Future Indefinite (Round Three of The Great Game)

by Dave Duncan

  "I am the current chairman, sir. Rutherford, Bernard Rutherford, at your service. I don't believe we have been introduced?"

  "I am Zath,” said the intruder harshly.

  Hannah Pinkney slumped in a faint. Jumbo caught her with a remarkable display of reflexes and strength; he lowered her into a chair as if she weighed no more than a blanket.

  "Good evening, Your Excellency,” Foghorn said in unusually quiet tones for him. “Since you are here, will you take a glass of wine?"

  "No."

  Rutherford resumed his seat, and at once the others copied him, finding chairs still upright if they had knocked over their own. He leaned back and studied the dread figure. “Then pray state your business."

  Still the face showed as only a pale smudge, the eyes as darker patches, and yet the creature radiated contempt. “I came to tell you to call off your dog or pay the penalty. I hold Olympus ransom for his behavior, and every soul in it."

  "My dog? Would I be correct in assuming that you refer to Mr. Edward Exeter, commonly known as the Liberator?"

  Beautiful! Loud and even obnoxious Rutherford might be in normal times, but he was hitting straight sixes now. Alice felt an insane desire to clap.

  "Yes, you would!” Zath snarled. “Stop him any way you like, but stop him, or I shall blast this valley to embers."

  Foghorn smothered a yawn. “I am frightfully afraid you have been misinformed, Excellency. Edward Exeter is none of ours. Not one of us has seen him in years, as I am sure your spies have reported. He is a free agent. Pray address your complaints to him in person."

  "Then I may as well slay the lot of you now?"

  Foghorn shrugged. His color was returning. “I am sure you can—but be warned that this is a node, sir, and every one of us will die believing we do so for Edward Exeter's cause. You wish to make us martyrs?"

  Silence—as if that irrelevancy had somehow been a threat.

  The god of death growled deep in his throat. “You have been warned. Heed my words!"

  He wavered like a pillar of black smoke and wasn't there anymore. Alice felt the icy touch of the portal on her skin. For a moment the tension held as minds adjusted to this miraculous release, then everyone seemed to breathe at the same moment.

  "Very nicely done, old man,” Jumbo said.

  "Bloody good show!” Pinkney agreed. He rose and hurried around to his wife, although some of the ladies had already reached her. “You wouldn't have a drop of brandy handy, would you, Larry?"

  Their host opened his mouth and bellowed, “Tramline!"

  Alice wondered why she had not felt more frightened. She could not recall being frightened, although she was a little shaky now. Had the whole charade seemed too unreal, or had she just gone into shock?

  "Unmitigated bounder!” Foghorn said. His face was bright red now. “What do you make of that, Prof? Prof?"

  Rawlinson was no longer present.

  The butler swept in, his features as white as his starched shirt front, and his coppery hair askew. He bore a silver tray with a decanter and a dozen glasses, which rattled as he set it down.

  "Good man, Tramline!” Chase said heartily. “We could all do with a snifter, I think. Anyone hurt backstage?"

  "A few cuts, Tyika. Nothing serious."

  "Issue a noggin to all hands, then. Splice the main brace, what? I'll talk to you about a bonus for the staff in the morning."

  Amid the general hubbub that now ensued, Alice registered Jumbo gazing quizzically at her. His eyes twinkled.

  "Apart from that, Mrs. Pearson, how are you enjoying your holiday?"

  She had been through the Great War; she would not let these bush babies outdo her in upper-lip stiffness. “It's interesting, Mr. Watson."

  "Isn't it, though?” He reached over to the tray where Tramline was pouring brandy and passed Alice a glass with conspiratorial glee.

  Alice laid it down carefully, hoping her hands were not jiggling too noticeably. She waited until Jumbo had obtained one for himself and then offered hers to clink. They smiled and sipped in unison.

  Other people were chattering loudly, inspecting damage, picking up debris, gulping brandy. She and Jumbo sat opposite each other, ignoring it all.

  "You probably didn't register it,” he said, “but that little episode just vindicated Prof Rawlinson beautifully."

  "Explain."

  He smiled wryly. “When that blighter charged in here, we all thought it was a reaper. Most of us have managed to collect a little mana, as I expect you know. Half of us used the trapdoor—teleporting out, which is not too difficult when you're on a node, like this. The rest of us tried to clobber the bugger, if you'll pardon my Thargian."

  She took another drink of brandy, feeling its warmth tingling in her mouth and down her throat. “And?"

  He glanced around. “Don't know about the others, but mine just vanished. My power, I mean—it disappeared. That's when I knew we had more than a reaper to deal with. It felt as if Zath swallowed it, just as Prof said would happen. Interesting!"

  "I hadn't realized that Zath was a fellow countryman. I find that rather disappointing."

  "Why do you think that?” Jumbo drained his glass and somehow contrived to shake his head at the same time. “Oh, the language? Don't think he's one of us. Certainly hope not! He wasn't speaking English. He was speaking in tongues, glossolalia. It's quite a minor use of mana, making everyone think he's hearing his own language. Acts, Chapter 2, if I remember correctly. I've done it myself once or twice. But what are we to make of this curious event, Mrs. Pearson?” He quirked an eyebrow.

  "I can't believe the Service will capitulate before the crude threats of an obvious bully."

  "Not by a long chalk! Zath just made enemies out of allies, had he only known. More than that, Mrs. Pearson, wouldn't you say our deathly friend has got the wind up?” He narrowed his eyes in a smile that hinted at real excitement bubbling underneath.

  "I received the distinct impression,” Alice said solemnly, “that Edward scares the shite out of him—if you'll pardon my Joalian."

  The rest of the room was still ignoring them. Foghorn was in full spate, drowning out two other men and the Olga woman in a ferocious argument. The Pinkneys had gone home, others had left in search of missing partners. Newcomers were pouring in, men in tails, men in dressing gowns, some carrying swords, all demanding to know what was going on, by Jove or by George. The servants had almost restored order, except for the litter on the table between Alice and Jumbo, which they had refrained from touching yet.

  "What do you make of it, Mr. Watson?"

  "I want to know what Exeter is up to that could so alarm his opponent. Obviously you were right. Zath doesn't see him as the pushover we all did.” Jumbo fell silent, unconsciously rubbing his prominent nose. Was he wondering if he had been wrong all along about the Filoby Testament? What did it take to change a man's mind after thirty years? “Captain Smedley thought Exeter might have a trick or two up his sleeve,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

  "So you're going to go and visit Edward."

  He looked up with a gleam of challenge in his eye. “He should be informed of what happened here tonight. There are two dragons in the compound and the moon is bright."

  "Only two?"

  Jumbo pushed himself to his feet. “Only two. I'm going to change, pack a bag, and leave. No signed orders, no arguments, no good-byes."

  No conditions, no questions, only challenge. She should have expected this from Jumbo. If he was a traitor ... if Edward believed that Jumbo was a traitor, then he would not believe the message he brought. If he was not a traitor, then there was no danger. To her astonishment—perhaps it was the brandy—Alice stood up also. “Sounds like an excellent plan. Lead on, my dear Watson."

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  26

  For some time, Dosh had been leaning against the boulder, watching great Trumb rise over the watery lands of Niolflat and wondering if he would eclipse before dawn. He h
ad been studying the stellar twinkle of the pilgrims’ fires in the meadow and wondering how many nubile maidens and lithe youths there were down there and how much longer he could maintain this unfamiliar chastity he had undertaken. He had been wondering why he did not have the sense to vamoose clean out of this peripatetic prayer meeting before it hatched into full-scale bloodbath and disaster.

  "Dosh?” said a whisper, and he jumped like a cricket.

  He had not heard anyone approaching. It was D'ward, of course, but he had discarded his priestly robe and wore nothing but a loincloth. His limbs and chest gleamed very pale in the lurid green light. D'ward in disguise must mean serious trouble. Had he decided to vamoose also, while the going was good?

  "D'wa—Liberator?"

  "How're your legs tonight?"

  "Beautiful as ever."

  A chuckle. “That was not what I meant, you scoundrel. Can you run as far as Niol and back before dawn?"

  Once I could have done. “I can try."

  "Then let's go!” D'ward turned and began loping down the hill.

  That was tricky, stony going, but when they found the trail Dosh was able to move to D'ward's side. He was setting a mean pace, if he truly planned to keep it up all night.

  "I didn't know you were a runner too."

  "I may have to cheat a bit."

  What did that mean? Dosh added another question to his already large collection, but before he could ask any of them, D'ward said, “This may be dangerous."

  "I sort of thought it might be. Who're we going to call on?"

  "Visek."

  "Great gods!"

  "No, they're not."

  They jogged on for a mile or so while Dosh rolled this astonishing development around in his mind and wondered why he had not already turned on his heel and taken off in the opposite direction. Now he knew why the Liberator had not brought his bodyguards—the Warband could do nothing against the Parent. But dangerous? That was an understatement of enormous proportions. “Suicidal” would be more apt. The least the Liberator could hope for was to have his tongue cut out for blasphemy; his accomplice would be lucky to get off with a life sentence in the mines.

  "This may be a turning point,” D'ward said.

  "Or an ending point!"

  "Certainly. But it should be interesting. I thought you'd be interested. I'd appreciate your company, but turn back if you want to."

  They kept on running. The farms they passed were dark. There was no one else on the road. Trumb lit the world with unworldly light and flashed off ponds, canals, and ditches, while the red moon was just setting at their backs. Niolvale nights had a heavy scent of damp vegetation that was all their own, very distinctive.

  Dosh found his second wind. For once he had D'ward to himself and might get some answers. “According to the Testament, the Liberator was to arrive in this world five years ago and be tended by someone called Eleal—aided by a Daughter of Irepit."

  "It happened."

  "So you knew there was one god—enchanter—who was on your side?"

  D'ward chuckled. “Go to the top of the class. No, you've always been top of that class. You're right. When I decided to stop fighting the prophecies and become the Liberator, I first went back to Thargvale, to call on our old friend Prylis again. He helped me shape my plans. Then I came north to Rinoovale and Irepit. She gave me her support. She sent me to Joal, to see her boss."

  "You mean the Maiden?"

  "Of course. Astina was not quite as supportive—she's the weakest of the Five at the moment, and nervous. But she did promise to deal with any reapers Zath might throw at me in Joalvale."

  That explained a lot. Dosh jogged on, hearing only their breathing, the slap of their feet on the dirt, and distant nightingales. There were no clouds, and few stars could compete with Trumb when he was near the full.

  "So those churn-brains who claim to be former reapers—"

  "Don't mock them! Pity them. Astina de-spelled them—they're genuine. They have terrible, terrible memories to live with."

  Their problem, Dosh thought, not his. “That was Joalvale. How about Nosokvale?"

  "There too. Astina promised to keep me breathing in all Joaldom. Irepit did the same in Rinoovale. They gave me time to get the boat launched."

  "And here in Niolvale?"

  "Here I'm on my own. Remember I warned you we'd be playing with real money here? If you see any black shadows moving, speak up promptly."

  Dosh felt the sweat freeze on his skin. He almost did turn back then.

  "Can probably handle one"—D'ward panted—"or even two."

  "No one can stop a reaper!"

  "Not true. Killed one once ... with a rock."

  Impossible! but after that, D'ward saved his breath for running and would answer no more questions.

  The greatest temple in the Vales stood a short way north of Niol, which was one of the three great cities. The runners approached from the southwest, slowing to a walk when they reached the holy grounds. They had not met a soul the whole way. The night was very still—ominously still, in Dosh's opinion. Trumb's great disk soared almost full through the sky and he would certainly eclipse before the sun rose. An eclipse of the green moon was a sure portent of reapers.

  "You've been here?” D'ward was limping, panting, with sweat shining on his skin like silver, but Dosh was in no better shape.

  "Course."

  "Describe it."

  Between puffs, Dosh tried to do justice to the temple of Visek. The innumerable minor buildings—shrines, barracks, libraries, colleges, refectories, dormitories, observatories—sprawled over many acres of tended parkland, interspersed with lakes and pools. There must be three or four thousand priests, priestesses, monks, nuns, and associated characters in residence.

  "The main sanctuary is over there?” D'ward pointed a long arm.

  "Probably. Yes, I think so. How'd you know that?"

  "I can sense the holiness. What's it look like?"

  "Columns. A rectangle of them supporting a lintel, but no roof. It's not like that hideous thing of Karzon's in Tharg, though! Visek's is bigger, white marble, breathtaking. One of the wonders of the world."

  They trod along a wide avenue flanked by night-scenting shrubbery and tall statuary. To Dosh's nervous gaze, some of those mysterious figures tended to look very much like waiting reapers, although he was trying to assure himself that Zath would not dare seek out sacrifices in this place.

  "How about an altar?” D'ward asked. “A holy of holies?"

  "Don't know."

  "Where's the god, then?"

  "They're in the middle."

  After a moment, D'ward chuckled. “The Parent—the Father and the Mother? You know, Joalian's a very handy sort of language! ‘Visek’ is abstract, so applied to a person it can mean masculine or feminine, singular or plural."

  "That's true in all languages: Sussian, Randorian, Nagian, Thargian...."

  "I know some that won't work that way, but carry on. Where are they?"

  "In the middle. On the throne at the top of the steps. Back to back. If you come in from this end, you're facing the Father. From the other end, you see the Mother.” Dosh pointed. They had come around a curve, bringing the main temple into view, glimmering faintly in the moonlight. Even at this distance, its size was obvious, larger even than he remembered. It made the trees seem tiny.

  D'ward muttered, “Mmph!” admiringly. “We'll deal with the Father, then. Or would you rather wait outside?"

  Oh, no! Dosh was too conscious of the lurking shadows in the gardens. His skin crawled and he wanted to stay close to the Liberator. He just kept on walking, trying to match his companion's greedy strides.

  As they neared the pillars, he made out a twinkle of lamps and vague shapes of people moving around just inside. There would be priests in attendance, even at this time of night, and they would certainly have some means of summoning guards. If they knew that the Vales’ most prominent heretic was within the sacred precincts, they would t
ake him faster than a fish snapped gnats. D'ward must know what he was doing, mustn't he? He must have plans or knowledge that he hadn't bothered to pass on, mustn't he?

  Dosh worked a painfully dry mouth. “Does he know you're coming?"

  "He claims to be the All-Knowing, so I didn't bother to write. We have no choice but to walk in the front door? We can't sneak in through the side pillars?"

  "Not unless you're totally crazy. Nothing attracts attention like furtive."

  "I'll trust your judgment and experience on that, Brother Dosh."

  "And we'll have to make an offering, you know! Why didn't you warn me to bring some money?"

  "Because that money was not given for that purpose."

  Crazy! “They'll still demand an offering,” Dosh muttered. His feet were sore and his legs ached.

  Somewhere far off, someone was singing. There was no accompaniment, just a single voice in the night, soaring high in a lonely, wistful anthem, a woman or a boy caroling praise to the greatest of the gods. Or the greatest of the evil enchanters, if you believed D'ward. Dosh didn't—not here, where the sanctity was as palpable as rock. Even the air felt old and holy.

  Side by side, the newcomers mounted the steps—long, shallow steps that did not fit a man's stride, with uneven risers so he had to watch where his feet were going and could not move with grace or ease. The marble was cold on bare feet, the night air even colder on bare skin and sweat-soaked hair. They reached the bases of the great pillars and entered a black puddle of shadow cast by Trumb. The lamps were obvious now, revealing turbaned, white-robed figures waiting within the entrance. The visitors would be questioned or at least asked to define their business.

  Suppose the priests became suspicious? Suppose they began serious interrogation or called in the guards? D'ward would certainly give a false name, so what if poor Dosh were asked to confirm it? Then he would have to decide where his loyalty was and which side he believed in. In Nosokslope they shall come to D'ward in their hundreds, even the Betrayer. This might be where he discovered if he had ranked a mention in the Filoby Testament.

  They passed between two marble piers, each larger than a house and taller than a tree. A white-ghost priest took a step toward them, touching his forehead. Dosh automatically responded with the same gesture. He did not quite see what D'ward did, but he thought the movement was not exactly orthodox—more like rubbing an eyebrow. The elderly priest could not have noticed the difference, for he held out his leather bag expectantly and his expression was benevolent ... so far.