by Dave Duncan
D'ward inverted a ewer and sat on it. He sighed deeply and wiped his forehead, then grinned at Prat'han as calmly as if he were one of the regulars who dropped in to chat every day. There was no need to ask how he had worked that miracle in the courtroom. He was D'ward Liberator. The shockingly blue eyes and unforgettable white-toothed smile could spur a man to do anything.
"The years have been good to you, old friend?"
"You ... you haven't changed!"
D'ward's smile narrowed a little, but it was still a smile. “Not on the outside, I suppose. You're not much different yourself, you big rascal! Married now?"
Prat'han nodded, while his gaze wandered over D'ward. His beard was trimmed close in Joalian style. His ribs...
D'ward looked down where he was looking. “Oh. I seem to have lost my merit marks, don't I? Well, you know they were there once. I can't help it if I'm good at healing, can I?"
The potter pulled himself together. “I owe you my life again, Liberator, and ... Oh! I must not call you that, must I?"
"Yes, you can!” Blue eyes twinkled. “My time has come! As of today, you may call me the Liberator. From now on, I bear the title proudly and will teach the world to respect it. I am happy to start by liberating you. It was pure chance; I came by four days ago and heard what was bubbling."
He stared thoughtfully at Prat'han, who felt a thrill twist his gut. Why had the Liberator come? Was there blood on the wind again? He said, “You have been away too long! We are your family."
"Always! But I have many sad things to do in the world. I came to see my old comrades in arms and discovered that most of them were in jail. I had hoped that the old Sonalby Warband might be willing to help me in a dangerous venture, but..."
There was blood on the wind! Prat'han crossed the shack in three long strides to snatch up his shield and spear. “Lead, Liberator! I will follow."
D'ward rotated on the ewer to face him. “I'm afraid not. Not you. And none of the others either. You see, brother, now I march against the gods themselves. I can't lead followers who sport the symbols of the Five—green hammer, blue stars, the skull of—"
"Faugh! Face marks do not matter. If you want me like this, then you get me like this."
"Oh?” D'ward seemed to be having trouble keeping his lips in line. “But do I want a helper so fickle? Ten minutes ago you were prepared to die horribly for the right to paint your face. Now it doesn't matter?"
Of course it didn't! But Prat'han was not accustomed to thinking why, and he had to rummage frantically in unfrequented corners of his mind before he could say, “You offer me a choice. Joalians tell me. Quite different."
D'ward laughed. “I see! But the next problem is that you and the brothers seem to have a revolution of your own under way. What I'm planning has nothing whatsoever to do with throwing the Joalians out of Nagvale."
Prat'han shrugged to hide his chagrin. “I only fight Joalians from boredom. Whatever your cause, I will support it. Your gods are mine."
"It will involve long travel and grave danger."
"Good!"
"But you said you were married. As I recall, married warriors are reserved for defense."
Why had Prat'han been such a fool as to admit to Uuluu? “I am only very slightly married—a matter of a couple of fortnights.” Or thereabouts. “No children! My wife can go back to her father unchanged."
D'ward raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “That she may go back I will believe, but unchanged? This I doubt, you big male animal, you!"
"Not much changed.” Feeling as if he had been counting every hour in three long years for this moment, Prat'han fell to his knees. “Liberator, I would kneel to no other man. I would not plead with any other, either, but I swear that if you leave me behind, then I shall die of shame and despair. Take me, Liberator! I am yours to command, as I always was. I will follow you wherever you lead."
"Don't you even want to know what I'm planning?"
"You are going to bring death to Death, as is foretold in the Filoby Testament?"
"Well, yes. If I can."
"I wish to help. And all the others will, too! Gopaenum Butcher, Tielan Trader, Doggan..."
D'ward grimaced. “I let them all get flogged today. I dared not intercede for them, Prat'han, because I wasn't sure I had enough ... had enough power to rescue you. It was a damned close thing, there, you know! A couple of times I really thought you and I would be gracing adjoining fence posts. How long until they'll be well enough to travel?"
"They are well now! I've had those beatings. Nagians shrug them off. We have thick skins."
"You have thick heads, certainly.” D'ward ran his fingers through his hair—curly, bushy, shiny black. He pulled a face. “What is your wife going to say? I warn you, this will be bloody. Many who go with me will not return. Perhaps none of us will."
Prat'han rose. He put his heels together and laid his spear against his shoulder, as D'ward himself had taught him, long ago. Staring fixedly at the far wall, he said, “Lead and I follow."
D'ward rose also. They were of a height, the two of them, both tall men, although Prat'han was thicker.
"I can't dissuade you, can I? Never thought I would, actually.” He took Prat'han's shoulder in the grip that brother gave to brother in the group. “You have been a shaper of clay, Prat'han Potter. Follow me, and I will make you a shaper of men."
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II
And he is the guardian of the world, he is the king of the world, he is lord of the universe—and he is myself, thus let it be known, yea, thus let it be known!
Kaushitaki-Upanishad,
III Adhyava, 8
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2
Ripples raised by that encounter in Sonalby were to spread throughout the Vales in the fortnights that followed and give rise to major waves. Before the green moon had eclipsed twice, they disturbed the normal calm of a certain small side valley between Narshvale, Randorvale, and Thovale, whose only claim to distinction was that the little settlement near its north end was home to the largest assembly of strangers on Nextdoor. They called it Olympus.
The Pinkney Residence was not as grand as the palaces of the monarchs or high priests of the vales, but it was spacious and luxurious by local standards, having recently been rebuilt from the ground up. In design it more closely resembled the sort of bungalow favored by white men in certain tropical regions of Earth than anything a native of the Vales would have conceived. Within the oversized and overfurnished drawing room, lit by a multitude of candles in silver candlesticks, a man with a fair baritone voice was singing “Jerusalem” accompanied by a lady playing a harp, because the Service's efforts to instruct their local craftsmen in the construction of a grand piano had so far failed to meet with success. The audience consisted of eight ladies in evening gowns and six gentlemen in white tie and tails.
"'I shall not ‘cease,'” the singer asserted, “'from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.... ‘"
Two more men had slipped out to the veranda to smoke cigars and contemplate the peace of the evening. The warmth of the day lingered amid scents of late-season flowers and lush shrubbery, although the sky was long dark. Amid an escort of stars, red Eltiana and blue Astina peered over jagged peaks already dusted with the first snows of fall.
"It is a rum do.” The taller man was spare, distinguished by an unusually long nose. He had grace and confidence and—on appropriate occasions—a wry, deprecating grin. Like most strangers, he did not discuss his age or past. Although he appeared to be in his middle twenties, he was rumored to have participated in a cavalry charge at the battle of Waterloo, more than a hundred years ago. “Never expected him to start that way."
"Never expected him to start at all,” his companion complained. “Thought we'd heard the last of him. Thought Zath had got him, or he'd gone native."
"Oh, no. I always expected Mr. Exeter to surface again. I just didn't expect him to cock a snoot at t
he Chamber quite so blatantly or quite so soon.” The taller man drew on the cigar so it glowed red in the gloom. Then he murmured, “Very rum! I wonder how he went about it."
"I wonder how he's managing to stay alive at all.” The other man was shorter and plump, although he appeared to be no older. He parted his hair in the middle and tended to close his eyes when he smiled.
"That's what I meant. Zath should have bowled him out in the first over. Think we ought to stop him, do you?"
"Stop who?” demanded another voice. “What are you two plotting out here? Arranging a little something behind the Committee's backs?” Ursula Newton came striding out and peered suspiciously at the two men, one after the other. She was below average height, but her evening gown revealed very muscular arms and unusually broad shoulders for a woman. She was loud and had never been compared to shrinking violets.
"Certainly not!” said the shorter man.
"Jumbo?"
"Of course we were,” said the man with the long nose, unabashed. “Pinky was just about to ask me to name the most efficient assassin on our staff at the moment, weren't you, Pinky?"
His companion muttered, “I say!” disapprovingly. “Nothing like that."
"The fact is,” Jumbo explained, “that young Edward Exeter has surfaced up in Joalvale, preaching to the unwashed, openly proclaiming himself to be the Liberator foretold."
"Great Scot!” Ursula frowned. “You're sure?"
"Quite sure,” Pinky said fussily. “Agent Seventy-seven. He's a very sound chap, knows Exeter quite well. Very well, actually."
"And how long has this been going on?"
"He'd been at it about three days when Seventy-seven saw him. Seventy-seven scampered back here right away to let us know. Very sound thinking. I commended him on his initiative. It did take him four days to get here, though, so the situation may have undergone modification."
"Exeter may be dead, you mean. But if we've heard, then the Chamber's heard, sure as little apples."
"Oh, quite, quite."
The patter of applause having died away, the baritone had unleashed his next song.
"'And this is the law I will maintain,
Until my dying day, sir.... ‘"
The men smoked in silence, and Ursula leaned on the rail between them, scowling at the night.
"Could be serious,” she said.
"'That whatsoever king shall reign...’”
"Absolutely,” Pinky agreed.
"'I will be the vicar of Bray, sir.... ‘"
"You're going to send someone to bring him in?"
"That was what we were debating when you arrived."
Jumbo remarked, sounding amused.
"It's a matter for the Committee,” Ursula said, “but of course you haven't told Foghorn yet, have you? Want to get it all settled beforehand, don't you? You two and your cronies."
"Not settled,” Pinky protested. “Dear me, no. Not settled. Didn't want to spoil a delightful evening by bringing up business. But I knew Jumbo would be interested. Thought he might have a few ideas. And you, too, my dear. You agree we ought to send someone to have a word with Exeter?"
"Just to have a word with him?"
"The emissary's terms of reference would have to be very carefully drawn,” Pinky said cautiously. “A certain amount of discretion might be permitted."
Jumbo coughed as if he had swallowed more smoke than he intended. “Spoken like a true gentleman—Cesare Borgia, say, or Machiavelli. Well, he certainly won't let me near him. Not after what happened the last time."
"If he has any brains at all,” Ursula said, “he won't let any of us near him. Except Smedley, perhaps. Old school chum? Yes, he'd listen to Julian."
Pinky closed his eyes and smiled beneficently. “Captain Smedley is an excellent young man. But he is rather new here. Do you think he could comprehend all the ramifications of the situation? I am sure he would deliver a message, but would he plead our case with conviction?” He peered at her inquiringly.
"He certainly won't do the dirty work you've got in mind. But remember he has no mana. I think you need to send two emissaries to Exeter—his friend Smedley and someone else, someone who can help the captain out if there is need for a little muscle."
"Ah! Brilliant! I expect we should have seen that solution in time, Jumbo, what? Two emissaries, of course! And who should the other one be? What do you think?"
Jumbo sighed. “I don't like this. Not one bit. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. We need someone with damned good judgment."
"And very few scruples?” Ursula inquired scathingly.
"Now, now,” Pinky said soothingly. “Don't go jumping to conclusions. I am quite hopeful that Mr. Exeter will see reason."
"It's a matter for the Committee. Let them decide. Now come on back inside, both of you, and stop this inner-circle intriguing.” She spun on her heel and strode off into the drawing room, a surprisingly abrupt departure.
Two cigar ends glowed simultaneously. Two smoke clouds wafted into the night air.
"Obvious!” said Pinky. “We'd have thought of her on our own, wouldn't we? Eventually?"
Jumbo sighed again. “Truly it is written that the female of the species is more deadly than the male."
"Oh, quite,” said Pinky, smiling with his eyes closed. “Quite."
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3
Seven Stones in Randorvale had only four stones—one vertical, two leaning, and one fallen. The missing three were either buried in undergrowth or had been carted away in past ages. The remaining four were set in a grassy glade walled around by enormous trees like terrestrial cedars that crowned the level summit of the knoll. It was a spooky place, dim and pungent with leafy odors, stuffy as a Turkish bath on this breathless autumn afternoon. Staying well back from the crowd, hidden behind shrubbery, Julian Smedley could feel his skin tingling from the virtuality.
Using the fallen stone as a pulpit, Kinulusim Spicemerchant was thundering the gospel of the Undivided at a flock of forty or so people sitting cross-legged on the grass. Men and women, even some children, they were a fair sampling of the local peasantry from Losby and other nearby hamlets. Forty was a good turnout at Seven Stones. Julian had already identified a few familiar faces, the faithful. Others were here for the first time, investigating this strange new religion their friends now professed. Soon it would be his turn to try to convert them.
Meanwhile he was changing into his work clothes. Standard Randorian dress was a single voluminous swath of flimsy cotton, apparently designed to keep off insects, as Randorvale was well supplied with bugs, but its main attraction for Julian was that it had no tricky buttons or hooks. Feeling like a human Christmas present, he unwrapped yards and yards of gauze, enough bunting to decorate a battleship. When the silkworm finally emerged from its cocoon, Purlopat'r solemnly held up his priest's robe for him to step into—hood, long sleeves, girdle. He thought of it as his Friar Tuck costume. It was a drab gray, because the Pentatheon had already appropriated all the better colors.
Purlopat'r Woodcutter was a nephew of the spice merchant, somewhat more than life-size. He had the face of a boy of twelve, but from the neck down he was about seven feet of solid muscle, which gave him a certain air of authority, and he wore a gold circle in the lobe of his left ear, the sign of a convert to the Church of the Undivided, so Kinulusim must regard him as an adult. Purlopat'r was serving no real purpose at Julian's side. He had probably volunteered to wait on the saintly guest so that he need not suffer through another of his uncle's interminable sermons.
Kinulusim was a convincing lay preacher, one of the best the church had. His faith was strong; he proclaimed it in rolling, sonorous torrents of words, waving his fists in the air as he denounced the evil demons of the established sects of the Vales. If he became any more heated, his beard would burst into flames. The old boy was always a tough act to follow. Julian was neither a natural orator nor truly proficient in the Randorian dialect, and he lacked Kinulusim's fai
th. He also considered the Church of the Undivided to be a load of guff.
"Holiness?” Purlopat'r spoke in a high-pitched whisper unsuited to his size. He was one of those people who can rarely remain silent for two breaths at a time. “Did my uncle tell you about the troopers he saw?"
"Yes, brother.” Julian smiled up at the worried young face. He wanted to run over his sermon notes again, but apostles were expected to demonstrate both patience and faith. Troopers were worrisome news.
"Do you suppose King Gudjapate has been misled by the demon Eltiana?"
"Undoubtedly. The demons will mislead anyone who listens to them."
Purlopat'r nodded, rolling his eyes. “If the troopers come against us here today, the Undivided will defend us, Holiness?"
Julian sighed and adjusted the tie on his gown, mostly to give himself time to think. The young woodcutter had just thrown him the worst paradox in monotheism: Why does an all-powerful god tolerate evil in the world? That was not something to be answered off the cuff, even if Julian had had a cuff handy.
"I do not know the answer to that, brother. We must do our duty and have faith that the One will prevail in the end, even if sometimes our limited vision does not reveal all the details to us."
"Oh, yes, Your Holiness. Amen!"
Julian thumped the kid's shoulder, curious to know if it was as solid as it looked. It was. “We are both humble servants of the Undivided, brother. We are in this together."
And in this case, laddie, you can be confident that your apostle will not vanish in a flash of magic and leave you in the lurch, as slimy Pedro Garcia did down in Thovale. This apostle hasn't got any mana.
He took a quick look through the greenery to see how Kinulusim was doing. The audience seemed suitably impressed.
