by Dave Duncan
Julian had never thought he might find himself cheering for Zath, but if there had to be one supreme homicidal maniac slaughtering innocents all over the Vales, he would rather it not be a former friend of his.
He also had time to meditate on his own folly. He had behaved like the crassest of boors to Euphemia, walking out on her in her distress, and then he had compounded his sins by bedding Ursula—whom he had never cared for, never lusted after, and now detested. Oh, what a muggins he had been! One little waft of mana and he had run to her side like a lapdog. She had used him all the way to Niolvale. He could not have resisted the mana, but he ought to have guessed what she was doing to him. He would never be able to hold up his head again. Euphemia had warned him, and he had forgotten her warning. He could certainly never look Euphemia in the eye after this.
It felt like a broken heart, but it was probably only wounded pride.
Groggy with fatigue, he did not realize that his journey was over until Blizzard, scrambling down a sheer cliff, emerged from the clouds directly above the paddock at Olympus—about a thousand feet above. Julian closed his eyes and kept them shut until he was safely delivered to the grassy valley bottom. Belching triumph, Blizzard raced to the gate, where Mistrunner and Bluegem were already gorging on hay and T'lin was stripping off Starlight's tack.
Julian tried to dismount with grace and dignity, but his legs failed him and he sat down abruptly in the mud. Green eyes glinting amusement, T'lin took hold of his arm and heaved him to his feet.
"Thank you, Seventy-seven,” Julian said staunchly. “You made excellent time. Good show."
A broad grin of satisfaction split T'lin's ginger beard. “The dragons enjoyed it. A record, I believe, Saint Kaptaan."
"I really do not doubt that. I'll have someone collect my kit, if you'll just leave it here."
T'lin promised to have it delivered. Julian thanked him again and trudged off, already sweltering in his furs as the packed snow fell off them in handfuls. One of the joys of Olympus was the mildness of its climate, even in winter. While storms raged on the peaks all around, here only a faint drizzle was falling, but the sky was overcast and darkness not far off.
He reached his house by blind reckoning and had stumbled up the steps to the veranda before he remembered that Dommi would not be there to care for him. Still, young Pind'l and Ostian ought to be able to manage for a week or two, until Dommi came to his senses and returned. Throwing open the door, Julian bellowed, “Carrot!"
He marched through to his bedroom, fumbling one-handed with his buttons. Receiving no response, he bellowed again.
Still nothing.
That was definitely odd! Where were those two? Then he recalled that there had been no one but T'lin at the paddock, and he had met no one on the road, either, neither Carrot nor Tyika. Up welled sinister memories of his first, disastrous arrival at Olympus, with Exeter. Oh, ridiculous! On that occasion the whole station had been burned to the ground. But still ... He went over to the window and peered out. No lights showed in any house he could see. Well, it wasn't really dark yet. But still...
Hauling off his coat, he went through to the kitchens. Everything was tidy and spotless as if no one lived here, and the grate was cold. No hot water, not a crust in the larder. Feeling more and more uneasy, he returned to his bedroom and dressed in fresh clothes. Taking an umbrella from the stand by the front door, he tramped out into the dusk.
He had trudged halfway around the node before he saw any lights in windows, and still he had not met a soul—definitely odd! The first inhabited house was Rawlinson's, so he went up to the door and rang the bell. He heard it jangle in the distance.
After a minute or so, he pulled again.
At last bolts and chain clattered and the door opened. Prof himself peered out, wrapped in a black dressing gown. He held an oil lamp in his hand and had an open book pinned between his ribs and his elbow.
"God bless my soul! Captain Smedley?"
"Who else? What the deuce is going on, Prof? Since when have you locked your door? Where is everybody?"
"Oh, you don't know, of course, do you?"
Julian almost exploded. The maniac Seventy-seven had brought him all the way from Niolvale in three days. He was beat and in no mood for any of Prof's confounded puzzles. But all he said was, “I have news of Exeter and his crazy Liberator crusade."
Rawlinson coughed wheezily. “Excuse me. I've got the flu, though I think I'm over the worst of it. Wouldn't you rather try one of the others? The McKays, or—"
Julian pushed the door. “I must talk with you about Exeter.
And I need a drink."
Prof retreated in disorder. “Well, if you insist..."
"I do insist,” Julian said.
Five minutes later, he was stretched out in a leather armchair with a glass of spirits in his hand, staring in stark disbelief at his host. Götterdämmerung?
Prof's wife had died in Zath's assault on the station and he had not remarried. According to the Carrots, he was regularly consoled by the tender embraces of Marian Miller. His living room was a bleak, empty-looking place, because he had rebuilt it with an immortal's lifetime supply of bookshelves but had not yet had time to acquire books to fill them. His taste in furniture ran to London club style, heavy and dark. The single oil lamp within this barn cast an apologetic glow on a scattering of discarded clothes, books, dirty dishes. The fireplace held only ashes, although the winter air was dank. Prof, in other words, appeared to be just as bereft of domestic servants as Julian.
More surprising even than that was his fevered look and racking cough. Under his robe showed mauve pajama legs and green bedroom slippers. He had put a bookmark in his book and poured his guest a drink without taking one for himself. Now he was huddled in a corner of the sofa, looking wan and ill in the lurid light. The big house echoed with lonely emptiness.
"You're not well!” Julian said.
Prof scowled at him balefully. “I did mention flu, did I not? Does the simple term ‘flu’ not find suitable referents within your English vocabulary?"
"Well, then, cure it! Dammit all, man, you're a stranger. You're not even supposed to catch head colds.” Julian looked down at his crippled hand. “I thought healing just happened."
"Not always.” Prof coughed painfully. “Sometimes it requires conscious application of power. I think your suggestion is an excellent one. I do believe I might have thought of it myself, given sufficient time. The only trouble is that I have no mana at present."
"Then ask someone else.... “Julian realized that he was being excessively stupid and Prof's sarcasm was not unwarranted. He took a long draft, feeling the brew burn all the way down inside him. “'Scuse me, I'm all in. What's going on?"
"There is something of a mana famine in Olympus just now."
"You gave it all to Ursula to use on Exeter, you mean?"
"Er ... That is part of the trouble, yes. But then Zath came to call."
"Zath did?"
Prof greeted his astonishment with a gleam of satisfaction. “Indeed. You have missed eventful times, Captain. Zath transported in by the node one evening and gate-crashed a dinner party at the Chases'. He demanded that the Service restrain the Liberator, otherwise he, Zath, would take it out on our hides. Burn us to the ground. Then he transported out again.” Prof pouted balefully. “I see from your bemused expression that I shall have to be more specific. I personally did not hear the intruder's words. I confess that when he appeared, what I should like to refer to as a reflex for self-preservation came into play. I hit the ground almost at the dragon paddock. It took me fifteen minutes to walk back. I am not proud of that, but I was certainly not alone in using the trapdoor. About half of those present did the same. The rest reacted by trying to subdue what they assumed was only a reaper—vainly, of course, because he wasn't. The long and short of it was that everyone who was present at that dinner party was totally stripped of mana."
Julian stared at his host. He certainly did look ill,
but could he be delirious? Was any of this nonsense true? “But—but that can't have been everyone!” The Chases’ dining room was not big enough to have held the whole of the Service.
"No. But we are extremely short-staffed now. That is another development you missed. A great many people were suddenly overcome by a fervent calling to minister to the benighted heathen. They did a bunk—vamoosed, scarpered."
"You mean they let Zath scare them away?"
Prof scowled. “No. They let the flu scare them away. This is no ordinary flu. Back Home they call it the Spanish flu. It's killed more millions than the war, and it especially strikes down young adults. It's incredibly infectious—it circled the Earth in five months, Betsy says."
"I thought only people could cross over! You're saying that germs can?"
"If by germs you mean bacteria, then influenza is not caused by a bacterium."
"What is it caused by?"
"A filterable virus,” Prof said smugly.
"What's that?"
"No one knows. It can't be seen in a microscope but is infectious. And obviously it can cross over between worlds. The Peppers caught it, but they had recovered before they came back.” His voice was becoming hoarser and weaker. “That's why they were late. It must have been Euphemia. She went Home for just a few hours, to fetch Exeter's cousin. She noticed nothing herself, but her Carrots all came down with it, and it spread through the valley like a flash of lightning. Those who still had mana tried healing. They could not keep up with it.” He coughed several times painfully. “I don't know how many Carrots have died, but a lot, certainly. And some of us, too: Foghorn, Olga, Vera, Garcia. Very suddenly, all of them."
"Good God!” Julian took a long drink. Strangers dying? Of flu?
Prof seemed to find his astonishment amusing, for he bared his teeth in an ironic smile. “Götterdämmerung, Captain? The Carrots are naturally somewhat disillusioned. Their idols have feet of clay. The immortals are mortal after all. They have withdrawn their services. Personally, I am surprised that they have not driven us out of the valley, lock, stock, and barrel. They may do so yet."
Julian drained his glass to help him digest this incredible news. Prof blinked Wearily at his guest. Then he hauled himself off the sofa and shuffled over to the sideboard. He poured himself a drink and brought back the decanter, depositing it alongside Julian. He returned to his seat and was convulsed by a severe spasm of coughing.
"Alice is here?” Julian asked.
"She is on Nextdoor, yes. She's gone off to see Exeter. What news of the Liberator, then?"
"His belfry is jam-packed full of bats. It's every bit as bad as Jumbo and the others predicted. He thinks he's the messiah. He's marching on Tharg, dragging a ragtag rabble of peasants behind him. I was hoping...” But any lingering hopes of the Service being able to stop Exeter were now dead. “He's ripping up all your work on the True Gospel. He calls the Pentatheon and the others enchanters, instead of demons, and you know where that leads. He's in cahoots with some of them, so God knows what sort of bargains he's been making. He's invented some kind of reincarnation claptrap to replace the afterlife among the stars. He's issuing divine doctrine on his own authority. He's mad as a whirling dervish.” Julian refilled his glass.
Prof rubbed his chest as if it hurt. “I shouldn't worry about him too much. I think Zath has his number.” He smirked, which meant he thought he was being especially perceptive.
Fatigue and liquor were making Julian's head spin. “Let me get this straight. First of all, what the hell was Zath up to, coming here? That kind of threat is just the thing to get all our backs up and turn us into Exeter supporters!"
"Well, of course. You're quite right there. Bluster will work on natives, but Zath can't know much about the English. Even Pinky was sounding pro-Liberator next day."
"And second ... why would he? Why try to stop the Liberator by threatening us? That's even rummer! It almost sounds as if Zath has the wind up!"
Prof nodded and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Of course. That's what we all thought. I'm afraid it was what we were supposed to think.” Ill as he was, he was not beyond playing stupid games.
"What's missing?” Julian barked. “What haven't you told me?"
"Jumbo. Jumbo and Alice Pearson—Exeter's cousin—that's her name now, Pearson. She's a widow. They were present, of course. Later that night the two of them swiped a couple of dragons and took off."
The implications took a moment to register. Then Julian said, “Oh my God!” and drained his glass. Alice, what have we done to you? “This was not planned?"
"Not at all. Zath asked who was in charge and spoke only to him. He wasn't in the room more than a minute or two, I'm told. But Jumbo was there, and Mrs. Pearson was there."
"You think Jumbo's...” How could a man put it into words? “You think he's a traitor? You think Exeter was right all along?"
Prof rubbed his eyes without opening them. “I know he was. The Jean St. John story was a blind. It was Jumbo who tried to queer Exeter by dropping him in Belgium—he admits it. The point is that Jumbo couldn't help himself. He's been around a long time, so he's well known to the opposition. Zath trapped him, installed a compulsion, and sent him off to be Judas."
Julian shuddered. Much as Exeter ought to be stopped, there was something peculiarly repellent about a trusted friend turning Brutus, even if that friend was not responsible for his own intentions. Mana had not seemed like an utter evil when he had used it to convert the troopers at Seven Stones, but Ursula had turned him into a gigolo with it, Exeter had slaughtered his friends to obtain it, then used it to unman the Niolian cavalry—and now this tale of Jumbo being bent, at least once and probably twice. No one was safe when there was mana around.
"You think Zath chose Jumbo again? Seems odd. Exeter will be suspicious this time, won't he?” Then he shuddered a second time, feeling his skin crawl as if he had just fallen into an especially foul pit. “You don't mean Alice?"
"I don't know.” Prof peered Wearily at him. “Jumbo's more likely, because Zath would know he was a senior member of the Service. He shouldn't have known who Mrs. Pearson was—but I fear it is a great mistake to underestimate him. Hell, Captain, maybe he did come just to make threats."
"But you don't think so. You think he came to hex Jumbo again."
Rawlinson struggled with a cough and took a drink. “I think one of them's a poisoned pawn, probably Jumbo. He may not even know it himself, but I think he's a loaded gun, and when he meets the Liberator, he'll fire."
"And he took Alice along to allay suspicion? As a decoy?” Just as Ursula had taken Julian himself. “Exeter'll be so surprised to see her that he won't pay much attention to Jumbo."
"That would be Jumbo's thinking,” Prof agreed in a whisper, “although not willing thinking, if you follow me. But it could have been Alice who talked Jumbo into taking her."
Julian cringed. “Exeter has buckets of mana of his own. Whichever one of them is the hemlock, he'll detect the hex ... won't he?"
Prof heaved himself upright with a groan. “If you'll excuse me, old man, I'm going back to bed.” He was swaying on his feet. “Stay and finish the bottle if you want. There's more in that cupboard. No, I don't think Exeter will detect the trap. With the kind of power Zath has at his disposal, he won't have left any fingerprints."
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40
Julian spent the night on Prof Rawlinson's sofa and went home through a drizzly dawn to clean up as best he could. Even the water supply had failed, though. Exploring his own house in a way he never had before, he discovered that the taps were supplied from a tank in the attic, which was charged by hand-pumping from an underground cistern—how it arrived there was not clear, but he managed to fill a bucket from it without falling in. There was no firewood cut, and he could not handle an ax.
Clean but shivering, he had just conquered the last shirt button when he heard the doorbell jangle. On the veranda stood William McKay, unshav
en and rumpled as a wet cat, beaming in his usual witless fashion and holding out a covered basket.
"Heard you were home, old man. Brought you some brekker."
Julian was nonplussed. “That's extremely kind of you."
"Oh, don't thank me, old son. Thank the Reformed Methodist Ladies’ Good Deed and Morris Dancing Society, Olympus Branch. They distribute gin to the needy. I'm just the messenger boy. You can tip me a tanner if you're feeling generous. Need the basket back."
"Come in a moment."
McKay stepped over the threshhold and stopped. He was a tall, vapid man and the best linguist in the station, able to speak at least twelve of the Valian dialects without saying anything of substance in any of them. His only interest was fishing and he was of interest to Julian only because he was Euphemia's husband. She swore they had not shared a bed in years, but how did one cross-examine a man about his own wife?
Lifting a corner of the cover, Julian found fruit, bread that smelled newly baked, and a stoppered bottle hot enough to contain tea. His mouth began watering enthusiastically. He thought of Prof. “You do this gin-distributing to all us worthy poor?"
"Well, it makes sense to have a central mess. Got to ration the supplies, what? All hang together. Polly organized it.” McKay's gaze wandered past Julian and back again. “You—you're alone?"
"Yes. Come and sit a moment. I need to talk to you."
"Oh. Should be getting back. Just wondered if you had news of Euphemia. We're a bit concerned, you know."
"What? Why? Come in here,” Julian said firmly. Taking the basket, he led the way into his drawing room. It was small and rather sparse, for he had no skill at homemaking and rarely entertained, but he noted that it was at least tidy. He waved his guest to a chair and took one himself. He began emptying the basket. “Tell me."
McKay folded himself down into the chair and stared at the floor uncomfortably. “Well, she went back Home briefly to fetch Exeter's cousin...."
