by Dave Duncan
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Edward said. Balanced precariously on one foot and his crutches, he was shaking so violently that he was frightened he might fall, and the thought was terrifying.
“By Jove!” Creighton said. “The man looks all in. Couldn’t you have made things easier for him, sir?”
Mr. Oldcastle thumped the ferrule of his walking stick on the granite step with a sharp crack. “I have already expended resources I would fain husband!”
Creighton’s reaction was surprising. As a class, Anglo-Indian officers were self-assured in the extreme, yet he recoiled from the little old civilian’s testiness. “Of course, sir! I meant no criticism. You know we are extremely grateful for your assistance.”
“I know it not, sirrah, when you presume so.” Then came the familiar dry chuckle. “Besides, I let him demonstrate his mettle. He tests an admirable temper in the forge.”
“I expect he does,” Creighton said offhandedly. “But he cannot cross over with that leg.”
“It shall be attended to, Colonel.”
“Ah!” Creighton brightened. “Very generous of you, sir. Well, lean on me, lad. We’d best get you out of here, since you obviously can’t go back.”
Edward could tell he was not welcome, but that was hardly surprising. War or not, there was going to be a hue and cry after him very shortly. “I have no desire to cause trouble, sir.”
“You already have. Not your fault. And my esteemed friend here has made a good point. I know spunk when I see it. Just what I would expect of your father’s son. Come.”
After that remark, Edward had no choice but to descend the steps and install himself in the dogcart without screaming even once.
Creighton took the reins, with Mr. Oldcastle sitting beside him. Edward sprawled along the backward-facing bench behind them. The pony’s hooves clattered along the deserted road. Soon the gaslights of Greyfriars were left behind, and they were clopping along a country lane under a bright moon. He had been rescued from both the law and the knife-wielding woman, but he was now a fugitive from justice, utterly dependent on Mr. Oldcastle and this Colonel Creighton. He did not know who they were or what their interest in him was.
He was wearing a shift and a dressing gown, one shoe and a straw hat—hardly the sort of inconspicuous garb he would have chosen for a jailbreak, and certainly not enough for small hours travel in England, even in August. He shivered as the cool air dried his sweat. His leg throbbed maliciously with every bounce and lurch. He suspected it was swelling inside the bandages; he wondered what more damage he had done to the shattered bones. He felt utterly beat.
“Gentlemen?” he said after a while. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Creighton snorted. “Not easily. Ask.”
“I didn’t kill Timothy Bodgley—did I?”
“No. The objective was to kill you. He got in the way, I presume. Damned shame, but lucky for you.”
“Why, sir? Why should anyone want to kill me?”
“That I am not prepared to reveal at this time,” Creighton said brusquely. “But the culprits are the same people who killed your parents.”
After a moment, Edward said, “With all due respect, sir, that is not possible. The Nyagatha killers were all caught and hanged.”
Creighton did not turn his head, concentrating on the dark road ahead. His rapid-fire speech was quite loud enough to be heard, though.
“I don’t mean that bunch of blood-crazed nigs. They were dupes. I mean the ones who incited them to go berserk.”
“The missionaries who threw down their idols? But they were the first—”
“The Chamber was behind that Nyagatha incident, and even then the purpose was to kill you.”
“Me?” Edward said incredulously. “What chamber?”
“You. Or prevent you from being born, actually. There was a misunderstanding. It’s a very long story and you couldn’t possibly believe it if I told you now. Wait a while.”
That ended the conversation. He was right—Edward could not even believe what he had already seen and heard. To be suspected of killing Bagpipe was bad enough. To be held responsible for his parents’ death and the whole Nyagatha bloodbath would be infinitely worse.
And yet that cryptic Jumbo letter had hinted at unknown dangers and secrets his parents had not lived to tell him. Whoever Jumbo was, he had never received that letter.
Damnation! He had forgotten to bring the Jumbo letter! It was back at the hospital.
Obviously there was not going to be any logical, mundane explanation. Mr. Oldcastle had said that those behind this whole horrible mystery were involved in the outbreak of a worldwide war, and he had claimed that the ringlets woman had occult abilities to bypass locks—implying that she had both entered Fallow and exited Greyfriars Abbey through bolted doors. The little man himself had sent her away without any visible use or threat of force. One or the other of them had most certainly arranged for the patients and staff of the hospital to be smitten with inexplicable deafness, at the very least. Where had all the nurses gone? Had they met the same fate as Bagpipe? How had Mr. Oldcastle himself arrived in answer to Edward’s Shakespearean summons?
None of it made real-world sense, nor ever would. You could not expect Sherlock Holmes if you already had Merlin.
The only brightness in the murky affair was the thought of Inspector Leatherdale’s face when he learned of his suspect’s disappearance.
A halt and sudden stillness jerked Edward out of a shivery daze. Creighton jumped down at the same moment. He went to open a gate and lead the pony through it. After it was shut again, he scrambled back to the bench and the dogcart went lurching slowly across a meadow, climbing gently. The sky was starting to brighten in the east, and the moon was just setting.
Edward was not sure how long they had been traveling—an hour, perhaps—and he had no idea where he was, but then his familiarity with the country around Fallow did not extend as far as Greyfriars. Lately Mr. Oldcastle had been giving directions, so Colonel Creighton did not know either.
He was stiff and cold. His leg throbbed abominably. But he was alive, and at the moment he was free. Both conditions might be transitory.
Beyond another gate the track was thickly overgrown, winding into the patch of woodland that crowned the little hill. The pony picked its way cautiously, brush crackled under the wheels, and overhead the sky was almost hidden by foliage. The air smelled heavily of wet leaves. After about ten minutes of that, the trail ended completely, ferns and high grass giving way to bracken and broom. No farmer’s cattle grazed here. A faint predawn light was evident, but not enough to show colors, only shades of gray.
Creighton reined in. “We get out here, Exeter. I’ll give you a hand down.”
Getting out of the dogcart was even worse than getting in. The accursed leg felt ready to burst the bandages and the splints as well. The grass was cold and wet.
“Leave one crutch and lean on me,” Creighton said. “Just a few steps. And leave your hat, too.”
In that undergrowth, a few steps were plenty. Eventually Edward reeled and almost fell.
“Two more yards’ll do it,” Creighton said. “Other side of this stone. Good man. Now, you’d best sit down. No—on the grass. I expect it’ll be chilly on your you-know-what, but this shouldn’t take long.”
Edward was already aware that the long grass was soaked with dew, and he did not see why he should not try to make himself comfortable on the wall instead, but he was hugely relieved just to sit, leaning back with his hands in the dewy leaves, his legs stretched out before him. He took a moment to catch his breath and then looked around. Creighton was kneeling at his side, bareheaded. It was highly unusual to see an Englishman out of doors without a hat.
“Where’s Mr. Oldcastle?”
“He’s around somewhere,” Creighton said softly. “He can undoubtedly hear
what you say. Any guesses as to what this place is?”
Puzzled, Edward took another look. The trees were mostly oaks, but very thickly grown together, mixed with a few high beeches. The stillness was absolute—not a bird, nothing. Eerie! He was tempted to start cracking jokes, and knew that was merely a sign of funk. Funk would also explain his teeth’s strong desire to chatter, however much he might prefer to blame the cold.
The low wall at his side was not a wall at all, but a long boulder, mossy and buried in the undergrowth. Eventually he made out a tall shape within the bracken at the far side of the glade. Then another, and he realized that he was within a circle of standing stones. Scores of them dotted the countryside of southwestern England, relics of a long-forgotten past. Sometimes the stones were still upright, sometimes they had fallen or been pushed down by followers of newer gods. The great boulder beside him had been part of the circle.
Feeling very uneasy, he said, “It makes me think of The Oaks, Druids Close, Kent.”
“You’re on the right track. It’s very old. And what we are about to do is very old, also—there’s a price to pay. You’re going to have to trust me in this.”
Creighton had produced a large clasp knife. He unfastened his right cuff and pulled back his sleeve to uncover his wrist. He drew the blade across the back of it, holding it to the side, well clear of his pants. He stretched out his arm and let the blood dribble on the mossy boulder. In the gloom it seemed black.
He passed the knife to Edward.
It was exam time.
Edward wondered what Uncle Roland would say if he were present, and thought he could guess the exact words.
The cutting hurt more than he expected, like cold fire, and his first attempt was a craven scratch that hardly bled at all. He gritted his teeth and slashed harder. Blood poured out, and he adorned the stone with it—like a dog peeing on a post, he thought.
“Good man,” Creighton muttered. He accepted the knife back, closed it one-handed, and dropped it in his pocket.
“Now what, sir?”
The reply was a whisper. “Wait until it stops dripping. Don’t speak—and it may be best if you keep your eyes down and don’t look too directly at, er, anything you may notice.”
Edward himself could refrain from speech, but his teeth were going to chatter. His fingers and toes were icy. Even his leg seemed to have gone numb; it hardly throbbed at all now.
Something moved at the far side of the circle, a shadow in the undergrowth. He tried not to stare, but that was not easy. Whatever or whoever was moving might have been very hard to see clearly in any case.
The shape flitted from stone to stone, peering around this one, over that one, darting to and fro, pausing to study the visitors like a squirrel or a bird inspecting a tempting crust. A man? A boy, perhaps? He made no sound. He was a darkness in the shrubbery, as if shadow went with him, or was deeper where he was. He would grow brave and approach with a mincing, dancing step, then suddenly scamper back as if he had taken fright or had decided that the other way around the circle would be a safer approach.
Gradually Edward built a picture in his mind: no clothes, thin, terribly thin, and no larger than a child. His head seemed clouded with silver hair, but without taking a direct look, Edward could not decide if it was a juvenile ash-blond or white with age. He was too small and much too young to be Mr. Oldcastle, and yet there was something familiar about him—the way he held his head forward, perhaps? Or perhaps he was much too old to be Mr. Oldcastle. He was not an illusion.
He was not human, either, and the grove was silent as a grave.
Advance, retreat, advance…At last the numen was only ten or twelve feet away, behind the closest of the standing pillars. He peeked round one side, then the other. There was a pause. Then he repeated the process. Suddenly the decision was made. With a silent rush, he scampered through the undergrowth and took refuge on the far side of the fallen boulder, out of sight but more or less within reach.
Edward discovered that he was growing faint from holding his breath too long. What was now on the other side of this rock? Out of the corner of his eye he watched the streaks of blood, half-expecting them to disappear, but they didn’t.
The voice when it came was very soft, like a single stirring of wind in the grass. “Take off the splints, Edward.”
There was no doubt about the words, though, nor the meaning, and no Shakespearean mumbo jumbo either. Exam time. Finals.
Edward looked down at the white cocoon of bandage that extended from his toes to the top of his thigh. Then he looked at Creighton, who was staring back at him expectantly.
A cripple on the run could hardly be any worse off. Edward began to fumble with pins and bandages. In a moment, Creighton handed him the knife again. Then it went faster. No use wondering how he was going to wrap the whole thing up again.
He wasn’t. He knew that. He ripped and tugged until his leg was uncovered—damned good leg, not a thing wrong with it.
Creighton doubled forward until his face was on his knees, and stayed there, arms outstretched.
Oh, Uncle Roland, what do you say now?
Edward pulled his legs in under him—no trace of stiffness, even—and adopted the same position, kneeling with head down and arms extended.
God or devil, it was only right to thank the numen for mercy received, wasn’t it?
A few moments later, the pony jingled harness and began to munch grass. A bird chirruped, then others joined in, and soon the glade exploded into song. The sky was light, leaves rustled in a breeze that had not been there a minute before. The world had awakened from an ancient dream.
Creighton straightened up. Edward copied him. Then they scrambled to their feet, not looking at each other. There was no one else present, of course.
Edward closed the knife and offered it.
“Leave it,” Creighton said gruffly. “And the bandages also.” He strode over to turn the pony.
Feeling very thoughtful, Edward gathered up the bandages, the splints, the crutch. He laid them tidily alongside the bloodstains. He limped after Creighton in one shoe and one bare foot, but when he reached the dogcart, Creighton silently handed him the second crutch.
He hobbled all the way back to the circle again. The grass was trampled where he and Creighton had knelt. On the other side of the stone, where the numen had been, there was no sign that it had ever been disturbed. What else would you expect?
He stooped to lay his burden with the other offerings. Then he changed his mind and deliberately knelt down first. He bowed his head again and softly said, “Thank you, sir!”
He thought he heard a faint chuckle and an even softer voice saying, “Give my love to Ruat.”
It was only the wind, of course.
33
WHEN PLAYING CHILLY NARSH, THE TROUPE WAS forced to compromise on classical costuming. In her herald role, Eleal had worn long Joalian stockings under her tunic and still shivered; she had never experimented with real Narshian menswear. It was even more fiendishly uncomfortable than she had suspected—and difficult! In warmer lands the deception would not have been possible at all, for although she had not matured in the way T’lin had so crudely mentioned, she had progressed to the point where she would not be mistaken for a boy if she paraded around in just a loincloth. So there were advantages to the Narshland climate after all, but she would never have managed to dress without Embiliina’s motherly assistance.
The breechclout was a band with a tuck-over flap. Then came well-darned wool socks and the diabolical fleece leggings, cross-gartered all the way up, the tops held by a web strap that looped around the back of her neck. How fortunate that she had little bosom yet to worry about! On top went a wool shirt for the mountains, so often washed that it was thick as felt, and a smock that reached halfway down her thighs; then boots. She pinned up her hair under a pointed hat that tickled her ears. S
he eyed herself disapprovingly in the looking glass. As she had been warned, the garments were all shabby castoffs. One of her leggings had a hole in the knee and the other was patched.
“How does it feel?” Embiliina Sculptor said, smiling.
“Drafty!”
“Mmm.” Gim’s mother chuckled mischievously. “Men seem to like the freedom. If you need to, er…well, pick a good thick bush to go behind, won’t you, dear?”
Her smile was so inviting that for a moment Eleal wanted to throw herself into this so-kindly lady’s arms. Her eyes prickled and she turned away quickly. She was no longer a mere waif supported by a troupe of actors and given odd jobs to make her feel useful. In some way she did not understand in the slightest she was important—a Personage of Historic Significance! She must behave appropriately. Perhaps in a hundred years poets like Piol would be writing great plays about her.
She headed for the bedroom door. Without her specially made boot, her walk was very awkward. Not just Clip, clop, but rather Step, lurch… “Fortunately,” she said brightly, “my dramatic training has taught me how to portray boys.”
“Er…yes. This way, dear.”
Gim was waiting in the kitchen, bareheaded, but otherwise already wrapped in outdoor wear. He had a lyre case slung on his shoulder. He smirked bravely when he saw Eleal, but the smirk faded quickly. His eyelids were pink, as if he was fighting back tears. It was all very well to trust a god, but she wished Tion had provided a more convincing, experienced champion to escort her.
His father looked even more worried, trying to act proud.
“Oh, dear!” Embiliina said. “Have you said good-bye to your sisters?”
“They’re asleep, Mother!”
“Yes, but did you go in and see them so I can tell them you did?”
“Yes, Mother,” Gim said with exaggerated patience. He turned to his father. “I don’t suppose I can go and say goodbye to Inka, can I?”
