’ward was again coming to Tharg…. Had he planned this? He might have done. He had warned Dosh of the dangers of those orders, so he must have had an idea of what was going to happen. Would Karzon interfere again? But D’ward wasn’t asking to be slain this time, was he? Or was he?

  Which visit had been prophesied?

  Ugly, ugly city! Narrow streets, houses like fortresses with barred windows and armored doors. The fog didn’t really help, it just laid a wet dreariness over everything. Cheerless, gloomy place! Very few women to be seen, just smoothfaced, grim-faced Thargian men. Every one of them bore a sword, for only slaves went unarmed. They all wore the same brief tunics they wore in summer, scorning to cover their legs. Drab, brown colors. Drab, brown city. Fog.

  Where to go? Dosh slunk from doorway to doorway, careful not to antagonize those strutting warriors, not even by meeting their eyes. He knew no one in Tharg. He did know where the Tinkerfolks’ hole was, but anyone there would likely be some of old Birfair’s band, and they would cut out poor Dosh’s liver before he could speak a word. He doubted he could make it that far in any case. If he did not eat soon, he would faint. If he fainted, he would be thrown in the river or slapped into a chain gang.

  “I see you made it.” Tion was dressed like a Thargian youth, but only just, because his buttercup tunic was indecently skimpy and practically unlaced, while his soft leather half boots barely covered his ankles. The rapier at his belt, in contrast, reached almo
st to the cobbles. The too-beautiful face wore an authentic-seeming Thargian sneer.

  Dosh leaned against a doorpost and shivered. The street rocked, wet clothing clung lankly to his skin. “Where is D’ward?”

  “He’s presently standing trial for blasphemy against the beloved gods.”

  “And what’s going to happen next?”

  “Well, he’s not being very cooperative. I’ll bet he’ll be acquitted if you’ll give me ten million to one.” Tion simpered.

  “And then?”

  Mist swirled along the alley. The Youth moved closer, but grew no more solid. He draped an elbow against the wall and smiled down at Dosh. “You know the Thargians. A court can impose capital punishment for public farting if it wants to. They’ll smash his brains out in the temple, right in front of Zath’s statue.”

  “You, boy!” A burly Thargian had stopped in front of Tion.

  Tion raised his classic eyebrows. “Warrior? How may I serve you?” He did not move from his languid posture against the wall.

  “Fasten that tunic! It’s indecent to expose yourself like that!”

  “Oh, dear!” Tion sighed. “That is the whole idea. Do go home and disembowel yourself, Warrior.”

  The Thargian saluted smartly. “At once, Warrior!” He turned and hurried back the way he had come.

  Tion shrugged. “Now, Dosh, darling, where were we?”

  “D’ward came here to kill Zath!”

  “So he did. And Zath is definitely going to die. He doesn’t know it yet, but he is. Probably. He has become a serious nuisance. The problem is that D’ward is going to die too.”

  “No!”

  “I’m afraid so, Dosh. It’s a shame, don’t you think? He’s such a nice boy! But he’s much too dangerous for the Pentatheon to let him live. He’s too good at the Game! Why, in only four fortnights, he’s managed to outmaneuver Zath himself, the greatest player of us all. Who knows what he might try next? D’ward must die, dearest!”

  “No!”

  The sorcerer displayed a hint of interest. “No? I promised ever so faithfully that I would not try to rescue him. I should hate to break my word on that, Dosh!”

  Dosh shuddered. To trust Tion was insanity. He was total evil. He did not know what truth or fair-dealing were. “Can you rescue him?”

  “Probably not. It would be very tricky. But if I were to try…What would it be worth to you, Dosh dear?”

  “Anything! What do you want—my soul? My body?”

  “I’ll decide that later,” Tion said. “How about your life?”

  “Yes!”

  “My goodness! Love is a beautiful thing.” The sorcerer held out a slender hand.

  Dosh took it in his own, which Tion raised to his lips.

  “Well, we’ll see what we can do. It certainly won’t be easy. I only say I’ll try, not that it’ll work. Now why don’t you run on up to the temple and find a good spot to watch the proceedings? Close to the altar at Zath’s end would be best. Very close. The crowds are starting to move already, so you’ll have to hurry.”

  “You’re coming?” Dosh demanded suspiciously.

  “Not just yet. It would not be wise for me to come too close yet. But I do hope to see you there, love.” A pained expression…“Trust me, Dosh! I haven’t told you a lie yet. Not recently, anyway. Off with you now!”

  History repeating…Isn’t this the same trench of a street he came along four years ago? Then, too, he was following D’ward. The crowds were thicker then, but there are crowds now—a crackle of excitement in the air, people heading for the temple…Do they know of the Liberator, or does any public execution bring out the vultures? There is the Convent of Ursula, with the festoon of blue net over the door, unchanged. So much else has changed in four years. Here D’ward had brought Ysian. Oh, Ysian, little firecat, it was your death that roused him!

  Crowd’s growing thicker, almost no women. Yes, jostle me, see if I care. Draw your swords, it hardly matters now. All this swirling fog, is it real or is poor Dosh faint? People recoiling off him in disgust because his clothes are wet. The great square, with men hurrying across it like scurrying bugs. The huge pillars of the temple, tops almost hidden in the fog, giant granite cage, ugliest building in the world.

  Cold, oh so cold. Poor Dosh. Is there any warmth left in the world? Has there ever been warmth since he left Amor-gush’s bed? Climbing the steps. Passing between two great plinths. The temple floor packed already, a-buzz with whispers…Karzon…

  Zath…

  The Man, taller than a tree, green-stained copper. The mighty bearded face with its hooked nose—a fair likeness—the hammer clutched against the brawny chest in two hands, the draperies of his wrap exquisitely rendered by the great K’simbr Sculptor, trailing from the belt to the ground to support the weight, one foot forward, one shin bare. A noble work.

  Turn, damn it, turn! Look at the other end of the great rectangle. The matching colossus in blackened silver, swathed in a cowled robe, one hand holding a marble skull…stooped, head bent, looking down on the altar. Splendid evil.

  Shivering, teeth chattering, must go to that end, must meet Tion. Drums starting, crowd reacting, announcement coming. People don’t like wet bodies against them, edge aside, let me through, not enough room to draw swords, ignore the looks, the oaths, the jabbing elbows. Getting closer.

  The altar is an anvil, set on the plinth, a black altar, or is it all old blood? Coming to the edge of the steps, crowd jam-packed, unwilling to be pressed up onto the steps, closer to that awesome, dread god. Go on, look! Look up at the face of Death.

  No, no!

  Don’t look again. Men coming out, priests coming out, coming around the base of the silver statue, soldiers. D’ward, bound, limp, bloody. What have they done to him? Roll of drums. Silence, hushed, pregnant. White fog, black fog. Is it only the crowd swaying or the temple? Proclamation.

  “In the name of the ephors and people of Thargland, in the name of the Man, the heretic D’ward is convicted of blasphemy and condemned to die on the anvil. To the glory of Zath, the Last Victor, so be it.”

  Rumble. Whispers. Where is Tion? Can’t see Tion. They have D’ward on the anvil. The masked executioner with the hammer. Coming forward. Where is Tion?! He tricked me. D’ward prone on the great anvil. Is he even conscious? They’ve beaten him. Can’t fight Zath if he isn’t conscious. So tiny below that titan. Evil, evil. Black fog swirls. White fog swirls. Executioner coming forward. Up, D’ward! Arise. Rise up like a giant, a giant of fog. Grapple with him. Choke him. White fog, black fog. Don’t He there waiting for the hammer! Rise as the Liberator, great as the One God. Tower over the temple, D’ward. Awe the crowds, D’ward. Seize the monster Zath. Crush him. Strangle him. Feel the ground sway. Hear the people cry. Help him, God. You are mightier, greater. Stand tall, D’ward. Fulfill the prophecy. Reveal the Liberator. Come, brothers, save him from the anvil. Leave him not there as the hammer falls. Cry out. Cry out. Let Karzon come striding over the multitude. Let Visek appear white as fog bright as sun through cloud…. They come. They come. See Eltiana red as blood, see blue Astina and her sword of justice. Shake the pillars. Heed the cries of the people, God. Zath trembles. He’s failing. It’s not enough…. Where is Tion? Where is the Youth? He needs you, Tion. Come now, Tion. Save him, Tion. Don’t let him die, Tion. If you want me I am yours, Tion. Anything anything…Help him, Tion! Save him.

  IX

  We can see why throughout nature the same general end is gained by an almost infinite diversity of means, for every peculiarity when once acquired is long inherited, and structures already modified in many different ways have to be adapted for the same general purposes.

  Charles Darwin,

  The Origin of Species

  61

  Tiny flames flickered in the dry grass, stroked the shreds of bark, grew taller and braver, and reached up for the twigs. Alice blew. The bark began to burn hotter, brighter. She laid a thicker twig across the logs, then another. The fire uttered a crackle
like a baby’s first cry, and she sat back on her heels to admire her handiwork. There was something very satisfying in building a fire this way, much more satisfying than putting a sixpence in a gas meter. It came with the world. She began building a castle of thin branches. That should keep it going until she returned. Beyond the high and narrow windows, clouds blushed red in a winter sunset.

  She stood up to survey her day’s work. This chamber was now the refectory, by decree of Eleal Highpriestess, and for the time being would also serve as chapter house. It was a mess, but this morning it had been a disaster. The floor lacked so many of its tiles that not all Alice’s hours of sweeping and scrubbing had made it look clean. Half the plaster had fallen off the rough stone walls; what was left resembled mange. The men had brought in four benches and a couple of tables they had found upstairs, badly worm eaten but apparently safe enough to use. Well, it wasn’t the Savoy, but it beat camping in the woods. She hoped the chimney was not plugged with birds’ nests.

  Now for the little ritual she had promised herself. She walked out the door and along the corridor. Here the filth had been swept to the sides, leaving a narrow path in the center, but tomorrow or the next day it would be cleaned out properly. She passed the chapel, hearing a murmur of voices from Eleal and a translator as Br’krirg and some of his people received instruction. Someone—almost certainly Tittrag Mason—was chopping wood in the courtyard beyond, clearing out the firetrap. If the monotonous thumping did not bother Eleal, then it should not bother Alice. She peered morosely at the blisters on her palms. They were taking a long time to turn into calluses.