Present Tense [Round Two of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

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  24

  "WAKE UP, BEAUTIFUL,” SAID A WHISPER.

  Dosh jumped, feeling a hand over his mouth. “Mmmph?” The hand was removed. He could see nothing except a faint hint of moonlight under the flap of the tent. He was lying on his sleeping rug, and the ground below it was hard and stony. He heard the voice again, very close to his ear.

  "Awake?"

  "Yes, master."

  "Good. Keep your voice down. It is time to play a little game."

  "Again?” The man was insatiable! “How long have we slept?"

  "I have not slept at all, and this is another sort of game. We begin by tying you up."

  Dosh's heart made a mighty leap and began racing all around his chest, looking for a way out. “No, master! Please! I have had some very unpleasant experiences with those sort of—"

  Tarion's strong hand pushed a cloth into his mouth, and Dosh's protests subsided into whimpers. It was the rag he used for cleaning the master's saddle. He did not resist as rope was wrapped around his ankles, harsh fibers biting into his skin. Tarion had never bound him before and had never really hurt him—not too much—but he was capable of anything. There were bloodcurdling tales of orgies at Bondvaan Ambassador's house....

  "Roll over!"

  Dosh rolled over on his belly and put his wrists together. As the rope tightened about them and then was pulled tighter and even tighter, he said, “Mmmph!” urgently through the gag. It did no good. Then his elbows were lashed together also, and finally his knees. Holy Tion, preserve me!

  For a moment nothing more happened. He lay in the dark and sweated, while his imagination rioted with macabre thoughts of what Tarion might be going to do to him. If it took very long his hands would fall off.

  It started—Tarion flipped him over, so he lay awkwardly on his bound arms. There was a sharp rock under his shoulders. To make matters worse, the prince lay down also and leaned one arm heavily on Dosh's chest. Something cold caressed his neck.

  "That is my dagger you can feel, lover,” Tarion said softly, a few inches above Dosh's nose. “I'll take the gag out, but if you make any noise, I shall cut your throat while the second word is still in it. Understand?"

  The cloth was removed. Dosh gulped and tried to work the taste away. “Yes, master,” he whispered.

  "Good. Now listen carefully. I must leave. My dear mother has been called to take her place in the heavens, among the shining blessed."

  "I am sorry, master."

  "You needn't be—I'm not. It is Thighday already and she died on Ankleday, so our beloved battlemaster should receive the news before nightfall. I prefer to depart before he does, just in case he makes the wrong decision."

  "But how—"

  Dosh felt Tarion's chuckle more than he heard it.

  "Just say I have a premonition. I am quite confident that she died on Ankleday. A monarchy should not be left without a monarch any longer than absolutely necessary. And I cannot take you with me, dear boy, much as I long to, because you have no moa and we shall be going very fast. So what am I to do with you, mm?"

  Dosh managed a small moan, but his throat seemed to have closed up completely.

  A wet tongue touched his nose. “I love you so much,” said the dread, mocking whisper close above him, “that I can hardly bear the thought of leaving you to another master. But we have had such good times together that it does seem unkind to put you to sleep. Do you wish to express an opinion on the matter?"

  Dosh believed. He knew the prince was quite capable of killing him here, now, on the tent floor, in cold blood, with a single slash of his dagger. “I love you!” His voice quavered.

  "And I love you, too, darling. I considered just cutting your beautiful throat while you were asleep, but there is something I am curious to learn, most curious to learn. Men always tell the truth on their deathbeds, did you know that? And wise men tell the truth to avoid deathbeds. So you tell me now, lover: Who are you spying for?"

  "I've told you before! Anyone who pays me."

  "My, you are sweating, aren't you? I have known you sweat often enough, dear one, but never quite like this. So you do understand that I am going to kill you if you continue lying to me? Last chance, Dosh Houseboy. Who are you spying for?"

  Dosh tried to speak and discovered he was weeping. Sobbing was not easy with so much of Tarion's weight resting on his chest. “Nobody."

  "Oh, now that is absurd! Really silly. Everybody spies for somebody. The day I hired you, you hid two stars and some small change under the Niolian vase in my bedroom. You now have five stars in the bottom of my brush case. Three stars in seven fortnights? That isn't nearly enough for a clever sneak like you to earn by tattling. You probably made that much selling your pretty body around the palace guard, but you'd have gained far more if you were peddling information about me to anyone local. So you're spying for some outsider. Who?"

  "I love you,” Dosh whimpered. “I don't tell anyone anything!"

  A sudden searing pain at his throat and he thought he had died....

  "That's just a flesh wound,” Tarion said. “At least, I think it is. It's hard to tell in the dark. I may overdo it next time. You still alive?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. This is taking too long. Somebody sent you to Nag to worm your way into my service and spy on me. You were not exactly subtle in your approach, I'm afraid. You claimed to be a Narshian, but you're not. Now I shall put the gag back and rip your guts open and you will die very nastily—unless you tell me who it was that sent you."

  Trouble was, Dosh knew he could not answer that question. He was not spying on Tarion at all, only on the Liberator, but he could not explain that either.

  He was dragged out of the tent in the bitter light of dawn. He should have been ashamed of his nudity, his tears, the dried blood on him, but the pain in his limbs drowned out everything else. His legs would not support him, and when he was brought before Kammaeman Battlemaster, he collapsed in a sniveling heap.

  "Oh, sewage!” said the general. “That will be all, Captain. You may go."

  The tent flap closed. There were two other men there, and they stayed. Through the blur of his tears, Dosh recognized Kolgan Coadjutant by his great height. The other was wearing face paint and a loincloth and was almost certainly the Liberator.

  "All right, scum,” Kammaeman said. “Talk! When did he leave?"

  Dosh's mouth was a foul desert, still tasting of the oily rag that had spent so many hours in it, but he managed to croak, “Middle of the night, sir. I don't know the hour."

  "Who brought him the news?"

  Normally Dosh would lie in response to such a question or demand money for an answer—or both, but he was too weak to maintain a good fiction, and his hatred of Tarion maddened him.

  "I don't think anyone did. He said the queen died on Ankleday, as if it had been arranged."

  The Joalian grunted. “That's entirely possible, I suppose. Coadjutant?"

  "I agree."

  "Hordeleader?"

  "I'd believe anything of that one, sir."

  Yes, it was the Liberator. Not that anyone but Dosh knew that D'ward was the prophesied Liberator, of course.

  Kammaeman growled angrily. “If we believe this wretch, then they've got too good a start for us ever to catch them. Hordeleader, send for the other one."

  The tent flap lifted, and the Liberator said something to someone outside. Then he returned. He came over to Dosh and offered him a water bottle. Seeing that Dosh's hands were not functioning yet, he went down on one knee and held it to his lips so he could drink. Water went everywhere, but some found its way down into the desert. Bliss!

  "I'm not sorry to be rid of the royal bastard,” Kolgan muttered, “but we can ill afford to lose the mounts. It leaves us too damnably short."

  Kammaeman grunted agreement. “But it'll be much worse if I detach a troop to follow him.” The Joalians moved away, to sit on the stools at the other end of the tent.
>
  The Liberator was peering at Dosh's face. “Why did he cut you up like that?"

  "Just his idea of fun, sir,” Dosh mumbled, hoping nobody put a mirror near him. He did not want to know how bad it was. The slashes on his throat wouldn't matter, but Tarion had done things to his cheeks and forehead, and close to his eyes.

  "Mm?” the Liberator said quietly. His paint wrinkled. “Did you tell him what he wanted to know?"

  Startled, Dosh shook his head. He had tried to! He had tried desperately, but his real master had made that impossible. His real master could not be named. It was hard for Dosh even to think his name.

  Of course the Liberator did not know that, and he misunderstood. “Good for you!” he murmured. “Amazing he didn't just kill you, then."

  That was certainly true! Dosh shuddered at the memory and could not speak.

  "There's a surgeon's apprentice in the Rareby troop. He could stitch those slashes so they don't scar so badly."

  Astonished, Dosh said, “I'd be very grateful, sir."

  The Liberator chuckled drily. “After all, your looks are your stock in trade, aren't they?” He stood up and walked over to the others.

  Who was he to sneer? A warrior sold his body too, and in worse ways. Beauty was a talent like strength or courage. If the gods blessed a man with those, he was expected to use them to benefit himself and other people, was he not? Then why not the same with beauty?

  What chance had Dosh ever had, an abandoned Tinkerfolk brat? His own people had thrown him out. His body was all he'd ever had to offer. It had needed to be fed, just like any other. He had served women just as willingly as men—more so, actually, because they were less dangerous—but he had never found a woman with the money and the freedom to offer him long-term employment.

  For a few minutes the soldiers talked tactics and battle plans, while Dosh brooded, wondering what was going to happen to him now. He had been wondering that for hours, ever since Tarion had given up and left him. When he had decided that he was not going to bleed to death, he had concluded that he would probably be lucky if the Joalians just ran him out of camp at spearpoint. Then the Lemodians would kill him. He hardly cared anymore. He was desolated by the thought that he had failed his master, his real master. The pain in his hands was a sickening throb. He stayed where he was, keeping very still, hoping to hear something of importance.

  Then the other prince was ushered in, gasping and coughing from running. His face paint was patchy, as if he had been interrupted during his morning touch-up. Nevertheless, even Tarion had conceded that the fat man was far more convincing as a warrior now than he had been in Nag. He was still just as fat, though.

  Kammaeman informed him that the queen was dead. Golbfish expressed suitable regrets, but he was probably even less upset than his half brother had been. No one had ever described old Emchainne as likable, and she had conspired to have this son murdered in front of her eyes.

  "So either you or Tarion must be recognized as her successor,” Kammaeman announced, belaboring the obvious. “As he has betrayed our trust, you are our choice. Even if he hadn't, of course! I mean, we had already decided that. Long live the king!"

  "Thank you, Battlemaster,” the blubber-man said. “Joalia will find that her trust in me is not misplaced."

  Kolgan chuckled in the background. “There may be some delay in arranging your coronation, though."

  "Yes,” Kammaeman said. “First we shall have to hang your brother. However, you have my word. As soon as we return to Nag, he is a dead man, and you shall have the throne."

  "I am very grateful, sir."

  "I suppose we had better have him proclaimed in the camp?” Kolgan said.

  "I suppose so.” Kammaeman sounded displeased.

  There was a pause, then Golbfish said, “That will present difficulties. I shall automatically become hordeleader.” He even sounded like a prince now. How extraordinary!

  "You are welcome to it,” the Liberator said.

  "But I swore before the goddess that I would fight in the ranks."

  Dosh looked up in amazement, and saw that the two Joalians were equally at a loss. As for the Liberator ... Face paint tended to mask expressions, but his jaw was hanging down.

  Then everyone spoke at once: “That is not necessary!” ... “Do I understand that you wish to remain a simple warrior?” ... “It does you great honor!"

  Golbfish shrugged. “If you will permit it, Battlemaster, that is what I request. I wish to fulfill my oath. When we return to Nagland, then I shall be free to assume my new duties."

  "By the five gods!” Kammaeman exploded. “I confess I did not expect this of you ... Your Majesty."

  "It is gravely out of character, I agree,” the fat man said, and chuckled. For a brief instant that chuckle made him their equal, or even their superior, and they responded with smiles and laughter. Then he sank back into his humble warrior role. “But my people will approve. Lately I have been studying leadership, under a remarkable teacher. Do I have your permission to withdraw?"

  He must have been given a nod of consent, for he went strutting out, stalking past Dosh without even a glance of distaste.

  "Miracle!” the battlemaster said. “May the gods be praised! D'ward, what have you done to him?"

  "Me? Nothing! Nothing at all!"

  "Somebody made a man of him!"

  "Well it certainly wasn't me!” Kolgan said, laughing.

  They all stood up. Then, of course, they remembered Dosh.

  "Yuuch!” Kammaeman said. “What do we do with this dreg? Either of you gentleman need a catamite?"

  "Throw him out and let the Lemodians have him,” Kolgan suggested, looking down from his enormous height. His red beard twisted in an expression of extreme contempt. “He can only tend to corrupt the camp if he is allowed to stay. I despise such degenerates."

  That was hardly honest, Dosh thought, considering that Kolgan had borrowed Tarion's houseboy twice since leaving Nag, for massage and other purposes. He was a stingy tipper, too.

  The Liberator sighed. “Can you run, lad?"

  "Run, sir?"

  "I could use a messenger.” He looked to Kammaeman. “If I send warriors, they spend half the day chattering when they get there."

  The battlemaster chuckled. “I believe you! Take him by all means. If he causes trouble, though, he'll have to go."

  "I think he'll behave, sir. Will you, Dosh?"

  Dosh stood up shakily, hardly able to believe his ears. “Oh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir!” Personal messenger for the Liberator? Wonderful! How pleased his real master would be with him!

  "Come on, then. Here, you carry my shield until we can get some clothes for you."

  They all went outside, blinking at the sunlight. As he set off through the camp with the Liberator, Dosh tried to hold his head up and ignore the laughter and jeering his appearance provoked. It wasn't easy, though. There was a lot of it.

  "Clothes first,” D'ward said. “Then we'd best get those stitches done as soon as possible.” He grinned down at Dosh. He was tall. “Perhaps you'd better try some face paint!"

  Dosh laughed as a good servant should when his master makes a joke. He discovered that laughter hurt his face.

  "Then food,” the Liberator went on. “I wonder if we can find you some decent boots? Hatchet, knife? ... I assume you're going to make a break for it?"

  "No, sir. I want to stay with you, sir. I'm terribly grateful for—"

  "Stuff that! I don't need your flattery. Why didn't he kill you at the end, when you wouldn't tell him what he wanted to know?"

  "I think he was fond of me in his way."

  "Curious fondness. All right, stay. I do need a messenger. But you will not sleep anywhere near me, understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "He offered you to me several times, did you know that?"

  "He offered me to many people, sir. Many accepted."

  The Liberator pulled a face under his paint and looked away.

  Then
Dosh felt a sudden blaze of inspiration and joy. He had completed his mission! He had solved the riddle in the prophecy: Eleal shall be the first temptation and the prince shall be the second. Prince Tarion had tempted the Liberator by offering him Dosh. That was all there was to it! The prophecy had already been fulfilled, so now he could report back to his master, his real master, his divine master.

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  V

  Pawn Takes Castle

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  25

  A SCHOOLBOY OF ABOUT THIRTEEN CAME OUT INTO THE CORRIDOR and offered Alice his seat in the compartment.

  She smiled winningly at him. “That's very kind of you, but I'm all right here. Thank you, though."

  Blushing, he went back inside and slid the door shut.

  Since Swindon, the train was far less crowded. It was possible to talk in the corridor.

  "Tell me what happened after you arrived in Lemodvale and Tarion departed."

  Stooping to peer out the window, Edward scowled. “I'd just as soon not talk about it, actually. Have you noticed how much luggage everyone seems to have? I think they're running away from the air raids in London."

  "Possibly. And you're running away from my question."

  He sighed. “I'm not proud of what happened! It was a mess. Kammaeman may have been a crafty politician, but he was no general. He hadn't done his homework."

  He drew cucumber shapes on the greasy window and explained the geography. “Thargia had taken Narshvale, which had been Joalian. The Thargians are the bullyboys of the Vales, like the Prussians in Europe or the Spartans in Greece. Nobody calls out the Thargians!