by Dave Duncan
"No. And I never will."
She made the tea and covered the pot with the cozy. “So that's all? You walk out of here at daylight and enlist?” The night's efforts seemed strangely futile if all they had achieved was to deliver another living body to the abattoir.
"There's one thing I must do first,” Edward said through a yawn. “And that's get word to Head Office about the traitor back in Olympus. I hope they can tell me if the Blighters are still after me."
"I thought only people could cross over?” Julian said. “Letters won't? So how do you get word back to the Service?"
"I've got three leads. Yes, one of them might require a trip back, but if I do have to go, it won't be for long. They all require heading down to the West Country. You going back to Fallow, Ginger?"
"I must. First thing."
"Then I'll come with you. Soon as I have something to wear. Can you think of anywhere I can lay low for a couple of days?"
Jones fingered the bridge of his nose and jerked his hand away angrily. “I do have one idea. If we can't trust Stringer, then the school itself's too obvious."
Edward nodded, yawning again. “Smedley?"
They all looked at Julian.
"I'll tag along,” he said quietly.
"Tea, anyone?” Alice said, but it turned out nobody wanted tea. Probably, like her, they wanted only to close their eyes and disappear. “Well, if you men are sure you'll be all right in here..."
Today was Thursday. She would likely be sacked if she missed a second day's work, but she knew she could not just walk out of this affair now.
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IV
Queen's Gambit
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17
DAYLIGHT AROUND THE CURTAINS WAKENED HER. SHE FUMBLED FOR her watch. Ten o'clock! Now she could hear the rumble of traffic to tell her that business swirled as usual through the city. She reeled out of bed, buttoned up her housecoat, disciplined her hair viciously, and then hurried through to the sitting room.
A man in a bottle-green dressing gown was reading yesterday's Times. The sight was a stake through her heart, but of course it was only Edward. He lurched to his feet as she entered. He smiled, all blue eyes and white teeth.
No one else around—damn! She was not awake enough yet for the bleeding-hearts scene. “They can't both be in the bathroom. Is there a cup left in that pot?"
"Yes. It's fresh. Ginger went out shopping."
She moved to the counter, turning her back on him. She laid out cup and saucer, bracing for the inevitable questions. She heard a floorboard squeak as he moved to the fireplace, a rustle of paper.
"Tell me about him,” Edward said.
"No.” Perhaps when she was properly awake.
Or perhaps not.
She poured the tea. It looked well stewed.
Edward said, “He's rich, but his wife controls the money. He smokes cigars. He's a barrister and probably in the army."
The teapot clattered on the counter. She spun around, heart pounding madly.
Edward's smirk changed to alarm. “I say! Didn't mean to startle you!"
"Is this some of your witchcraft?"
He blushed like a child caught in wickedness. “Of course not! Not in this world!"
"Then how do you know all that?"
He shrugged, smiling thinly. “The cigars I can smell on this dressing gown. You don't wear a ring, so he's probably married. He buys his clothes at Harrods and drives a cathedral-size car, so he's rich. But you live in a slum, so he can't afford to give you money. Reasonable guess that he's in the Army, living on the King's shilling."
"And a barrister?"
Edward hesitated. Looking thoroughly ashamed now, he pulled a paper from his pocket. “Envelope addressed to Sir D'Arcy Devers, QC, at Gray's Inn."
She took up her tea with shaking hands and went to the sofa. “Elementary, my dear Watson!"
"Bloody cheap trick,” he muttered. “I'm sorry. Soldier by choice or conscription?"
"By choice."
Edward said, “Oh!” and there was silence.
She finished the tea and laid down the cup and saucer.
"And you used to call me a starry-eyed romantic idealist!” he said.
She did not look at him. “They're all over the place. He was in line for a judgeship. A messy divorce would have finished that. His wife is vindictive and well-connected."
"'I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more'?"
"You could say that."
"Herrick said that, actually."
"It was Lovelace. And, no, it doesn't feel good to come second to a war."
"Oh, Alice!” he said sadly. “Oh, my poor Alice!"
"Save your pity. I was a kept woman and happy in the work, until the Kaiser spoiled the show.” She forced herself to meet his stare. “I should have told you. I nearly did, but you had so many other troubles. I'm sorry."
"That long?"
"Since October 1913."
"Oh.” He winced and turned to face the mantelpiece. “I must have seemed a bloody fool!"
"No. Not a fool. Young men in love are foolish, but not fools. I told you, I love you as a brother."
"A kid brother!” he said angrily. “I was eighteen and you were twenty-one. I'm still eighteen!"
"And I'm an old crone of twenty-four!” He looked more like sixteen standing on a box, but she could hardly tell him so. “I still love you as a brother."
He turned back to her and smiled. It was a brave effort, but his eyes were glistening.
"And you're not eighteen on the inside, Edward. In some ways you seem older than Julian, who's been tempered in the flames of hell. What have you been through, to do that?"
"Nothing like what he's seen. Just experience."
Grim, grim experience, she thought.
"You didn't grow out of it?” she asked sadly. “Did you really carry a torch for me all those years on your magic world?"
He bit his lip. “I still had hopes, I suppose. You were another reason for wanting to come Home."
"Oh, come on!” she persisted teasingly. “You have all my secrets. In the car you displayed a certain assertiveness I do not recall noticing before. You've had practice in clinches."
He squirmed. “No love affairs! But—but there could have been.” When she let the silence age, he said, “She indicated that she was inclined in that direction."
He sounded so incredibly Victorian she almost laughed aloud. He was still the paradigm of the romantic.
"Go back to her and try a few more of those clinches,” she said.
He stared down at the cold gas fire. “I am never going back, so it isn't possible. It wasn't possible then. I had given my word to you."
She rose to go and dress. “But I had refused. You were under no obligation to me.” She turned her back on him and suddenly his arms were tight around her.
"I expect I was using you as my excuse,” he said in her ear. “How could I let myself fall in love on a world I was trying to leave? Yes, I was tempted, very tempted. It was my memory of you that sustained me."
Her baby foster brother was a man now, and this was the first time she had really appreciated the difference. Not being able to see his face helped. A man was embracing her, a determined, strong-willed man. No boy.
"Let me go, please."
"I'm not going to rape you. I just want to know if you're happy."
"If the war would end and D'Arcy come back safe, then I would be very happy. His wife's an invalid; she won't live much longer."
"You trust him?"
She would not take this inquisition from anyone else, but he was not anyone else. “Absolutely."
"Because if you have doubts ... If you want to change your mind, Alice darling, then you still can. You can go to Nextdoor."
"What?"
"I'll go fight the Kaiser. You go to Nextdoor. In six years we'll be the same age."
"Edward! That is not the probl
em! Now let me go and stop talking nonsense!"
He released her. When she turned, she saw that he was furious. His voice had given no hint of that.
"You'd rather stay and fester in this slum? Uncle Roland blew it all on his precious Bibles, didn't he?"
She sighed. She was not at her best first thing in the morning. “Not really. Some man he had trusted embezzled it."
"Someone in his precious Missionary Society, of course?"
She nodded. “He had no idea. He wept when he told me, Edward. I think it killed him."
"So it should have!” He scowled at her frown. “Oh, I don't care about the money. It was his damned sanctimonious holier-than-thou-ness! I hate people who think they know what's best for the whole world."
There were probably many good responses to that, but she could not think of one. “There's a little left, your share. Just a few hundred quid, and it's all tied up in chancery or something."
"Garn! Cheese in a mousetrap?"
"Not worth your neck to claim, no."
With relief she heard the door open. Julian came limping into the room. His hair was wet, but he was unshaven and his clothes were still caked with dried blood. His eyes flickered appraisingly from one to the other.
"Good morning,” he said.
"Good morning. How's the leg?"
"Stiff, that's all. I made a mess of your clean towels, I'm afraid. Have you found any breakfast? We cleaned out the larder like a herd of locusts."
"Horde,” Edward said. “Horde of locusts."
"Plague,” said Alice. They were playing silly games to cover the tension, and it annoyed her. “I'll go and get dressed before Ginger comes back."
The bell rang then. Julian went. Ginger entered with bulky brown-paper parcels under each arm. He blinked short-sightedly in her direction.
"Morning, Miss Prescott."
"Morning, Mr. Jones. My, you have been busy! I apologize for being such a terrible hostess."
"Nonsense. The old need very little sleep.” He dropped the parcels. “This one's five-nine, eleven stone. This is five-foot eleven and three-quarters, ten stone seven pounds.” He reached in pockets. “Razor, shaving soap, brushes of diverse types, all as per your favor of today's date."
"Savile Row?"
"Off a barrow.” He sat down heavily. His hard night still showed. “I made a phone call and I have a refuge for you."
Edward sighed. “Ginger Jones, you are a prince among men! I am so grateful I could weep."
"So could we all,” Julian agreed.
Jones coughed disapprovingly. “Steady, there!” He was genuinely embarrassed.
"Where is this haven, then?” Edward asked.
"The Dower House at Greyfriars."
Edward's eyes widened in shock, making his bony face seem skull-like. “The Grange?"
"Mrs. Bodgley lives in the Dower House now. The general died, you know."
"No, I didn't. I'm truly sorry to hear that. The lady hasn't had much luck, has she!"
"But she knows you were not the cause, and she is anxious to meet you. And a friend. I didn't give your name, Smedley, in case of accidents. There's a train in a little over an hour. Think we could make that?"
Julian and Edward dived for their respective parcels.
"Wait!” Alice said. “I hate to be rushed. Why don't we travel separately? Wouldn't that be safer?"
"All four of us?” Jones asked, frowning, touching his nose.
"Two and two. You and Julian. Me and Edward on the next train."
Everyone looked to Edward.
He nodded. “It can't be any riskier, can it? If I write a letter, Ginger, would you post it in the Fallow box for me?"
The schoolmaster raised his eyebrows and again reached to adjust his absent pince-nez. “Why should it matter what box I put it in?"
"I think it does,” Edward said. “And the handwriting will. It may even matter whether you pop it in the box or I do, but we can try this first."
Julian made a snorting noise of disbelief. “May I borrow your bedroom, Alice? I'm slow, I'm afraid."
"Go ahead.” Alice wondered how she could ever dispose of such horribly bloodstained clothes.
He limped out, carrying his parcel. When the bedroom door clicked shut, Ginger turned to her and smiled triumphantly—the invalid was shedding no tears today.
"What's so funny?” Edward demanded, seeing her answering smile.
"Nothing,” she said.
"Next train's not till four-something,” Ginger said.
Alice relaxed. “Then you and Julian go first. Edward and I can follow."
They would have time to hammer out his emotional problems, and she could hear more of his adventures in that magical world of his. She had a suspicion that he had been harping on the Nagian savages to discourage Smedley's interest. There must be a brighter side to Nextdoor—perhaps that mysterious Prince Goldfish he had mentioned.
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18
GOLBFISH SLAMMED THE BEDROOM DOOR ON YMMA'S MOCKING laughter and stamped off to face his ordeal. He stopped stamping quite soon, because he was barefoot.
His honor guards were waiting in the antechamber. He had expected them to be in dressed much as he was, but they all wore Joalian-style armor of shiny bronze. The colored symbols of their devotion to Olfaan and the other gods were marked on the armor, not slobbered in paint all over their faces. The leader saluted. Puish Lordservant bowed and waved forward two flunkies. One presented Golbfish with a spear, and the other a circular shield. It was so massively ornamented with gold that he almost dropped it. Anything less useful for battle had never been invented.
He glowered around the guards, searching for any hint of a smirk hiding inside a helmet, but their expressions were all studiously noncommittal. Growling angrily, he strode off without a word, leaving them to follow in any order they liked.
For the first—and, he fervently hoped, the last—time in his life, he was clad in the traditional garb of a Nagian warrior. Not that there was much garb to it—a skimpy leather loincloth. He felt naked. His face was ludicrously painted up with colored hieroglyphics. His hair and beard had been trimmed short, because that was warrior style, but he knew how it emphasized the smallness of his head. He felt a freak. He knew he looked a freak, too. Perhaps there was a funny side to it, and someday, at some elegant dinner party, he would laugh with his friends, relating how he had been forced to dress up as a barbarian. Perhaps. But if his friends back in Joal could see him now they would ... they would laugh just as hard as that slut on the bed was laughing.
He was not the right shape. His torso tapered upward instead of downward, although that did not stop him worrying that his absurd garment might slide right off him in the sweltering heat. With both hands occupied, he would be able to do little to stop it if it tried. He had no hair on his chest—and no ritual scars, either. If Mother thought he would rouse the warrior caste of her primitive kingdom to blood lust and patriotic fervor, then she was going to be sadly disappointed.
Even stupid Ymma knew that. Her mocking words still rang in his ears: “What will they think of you? What will your precious friends think of you when they see you like that? What verses will your poets compose, what songs will your singers sing? And that sculptor man—will he carve your likeness?” She had started to laugh again—hard, cruel laughter like the strokes of a lash.
Golbfish shuddered. Fortunately his best friends were all far away in Joal, and the few he had in Nag would not be close enough to see any of the details. They were civilians all, talented artists whom he had brought back from Joal to aid him in his efforts at improving the cultural life of the kingdom. Civilians would be kept to the back of the temple.
The Joalians will understand! he told himself. They know I must conform to local custom in raising the horde. They trust me, as they will never trust Tarion. It was the Joalians who insisted Mother appoint me hordeleader.
But Tarion had been made cavalryleader, and Golbfish
did not understand why the Joalians had agreed to that. They were relying on the Nagian cavalry far more than on the Nagian infantry, which would be of little help to them. Nagland had plenty of moas, but no tradition of using them in warfare. Joalian lancers were as good as any in the Vales—except the Thargians, of course—but they had not been able to bring their mounts over Thordpass. A moa was a one-man steed that needed many fortnights to be imprinted by a new rider. Little brother Tarion would be technically under the hordeleader's command, but he was far more likely to win glory in the coming war than Golbfish himself was.
He was not looking forward to the war at all. He was a patron of the arts, not a fighter. He was looking forward to this afternoon's mustering ceremony least of all. He would rather face a horde of armed Thargians than go before his own people dressed like this, but there was no way he could escape the ordeal. Joalia had demanded the support of its ally, and the horde must be mustered in the ancient ways.
What Joal wanted, Joal got. That was the law in Nagia.
The palace was a dingy affair of endless stone corridors, badly designed and poorly built, an insipid imitation of Joalian architecture. There was no decent building stone near Nag, not like the lustrous variegated marbles of Joal. Everything was made of the same drab, purplish sandstone. It was so soft it crumbled, and the floors were permanently gritty. Nagland had no tradition of building in stone.
Nagia had no tradition of hereditary monarchs, either. The Joalians had imposed the monarchy by force of arms when they put his grandfather on the throne. His mother, it must be admitted, had astonished everyone by managing to hang on to it, crushing the predictable revolts with Joalian help and ruthless cruelty. It was true she favored Tarion as her successor, for she made no secret of the fact. She maintained that Golbfish was not sufficiently ruthless. She was right about that, but was ruthlessness necessary anymore? After three generations, he thought, the Nagians had adjusted to the situation. They would tolerate a king to keep the Joalians quiet, just as long as he was benevolent and well intentioned.
Mother did not agree.
Golbfish's left foot was already sore by the time he reached the Garden of Blessings, which was a feeble copy of the Garden of Blessings in Joal. Anyone who had seen the original found this one pitiful. Imported Joalian seeds never thrived, and Nagian vegetation just did not have the same luster. The wickertrees gave a feeble shade, the sunblooms and starflowers were almost invisible amid their rioting leathery leaves. Now, in late summer, the fountains had run dry and the ornamental pools looked scummy and dead, as if they should have fish floating belly-up in them. The statuary had been carved from the inevitable purplish sandstone, so that most of the figures were weathered to faceless mummies already.
