Past Imperative

4

MURDER! IT NEVER BLEEDING RAINED BUT IT BLOODY poured.

Carruthers had taken his family to Harrogate, Robinson was hiking in Scotland, Hardy had broken his pelvis, and Newlands was in bed with acute appendicitis. Meaning Mister Muggins Leatherdale was left running the whole shop. Meaning simple Inspector Leatherdale, just six months short of retirement, poor sod, was now expected to do the work of a superintendent, a deputy superintendent, a squad of detective inspectors, and earn not a ha'penny more for it.

On top of all that there had been threats of civil war in Ireland last week and real war breaking out all over Europe now—the Boche and the Russkis at each other's throats already and the Frogs mobilizing—with resultant official warnings to look out for all sorts of un-English activities, like riots and marches. Half the force was away on holiday.

And now a murder, the first in the county in twenty years. Not just your drunken brawl in a pub, charge reduced to manslaughter. Not just some sordid back-street quarrel over a woman, oh no! Nothing so simple for poor Muggins Leatherdale. No, the chief constable's own son murdered in the chief constable's own house and the Old Man himself two-thirds off his rocker with grief and shock.

Howzat for pouring?

Bloody Noah's Flood!

The bells of St. George's were pealing as the big car purred through Bishops Wallop. Leaning back on the leather cushions with his bowler on his lap, Leatherdale heard them with a strange sense of unreality. He'd been routed out of bed at midnight and his eyelids felt thick as muffins. Shameful. He was getting too old to be a real copper.

The sun was baking hot already, a perfect Bank Holiday weekend in a perfect summer. War and murder and insanity, and yet the bells of Bishops Wallop pealed as they always had. They had rung like that when Leatherdale was a boy, spending holidays with his grandparents in a cottage whose thatched roof and ceilings had seemed uncomfortably low even then. The tenor bell had sounded a tiny fraction flat in those days, and it did now. It had probably seemed that way to Richard the Lion-heart.

Church bells were still ringing as he was whisked through Sternbridge, and he wondered what his grandfather would have said to that miracle. Or his father, for that matter. Toffed out in their Sunday best, the worthy folk ambled along the street to worship, very much as their forebears had done for centuries. Dogs barked to repel the intruder and probably thought their efforts successful, for the motor accelerated as it left the village and raced up the hill beyond. It must have been doing forty when it reached the long avenue of beeches and chestnuts.

He watched the great canopy of summer foliage rushing overhead as the vehicle traversed the green tunnel. All his life he had gone to work on his bike, in uniform. On his bike he would be able to hear the thrushes and the woodpeckers and see butterflies working the hedgerows, but he had asked the chauffeur to lower the black leather hood so he could enjoy the breeze, scented with thyme and clover. England in August! The hay-fields were deserted today, their crop half cut. Down in the bottoms horses swished their tails at flies. Everywhere he looked, the hazy skyline was ornamented with church spires and towers rising over the trees. Once he could have named them all and probably still could if he had a moment to think—St. Peter's in Button Bent, St. Alban's in Cranley ... Norman, High Gothic, Perpendicular. For a thousand years, every Englishman had dwelt within walking distance of a church.

He had pulled out his watch before he realized that the bells had just told him the time. Elsie would be pulling out the stops in St. Wilfred's about now. He was going to be early for his appointment.

This jaunt was all a waste of time anyway. Leatherdale had a corpse and a killer and an open-and-shut case. The motive might not be obvious to nice-thinking folks, but a copper knew about the seamy side of life. Such things could happen even in drowsy little Greyfriars, where a runaway horse was a month's excitement. They happened; they just weren't talked about. This jaunt to Fallow had been Mrs. Bodgley's idea and the Old Man had been ready to agree to anything. So Leatherdale got a ride in a Rolls Royce. He yawned.

Fallow? He had passed the gates a few times, never been inside. It was outside his manor. Outside his ken, too—educational establishment for young gentlemen. Snob factory. Fallow boys would show up around Greyfriars sometimes, on day outings with their parents, like tailors’ dummies in their school uniform, top hat and tails, each one like every other one. All speaking alike with the proper accent and polite as Chinese mandarins, all of ‘em.

He'd thought to quiz the police doctor about Fallow, but the answer had been very much what he'd expected. A highly respected public school, Watkins had said. Not Eton or Harrow, of course. Second eleven, but probably about the best in the second eleven. Has a very solid relationship with the Colonial Office. Turns out the men who run the Empire—something of a specialty of the house, you might say. A chap'll bump into Old Fallovians all over the globe, in just about every Crown Colony everywhere. Running them, of course. White Man's Burden, palm and pine, and all that.

Dear Mrs. Bodgley could not imagine anything on God's green earth that would turn a tailor's dummy, right-spoken, frightfully polite Fallow boy into a savage killer. Or her equally well-mannered son into a victim.

But Leatherdale could. Not nice. Not nice at all!

5

THE SKY WAS GROWING LIGHTER AS THE TRONG TROUPE approached the temple. They were still arrayed in approximate order of size, although that was not a conscious arrangement. Trong Impresario led the way, like some peripatetic monument, with the statuesque Ambria at his side. Last of all came little Eleal Singer. The wind was still just as bitter and boisterous, whirling scattered snowflakes along the canyon of the street.

Hobbling under the weight of her pack, Eleal was immediately behind Klip and Olimmiar. She hated Narshvale. It was her least favorite of all the lands the troupe visited each year. Narshvale was cold, with leaden skies always seeming just about to spill snow. In Narsh itself the streets stank, because of the coal the Narshians burned to warm their ugly stone houses—grimy stone with roofs of black slate. The people stank, too, probably because they didn't wash their clothes. You couldn't wash Ilama fleece, it wouldn't dry before next winter.

She especially disliked the temple and Ois, its goddess, although of course no one would ever say such a thing out loud. Ambria probably felt the same way, because she always told Eleal to wait outside. If the old hussy thought Eleal did not know what went on in there, then she was sorely misinformed. In some of the villages the troupe played, they all had to share the same sleeping room. Eleal knew perfectly well what happened in the dark, under the covers. Uthiam and Golfren did it a lot, because they'd been married less than a year. K'linpor Actor and Halma did it too, and Dolm Actor and Yama, but not as often. Even Trong and Ambria did it sometimes. Everyone had to pretend not to hear, and nobody ever mentioned it, although when one couple started it, they often set off others.

They were married and did it because they wanted to and must like it. What happened in the temple of Ois was different. It involved money, and was supposed to be a sacrifice to the goddess, but no other god or goddess that Eleal knew of demanded that. She often wondered how the priestesses felt about it. She'd even asked Uthiam once if that was what the men did on their annual visit. Uthiam had become indignant and said of course not, Trong Impresario would never allow them to, not even the bachelors.

"You mean it's wrong?” Eleal had asked, very sweetly.

"Certainly not!” Uthiam had declared, one must not presume to judge what the gods decree. She had turned very pink and changed the subject.

Up front, Trong and Ambria had rounded the corner. They would stop at the temple door for everyone else to catch up, and then Ambria would order Eleal to wait outside. Well, Eleal saw no reason why she should walk all that way and then back again with this heavy pack. She was not going to wait outside and freeze to death—she had other plans!

Checking that Uthiam and Dolm were still talking and paying no attention to her, she ducked into a doorway and made herself as flat as paint.

She felt breathless and her heart was thumping faster than usual. She had eaten no breakfast, yet there was a tight feeling in her insides. The annual mammoth ride over Rilepass always affected her like this. The summit was very scary, with huge masses of ice and snow liable to break off and crash down. Sometimes even a surefooted mammoth could slip and fall miles down, into a gorge. It was very exciting.

Everyone sacrificed to Ois before crossing Rilepass. On the other hand, the goddess was not likely to worry very much about one twelve-year-old girl, and even the goddess couldn't drop an avalanche on her without also dropping it on all the other people riding in the same howdah. Eleal was going to go and pray to Tion instead. She had some very special prayers to make.

She risked a glance around the corner, but Dolm and Uthiam were still in sight, and a few of the others also. She pulled back into her hiding place, grateful to be out of the wind, puffing on the tip of her nose to warm it.

Some big cities boasted several temples, but even towns like Narsh that had only one temple would also have at least one shrine to each member of the Pentatheon, either in person or to an aspect. Ois was an aspect of Eltiana, the Lady in her role as custodian of passes. Narsh also had a shrine to Kirb'l, the Joker, and the Joker was an aspect of Tion, the Youth.

It was very curious that the dour Narshians should have chosen that particular Tion persona to be his local representative. Narshians had less humor than any people she knew. Whereas most people never left the land they were born in, Eleal was very well traveled. The troupe visited seven of the Vales on their annual circuit. This year they had spent half a fortnight in Narsh. They had staged the comedy three times and the tragedy four times, without taking in enough to pay for the groceries, so Ambria said. Mill owners and ranchers, she grumbled—the meanest people in the world. They certainly had no sense of humor, so why should they honor the Joker so?

Piol Poet said that humor was the highest form of art, because it made people rejoice. He was joking when he said so.

Another glance showed Eleal that the coast was now clear. She left the alcove and hurried back the way she had come, her mismatched boots going clip, clop, clip, clop. Some of the locals were emerging now, as dawn approached, all bundled up in their smelly fleeces and furs. Miserable troglodytes! Trong Impresario had been stupendous as Trastos, especially when he was dying, but Narsh had just sat on its hands.

Piol had written speaking parts for Eleal into both plays this year, small ones. She played a gods’ messenger in the tragedy—she sang offstage, of course—and a young herald in the comedy, where she could use the staff to hide her limp. So she had played Narsh for the first time in her life, being received with wild indifference. Her curtain calls and standing ovations had totaled zero, exactly. In Lappin her acting had won applause one night; her singing in the masque always did. Tonight she would play in Sussland. Sussvale was a warmer, nicer place and did not stink of coal smoke. The Sussians would clap for her.

She turned a corner. Fortunately, there seemed to be a law everywhere that holy places must bunch together. The shrines in Narsh all adjoined the back wall of the Lady's temple, like chicks huddled under a hen's wing. There was one for Visek the Parent, one for Karzon the Man, one for Astina the Maiden, and the Youth's was at the far end of the street. What all the other buildings were, she did not know. Priests’ houses, perhaps.

Clip, clop, clip, clop...

She would not have much time. She had her prayers all planned. First she would ask the god to see her safely to his Festival, of course—just in case Ois took offense. Then she would pray for her friends, that the troupe might win the drama contest, Piol Poet for the play itself, and others for their individual performances. It was a bad year when the Trong Troupe did not collect at least three roses. Especially she must pray for Uthiam, who had been practicing Ironfaib's Polemic for months and could still bring tears to Eleal's eyes with it. Uthiam was married now. Next year she would either be the wrong shape or have a baby to look after.

Not far to go. Clip, clop ... She was panting, sweating in her llama fleece coat, despite the icy wind. She slowed down a little. If she were too much out of breath, she would not be able to sing for the god.

And the last prayer ... It was not so very much to ask. The Youth was god of art, and therefore the god most favored by actors. He was also god of beauty, which was why ugly or deformed people could not enter his Festival. And he was god of healing. Every year, at the closing ceremonies, he would grant at least one miracle cure to some fortunate pilgrim. Was it so much to ask that Eleal Singer's leg be made whole, so that in future years she, too, could enter his festival and sing for his glory?

The shrine was marked by an archway, painted yellow. Heaving her pack higher on her aching shoulders, Eleal limped inside.

She had never considered that there might be someone else there.

The shrine was a smallish, squarish room, lit by the doorway and some high windows. It contained only a low altar for offerings, with two tall candlesticks—which she strongly suspected were not real gold—and a large frog, carved out of yellow stone. She had come here many times. She thought that the god of beauty ought to have arranged for a more esthetic shrine, but she supposed its simplicity was sort of artistic ... if you liked sheds. The frog was one of the Youth's symbols, associated especially with Kirb'l, who was not only the Joker but also the golden moon, the one that did not behave like the other moons. So the frog itself was all right. It was the leer on its face and its skewed eyes that secretly annoyed her.

The man annoyed her much more. He was tiny and bent, and without his voluminous fur robe he would be tinier still. He was busily sweeping the floor with a scrawny broom, raising clouds of dust for the wind to stir.

Seeing her shadow, perhaps, he stopped his sweeping and turned around to peer at her. Inside his hood, all that showed was a face with a million wrinkles and eyes that did not look in the same direction. He must be even older than Piol Poet.

"Blessings upon you, missy!” he slobbered, leering at her cheerfully with toothless gums.

All she could think of to say was, “I came to pray to the god!” Which was obvious, of course.

"And make an offering, I hope? My breakfast, I hope?” He rolled one eye in the direction of her pack.

To her disgust, she saw a hem of dirty yellow protruding from under his furs. This rag doll must be the resident priest. She had never seen him here before, or even wondered who tended the shrine and removed each day's offerings. So she could not just ask him to leave. She did not want a nosy old priest eavesdropping on her prayers. And the only real offering she might give was a single copper coin, which she had not intended to give.

Still, she had come and had best get on with her business so she could run back to the temple door and wait for the others. Or perhaps she could just meet them out at the mammoth pens.

"I was planning to sing for the god."

The old man sighed, although his toothless grin did not fade. “Then I must enjoy your song. It will be a lighter breakfast than yesterday's, although probably more memorable. That's the best you can do?” he added wistfully.

She was nettled, as any true artist would be by such an attitude. He was making fun of her. “Music is my profession!"

He pursed his lips in wonder and turned to lean the broom in a corner. “May your offering be worthy of the god. What is your name, child?"

"Eleal Singer."

"Who?” The old man spun around with surprising agility. Both his eyes had opened very wide, although only one was looking at her. “You are Eleal? But where is the Daughter?"

She had been just about to wriggle out of her pack straps. This inexplicable reaction made her pause. “What daughter?"

The priest took a step toward her, anxiously rubbing his hands. His fingers were twisted, white with cold. “The Daughter of Irepit, of course! Don't you know about the prophecy? Don't you realize that you are in terrible danger? There is a reaper in town! You are so much younger than I expected!” Still babbling, he followed Eleal as she backed away. His wrinkles writhed in anguish. “Surely death will seek you out to break the chain! Who is looking after you, child? Your father? Parents?"

She had no parents, but she was not about to explain that to this crazy old man with his ravings of reapers and danger and chains and daughters of Irepit, whoever she might be. He was more than a few seats short of a full house. Someone had shuffled his script.

"Thank you for the warning,” she said. Her retreat had brought her to the door. “I'll go and look after that right away!"

She turned and ran, pack and all. Clipclopclipclopclip...

6

THE BIG CAR PURRED IN THROUGH THE GATES OF FALLOW. Leatherdale peered out sourly at the ivy-shrouded Gothic buildings, the shady elms, the central lawn basking in the sunshine. He'd played billiards on worse. The Gothic was of the Railway Nabob variety, but pleasantly aged now—best part of a century, at a guess. Pretty soon it would class as old, even by English standards. He wondered what it cost a man to send his son to a place like this, even as a day boy. If you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.

Had Elsie given him a son, the boy would have followed his father's footsteps through Parish Boys’ School in Greyfriars. He'd have learned the Three R's and been gone at fourteen, most likely. Not for him the inside track of a public school—classical education, university entrance, front of the queue when the posh jobs were handed out. This was where the bosses came from, the officers, the cabinet ministers, the men who ran the Empire. The Old Boys’ Network began here, at the snob factory.

The car glided to a stop in front of an imposing doorway, flanked by steps. There was no drawbridge or portcullis, but the architecture implied that there should be. The morning was magically peaceful, with doves cooing somewhere and a few faint clicks and puffings from the engine.

"Tudor House, sir,” said the chauffeur, opening the door. He must know, having driven the Young Master here often enough.

Leatherdale stepped down. “Shan't be more than twenty minutes, I expect, but you've got time to go find a cuppa round the back if you want."

A respectful smile thawed the man's professional inscrutability. “Why, I'd trust ‘em with my life, sir! But I'll stay here."

Eight boys had condensed out of the summer morning to examine the car. They ranged in height from not much over four feet to not much less than six. They wore toppers and tails and not one hand was in a pocket. They were standing back, carefully not crowding close enough to the machine to provoke its guardian, murmuring technical details without raising their voices: “Guff! She'll do more'n that...” “Bags more'n thirty horsepower!"

These unfortunates must be boarders with no homes to go to, residing at Fallow over the summer holidays. Lordie, what would it cost even to clothe a boy here? On a Sunday morning, Leatherdale would have expected them to be marched off to church parade. Then he realized that the tallest boy was Oriental and three of the others various shades of brown. Perhaps none of them were Christians. Rather startled by that possibility, he set off up the steps.

"Inspector Leatherdale?” The speaker was standing in the doorway, a bearded, paunchy man with a marked resemblance to the late King Edward.

Who else would it be, coming to ruin a perfect summer Sunday?

"Mr. Jones?"

Jones was staring past his visitor at the thousand-guinea motor. Perhaps his query had not been totally inane. Policemen did not normally travel in quite such style.

The hallway was dim and baronial, so full of silence that it seemed to echo with it, smelling of polish and chalk, exercise books and blotting paper. Marble stairs flanked by iron railings led up to mysterious heights. The room to which the visitor was led was equally institutional, furnished with aging armchairs and an ingrained reek of pipe smoke. Despite the windows open at the top, the air was stuffy and dead. Stern portraits of elderly gentlemen peered down disapprovingly between bookshelves, and the linoleum by the door was dangerously worn.

"Masters’ common room,” Jones explained quite needlessly. “May I offer you some tea, Inspector?"

Leatherdale declined the tea and accepted a chair with his back to the windows. It was more comfortable than it looked, and much too comfortable for a man who had been granted only two hours’ sleep.

Jones took a chair opposite, first removing a copy of the Times, which he brandished to demonstrate indignation. “Seen this morning's news? The Prussian rogues have invaded Luxembourg! And declared war on Russia. Belgium, Holland, Sweden—all mobilizing. Bounders!"

"Bad business,” Leatherdale agreed.

"The Kaiser's a maniac! Doesn't he realize that we mean what we say? England's made it perfectly plain, hasn't it, for years, that if Luxembourg or Belgium is invaded, then we'll have to fight? Don't the blighters understand that our word is our bond? That they're going to bring the British Empire in against them?” He slapped the paper down angrily. “May as well get it over with, I suppose. The Hun has made it pretty clear that he plans to smash France and Russia first and then deal with us later."

Leatherdale made sounds of assent. Jones's resemblance to the late king was astonishing, except that he wore pince-nez, which flashed in the light from the window. From lifetime habit Leatherdale quantified his estimates—middle fifties, five-foot-eight or-nine, weight close to fourteen stone, well dressed, hair brown turning gray at the temples, full beard likewise.

"I mean we have no choice, have we?” Jones persisted. “When a chap already has the world's biggest army and keeps adding to it, and then his neighbors justifiably start to get alarmed and add a few guns of their own and the Germans scream that they're being encircled...” Having apparently lost the thread of his sentence, he scowled into silence and leaned back to regard his visitor. “Madmen!” he added. “Huns!"

His accent was pure Oxbridge, a long way from the mining valleys of his ancestors, the sort of drawl that always carried hints of arrogance, whether intentional or not. He wore a brown suit of good Harris tweed and a pair of stout brogues—and also an entirely inappropriate old boy tie. Leatherdale decided he resented that tie. Whatever school or university or regiment it represented, it was around that shiny white collar at the moment only to impress him.

"I shan't keep you from your ramble any longer than I have to, Mr. Jones.” He pulled out his notebook. “I need some background information. To be specific, I need to see the personal files on two of your boys. Technically old boys, now, I believe."

"I'm frightfully sorry, Inspector, but that will not be possible.” Jones blinked solemnly. Was he enjoying himself baiting the rustic policeman? Or was he merely the chicken left in charge of the farm, scared to do anything at all while the watchdogs took their holidays at the seaside?

"This is not a matter of cribbing apples, Mr. Jones.” Did he think Leatherdale had nothing better to do on summer Sundays?

The master tapped his beard with the tips of his steepled fingers. “I do not doubt that the matter is important. I should be happy to assist you in any way I can, but the filing cabinets are locked and I have no keys."

Without question, his first priority would be to protect the school's reputation. He could have been picked out as a schoolmaster a furlong off. He had the diffident, mannered speech, the air of tight control, and even the curious blunting of masculinity that sometimes showed in men who must constantly guard their tongues. Clergymen had it also. He was a book whose pages were becoming yellow and dog-eared, the binding threadbare and gilt lettering worn. It would open to predictable pages.

Now he reached for the arms of his chair, as if to pull himself out of it and end the interview. “I do wish you had mentioned documents when you telephoned, Inspector. I could have saved you the journey. You only said you wanted information, and you will recall that I did explain that the Head will not be back until Thursday at the earliest, and any statements really ought to come from him. I am just in loco magistri, you might say, not authorized to comment at all.” The pince-nez glinted.

He was not a material witness, who must be played like a ten-pound salmon on a five-pound line. Far from it—he was just a watchdog that could be brought to heel. Yet the man could help, if he would. Juries hated to convict without being shown a motive. Jones could clarify the motive in this case. Which one was the pouncer—the killer or the victim? Or both?

Leatherdale decided to try a couple more drops of honey before applying vinegar. “Now, if I may have your full name, sir?"

"David Jones. French master."

How many hundreds of boys had been processed into speaking French with that accent? “You have been here how long?"

"Ten—no, eleven years now. Before that—"

"Not necessary, sir. I just wanted to know how well you are acquainted with the boys in question."

The fancy spectacles shone white and inscrutable. “I am not sure that I might not be in breach of confidence were I to discuss any of our pupils without the Head's authorization or perhaps the advice of a solicitor, Inspector."

Yes, he was enjoying himself.

"The keys to the filing cabinets? Who has them?"

"The Head, of course. Dr. Gibbs."

"And the duplicate set? There must be a duplicate set?"

"I don't know. I certainly don't know where they are, if they exist."

"Mr. Jones, the matter cannot wait until Thursday. How may I get in touch with the Headmaster?"

A gold tooth flashed as Jones smiled. “I don't think you can, Inspector. He was on his way to Crete to visit Evans's dig. He has four senior boys with him, and two more are on their way to join him—or they were. Dr. Gibbs and his companions got as far as Greece. With the present turmoil, I suspect their journey home may take longer than expected."

Leatherdale favored him for a moment with a blandly thoughtful expression. Then he said, “Technically the board of governors would have overall authority over the premises?"

Jones flinched. “I suppose they must, but the board have always—"

"In a sense, sir, you and I work for the same man. General Bodgley is not only chairman of your board, but also my chief constable. I should perhaps have brought a note from him, but I assumed you would cooperate without it."

"Cooperate? I assure you—"

"Actually that is his car and chauffeur outside. Perhaps if we can reach him by telephone..."

The watchdog was in full retreat already. “Inspector, er, Leatherdale, I assure you that I am trying my best! I do not know where the keys to the cabinets are kept. I do not know exactly where the Head is. I can show you his telegram, but it was dispatched from some railway station in Austria and will not help you. The bursar is touring in Switzerland. If General Bodgley does not have a duplicate set of keys, and I would not expect him to, then I cannot imagine who else does.” Jones clawed at his beard with his left hand.

"Dr. Gibbs does not employ a secretary?"

"Paddling at Blackpool, I believe. This is August Bank Holiday weekend, Inspector! England is closed. However, if any Fallow boy is in trouble, then of course I am more than ready to assist your inquiries in any way I can."

Better. Leatherdale nodded. “I just need information about a couple of them, that's all."

"Their names?"

"Edward George Exeter?"

Jones stiffened. “Exeter? Oh, Lord! You don't mean they got caught up in the Balkan imbroglio, too?"

"Nothing to do with the Balkans that I know of, sir."

"But Exeter and Smedley were on their way to join Dr. Gibbs. The two I mentioned."

"They were forced to cancel. They returned home from Paris."

"Well that's a relief! A great relief! I was quite concerned about them and I—” Jones's smile vanished as fast as it had come. “You mean there's been an accident?"

"No, sir."

This time the shock was obvious. “Exeter is in trouble?"

"What can you tell me about him, sir?"

The teacher drew a deep breath. “Exeter was house prefect in his final year! An excellent boy in every way. He was here in Tudor! I was his housemaster, Inspector, so I know him well. Exeter would be almost the last boy I would expect to fall afoul of the law! That is the case, isn't it? You're telling me that he is being investigated by the British police?"

"I am afraid that is the case."

Looking stunned, Jones pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. His distress and astonishment seemed quite genuine. “I mean, he has definitely not just met with an accident or something?"

"Too early to say, sir. No charges have been laid as yet, but at the moment the situation does look grave."

"God bless my soul!” Jones sprawled back in his chair. “Exeter? I nominated him for my house prefect, Inspector, and he performed every bit as well as I expected. I cannot give you a higher character reference than that—cannot give any boy a higher recommendation. You did not say that ... I mean, I have notes of my own on boys in Tudor. I shall gladly make them available.” Again he moved as if to rise, although now it was an obvious effort.

"Later, sir, I shall appreciate seeing them. Meanwhile, tell me what you know of him. His character, his background. His family, particularly."

Jones sank back again, fumbling with his handkerchief. He paused for a moment to gather thoughts, then spoke without looking up. “Leadership, Inspector. Leadership is our product. They come here as children. They leave as young men. Rather innocent young men by the world's standards, I suppose, but well molded to take their place in the service of the Empire. Many a lad has walked out of here and in three or four years been running a chunk of country somewhere half the size of England—dictator, judge, soldier, engineer, tax collector, policeman, all rolled into one. Not for power, not for money, but purely out of a sense of duty!"

Leatherdale waited.

Jones's glasses glittered. “Latin and Greek and all that—none of it really matters. It isn't what you know that matters in this world, it's what you are! Esse non sapere—school motto. We teach them honor, honesty, and fair play. They take it from there. Not all of them, of course, not by a long shot. But the best ones are as good as you'll find anywhere. I'd have classed Exeter with the best.” He looked across defiantly at the policeman.

Mrs. Bodgley had said very much the same.

"Some specifics, if you please."

Jones stuffed the handkerchief back in his trouser pocket. “Edward Exeter? Born in British East Africa—in ‘96, I suppose. Came here when he was about twelve. Left officially a week ago. Good pupil, credit to the school. Turned down a chance to play for the county this summer."

He paused then. Still Leatherdale waited, sensing better game on its way.

"Exeter's had more than his share of tragedy already. I'm sure you recall the Nyagatha affair?"

"Vaguely."

"Exeter's father was the district officer. He and his wife were among the dead. They were due to go on leave within days."

"The general mentioned something about it. He was, er, rather vague.” That was an understatement of elephantine proportions.

Jones pulled a face. “You'd best look up the official report if you're interested. The whole thing was just one of those senseless episodes of bloodshed that seem to be the inevitable price of progress. Less than ten years ago that whole area was just uncharted bush, you know. Barbarism is still very close below the surface. The trouble did not even originate in Exeter's district. Some disaffected warriors of a neighboring tribe—Meru, or some name like that—outlaws, hungry, raiding for food ... massacre, atrocities, followed by retribution. So history rolls along, leaving a few more gravestones by the roadway to be mourned for a generation.” Mr. Jones sighed at the folly of mankind.

"How old would Exeter have been, then, sir?"

"Sixteen."

"He was here, in Fallow? How did he take it?"

"Oh, really! How do you think? He was shattered, of course. The news came in on a weekend and no one in Whitehall bothered to notify him. The first he knew was when the newspapers arrived on Monday morning. He hadn't seen his parents in four years, and was looking forward to a reunion that summer."

"No brothers or sisters?"

Jones sighed again. “None. He made a wonderful recovery. Tremendous pluck. His marks hardly dipped. And then, just as he seemed to be over the worst of it, the board of inquiry report came out and opened all the wounds again."

"Spell the name of that place, sir, if you please. And the exact date, or as close as you can recall?” Leatherdale knew he was getting full cooperation now. He felt no satisfaction from so easy a victory. “How did it open the wounds, sir?"

"Well, it opened wounds for Exeter.” Jones removed his pince-nez and wiped them on his tie. He dabbed one eye surreptitiously with a knuckle. “His father was cleared of any blame in the atrocity itself. As I said, the perpetrators were just a band of malcontents wandering off the reserve. But Exeter was severely criticized for not maintaining a garrison of trained native troops handy to defend the post. Young Exeter will tell you—and I can almost sympathize with his views—that his father was being condemned for being too good at his job. If he'd been a worse governor and ruled by terror as some of them do, then he would have had protection to hand! Another of the ironies of history, mm? But Exeter has already passed through the Valley of Shadows, young as he is."

"And his legal guardian?"

Jones replaced his glasses and peered incredulously. “Why do you need to ask? Can't he speak for himself? Is he missing?"

"No, sir.” Leatherdale flipped back a couple of pages. “'Concussion, compound fracture of the right leg, extensive minor contusions.’ He was just starting to come around when I left."

"Good God!” Jones paused, as if shocked by his own profanity, then added, “His guardian is his uncle, the Reverend Roland Exeter, director of the Lighthouse Missionary Society."

He spoke as if everyone knew the Reverend Dr. Exeter, and admittedly Leatherdale had heard of him. He did not reveal that he had already spoken with the holy gentleman on the telephone early that morning, nor that it had taken the Reverend Exeter's housekeeper considerable time to persuade him even to come to the phone. When he had come, he had explained at length that his religious beliefs forbade him to travel on Sundays—no, not even to visit an injured nephew involved in a murder case.

"Exeter also corresponded with a chap in the Colonial Office,” Jones said, frowning. “I have his name and address somewhere, I'm sure. A Mr. Oldcastle, as I recall. In such cases, His Majesty's Government takes an interest, of course, and quite rightly so."

"No other relatives?"

"Only a cousin, so far as I know."

Leatherdale's antennae quivered, but he said, “Family friends?"

"None I have ever heard mentioned."

"Does the name ‘Jumbo’ mean anything to you, Mr. Jones?"

"Common nickname, that's all. We have a Jumbo Little in Fourth Form."

"No. Tell me about the cousin."

"Miss Alice Prescott. I have her address also, I believe."

"They are close?"

Jones forced a thin smile of acknowledgment. “Exeter went to her twenty-first a couple of months ago. Until she reached her majority, they were both wards of their reverend uncle. I have not met the lady for several years, but I believe the young man is seriously smitten. I do not know how she feels about him. He is three years her junior and they are first cousins."

"I shall see she is informed, sir."

"Thank you. I'm sure Exeter will be grateful, and if she is anything like he thinks she is, she will respond."

A good housemaster was much more than a jailer. Leatherdale raised his estimation of David Jones. In the case of at least one of his charges, he had obviously won trust and friendship.

"Tell me of the boy himself, sir."

"Solid!” Jones thought for a moment. “Fair athlete, but not exceptional, except at cricket. There he was one of the best fast bowlers we've had for some time. A bit of a loner, especially since the tragedy, but popular despite that. He made an excellent prefect. Born leader—kept the youngsters in line and never raised his voice. They worshiped him. Damnably weak in maths—can't seem to see the point of ‘em. A real flair for languages. Walked off with the medals in Greek and German and came close in Latin, too. More competition in French,” he added vaguely.

This sort of stuff would be deadly in court.

"So he has left school. What are his ambitions, can you say?"

Jones hesitated. “If I know Exeter, then he's panting to get into uniform like all the others. Teach the Hun a lesson, by Jingo!"

"And if there's no mobilization?"

"He was going up to Cambridge. Looks like he has his choice of two or three colleges—there is money in the family for that sort of thing."

"To follow in his father's footsteps? Colonial Office?"

Pause. “Oh, no. Modern languages."

Leatherdale made a note. The witness was holding something back. Probably young Exeter resented the organization that had condemned his father for being too good at his job. His ambitions could hardly be relevant to the murder, though.

Motive? Leatherdale wanted the motive. What turned a model public schoolboy into a savage killer?

"No family on his mother's side?"

"Exeter himself knows of none. She was a New Zealander."

"Of European stock?"

Jones laughed contemptuously. “You're looking for a touch of the tar brush, Inspector? I admit he has black hair, and he takes a good tan, but those eyes! Blue as they come. Looks Cornish, I'd say."

Nettled in spite of himself, Leatherdale said, “I didn't see his eyes, sir. They were closed.” He shrugged and took up his quest again. “What of his private life? Any wild oats in his background?"

The French master had aged several years since he sat down. The condescension had long since faded from his manner, but that remark brought an angry flush to his cheek. “I have already given you my appraisal of Exeter. He is a young English gentleman."

"A direct answer, if you please, Mr. Jones."

Jones snorted. “Boys in public school have no private life. What happens in the holidays is beyond my ken, but I should doubt it very much, in his case. Schools such as Fallow are a great deal more celibate than any monastery the church ever knew. I told you—I think Master Exeter has his heart set on his cousin. I simply cannot imagine his being promiscuous."

Reluctantly, Leatherdale noted the reply. “Forgive this next question, but it must be asked. How about, ‘The love that dares not breathe its name'?"

"No! Any hint of that in Fallow is cause for immediate sacking—boys or masters!” Jones glared for a moment, then sighed. “Of course it is always a potential problem in any all-male community. Some otherwise exemplary schools ... you know, I'm sure. We are not naive. We watch for it. We haven't had a case in several years. Cold baths and constant vigilance, Inspector!"

"Not Exeter?"

"Absolutely not."

He seemed to be sincere. He might not be quite as shrewd a judge of his charges as he believed. A storm of passion of one sort or another was the only credible motive in the case. Leatherdale toyed with his pen for a moment, wondering if there was anything more he need ask about Exeter. The housemaster's enthusiasm for the boy was worrisome. However misplaced, it would go down well with a jury.

When he looked up, Jones seemed to brace himself in his chair. “And the other boy you are interested in, Inspector? Smedley, I suppose?"

"Timothy Fitzjohn Bodgley."

"What?” Jones could not have displayed greater shock had he been informed that he had been chosen to tutor the Prince of Wales in Hebrew. “Explain!"

"At the moment the details are confidential, Mr. Jones. It missed the Sunday papers, but some of it will most certainly be in tomorrow's."

The master moaned. “For God's sake tell me! This is awful!"

"First your comments on young Bodgley, if you please. Was he also in your house?"

"Yes he was. He and Exeter were close chums as juniors and the friendship lasted—they don't always, of course. It's less on Exeter's side than Bodgley's, I'd say. Exeter is more, er, self-sufficient.” Jones began polishing his glasses again, gazing blankly meanwhile, as if he could not see without them. “Bodgley's a delicate boy. He is frequently troubled by asthma. This has kept him back in games ... He was known as Bagpipe."

"His father is an Old Etonian.” Leatherdale did not mention that he had researched his chief constable in that worthy gentleman's own copy of Who's Who.

Jones smiled faintly at nothing. Then he replaced his spectacles and seemed to come back to life. “You are wondering why he did not send his own son there? Because of the asthma. Fallow is closer to home than Eton. Or are you wondering why our chairman is not an Old Fallovian? That's a matter of politics—money and influence, Inspector. And if you are wondering whether young Bodgley was of better family than most of our boys, the answer to that is yes. The blood runs blue in the Bodgley veins. His future in the Empire, if any, will be at the level of British resident, far above the district officerships to which Exeter might aspire. Foreign Office and corps diplomatique would be more his field. He's a bit spoiled, pampered and oversheltered, and inclined to feel sorry for himself. I might just be persuaded that he had been led into wrongdoing by an older, stronger character—which I would not believe of Exeter—but basically he's a fine young man, and I am convinced that whatever you suspect these two of, your information is incorrect."

He tried to smile, but the result was grotesque. “There! I have been completely frank, have I not? Now will you inform me of the trouble they appear to be in? Less than a week ago I saw my young friends walk out into a world that looked ready to throw itself at their feet. I asked Exeter to sacrifice a glass of retsina to Poseidon in my name. Now you tell me he is back in this country and under suspicion of wrongdoing."

"I can tell you a little.” Leatherdale did not close his notebook. “The preliminaries you already know. When Smedley's parents called him back from Paris, Exeter returned also. He apparently found himself with nowhere to go, but he had a standing invitation to visit Greyfriars Grange.... Where did he normally spend his holidays, when his parents were alive?"

"Here,” Jones said quietly. “He has lived at Fallow since he was twelve, except for a few odd breaks, such as OTC camp or school outings or visiting his friends. Many of our boys are children of parents living overseas. Other parents will often take pity on their sons’ chums in such case—invite them to stay over Christmas, for example."

"Never with his uncle?"

"Rarely. I gathered that the experience was always mutually unpleasant."

Leatherdale made a note. “And as an old boy, he could not just return to Fallow?"

Jones shook his head sadly. “Inspector! He had just left school! Don't you remember how huge that milestone loomed in your own life? Even if the alternative was his friend's charity ... The raven had been released from the ark!"

Interesting point, Leatherdale thought. The youth must have been in an agitated state of mind. His uncle had been surprised to learn he was back in England.

"Exeter telegraphed to the Bodgleys from Paris and was accepted. He arrived yesterday.” Watching carefully, he continued. “I can outline the statement released to the newspapers. General Bodgley's household at Greyfriars Grange was awakened shortly after midnight this morning by the sound of an altercation in the kitchen quarters. Investigation revealed Mr. Edward George Exeter injured and unconscious, and the mortal remains of Mr. Timothy Fitzjohn Bodgley. Foul play is suspected."

"Good God!” All the color drained from Jones's face, leaving a parchment marred by brown age spots. He licked his lips and even his tongue seemed pale. “Dead! How?"

"The nature of his injuries is not being released, sir."

"Inspector! I have known these boys for years. They are my friends and my life's work and until last week they were my wards!"

Leatherdale decided to trust him. It might prove to be an indiscretion, but he was in charge of the investigation. He had the right to make his own mistakes. “In strict confidence, then, sir? I do not wish the press to get its hands on this."

Jones licked his lips. “I may tell Dr. Gibbs when he returns?"

"That would be in order. Exeter fell or was thrown down the cellar steps. He sustained the injuries I mentioned. Bodgley had been stabbed to death with a carving knife."

Jones's mouth moved for a while before he croaked, “Just the two of them there?"

"That is implied in the official statement. I cannot say any more, sir."

"But why in Heaven?..."

"Motive? A good question. Why should two young men raid a kitchen at that time of night? Since the cellar is used to store the general's wine, we might speculate that they were after more than a cup of tea."

"I suppose some such prank is not impossible,” Jones admitted hoarsely.

"If it was a prank, it rapidly became something else.” Leatherdale waited hopefully, but if Jones guessed what he wanted to hear, he did not oblige. Pity. Leatherdale was curious to know which one of the two had started the hanky-panky and which had resisted. In spite of his considerable advantage in height and weight, Exeter's only possible defense was self-defense. It would not get him off or even reduce the charge to manslaughter, but it might wring a recommendation of mercy out of a sympathetic jury.

He closed his notebook. He had an open-and-shut case. He had failed to uncover a motive, but the Crown was not obliged to establish motive. At the next assizes, learned counsel would explain to the jury how Exeter had stabbed his friend and then, in a panicky attempt to flee from the scene of the crime, had fallen down the cellar steps.

The defense would drag in the vague reports of a woman screaming—they would not be able to explain her disappearance through doors bolted on the inside. They were welcome to propose that Bodgley had thrown his guest into the cellar and subsequently thrust a steel carving knife in his own back so hard that he had nailed himself to a teak draining board.

The jury would deliberate and then the judge would don the black cap to order Edward George Exeter hanged by the neck.

Suddenly Leatherdale was seized by a frightful desire to yawn. It was time to go. He could do no more good at Fallow, if indeed he had done any good at all. He should be grateful for a rare opportunity—the thrill of a murder investigation without the tedious follow-up, for it would all be taken out of his hands by tomorrow at the latest. He had everything he needed to brief Scotland Yard when the Old Man came to his senses. Even if the Old Man didn't, Robinson should be back by then, if he could find his way through Bank Holiday traffic.

A telephone rang somewhere in the distance.

"That is probably the press already,” he said wearily. “I advise you not to say anything at all.” He levered himself out of the chair. “If you will look out for those notes you mentioned, sir?"

Jones stayed where he was, staring up at his visitor as if felled by shock. When he spoke, though, it was obvious that he had been thinking hard. “The general's son was murdered in his own house and yet he, as chief constable, is titular head of the investigation? Is he not placed in an impossible situation, Inspector?"

"Awkward, sir. I expect he will call in Scotland Yard in due course."

When he came to his senses, he would—or when he was allowed to, for Leatherdale had a strong suspicion that the formidable Mrs. Bodgley was meddling in police business.

"The Home Secretary may have something to say when he hears of it, I shouldn't wonder,” Jones said drily. His eyes were invisible behind white reflections again. The instant Leatherdale left the building, David Jones would be on the phone to some senior members of the board of governors.

"Not up to me to question orders, sir."

The two men stared at each other.

"I don't envy you, Inspector,” the schoolmaster said softly.

Leatherdale sensed the offer of the Old Boys’ Network. “We all do our duty as best we can, sir."

Jones scratched his beard. “Normally, of course, the Home Secretary's sacred weekend would never be disturbed by anything as petty as willful homicide. But I'm afraid times are not normal. The Cabinet is in almost continuous session because of the crisis. On a weekend? Incredible! On August Bank Holiday weekend in particular? Epochal! It may take a little time for Whitehall to catch up on routine matters, you realize?"

Leatherdale had not even thought of that. What the damned Frogs and Huns and Wops got up to on the Continent was their business, and he hoped His Majesty's Government would keep the country out of it. Let them all kill one another off, as far as he was concerned. But he realized that this snotty French master had made a good point. If Bodgley continued to behave like an idiot, then London might not crack the whip over him as fast as it normally would.

"I expect you're right, sir. Now—"

"If you had evidence of an intruder, you would not have come here today!"

"I really am not at liberty to comment further, sir."

Why was the schoolmaster smirking?

"Are you familiar with our burglary, Inspector?"

"Your burglary, Mr. Jones?"

"At Whitsun there was a burglary—here, in Tudor House. Any criminal who attempts a break-in where there are a hundred sets of young lungs available to sound the alarm is excessively rash, wouldn't you say, Inspector? Besides, what could there be worth stealing beyond the odd illicit packet of Gold Flake?"

Behind the spectacles, Jones's eyes were gleaming bright.

Leatherdale felt a hint of uneasiness. “I fail to see how this is relevant, sir.” A break-in at Fallow would not have been reported to Greyfriars—wrong county.

Jones showed his teeth in a snarl of frustration. “Perhaps not. Yet the coincidence ... I believe—” His smile vanished as if a new idea had struck him. He sprang to his feet with surprising agility. “Inspector, where is Exeter now?” he demanded shrilly.

"Albert Memorial Hospital in Greyfriars."

"Under guard, Inspector? You said no charges had been laid, but you do have someone there to guard him, don't you?"

7

STILL THINKING CRAZY OLD MAN! ELEAL SINGER LIMPED OUT through the city gate. How could she possibly be in danger? Why should death seek her out?

Here in the open, the wind blew like an avalanche. She pulled her hat down firmly and wished she did not keep thinking about avalanches. The low sun shone on a scene of hubbub and bustle. Traders were erecting stalls; ranchers were arriving with herds of llamas, brought down from Narshslope for sale. In the distance stood the ominous, ice-cloaked peaks of Narshwall. From them the land descended in bare hills and grassy ridges to the plain of Narshflat. Narshwater was the color of dirty milk, its banks still bearing grubby remnants of winter ice floes among the reeds.

A wide space of muddy grass separated the river from the city. Here the mammoths were kept during the summer and fall, when the pass was open. Here the farmers and herders came to trade. Most cities would hold festivals and games on a common like this, although Eleal doubted that the dour folk of Narsh were capable of appreciating either, any more than they appreciated theater.

Soon she was clear of the market and could see the mammoths, a dozen great gray-brown mountains with tusks. They would step over the puny rail fence around them with no trouble, so it must be intended more to keep people out than mammoths in. Mammoths were bigger and stronger than anything, and their little eyes gleamed with intelligence. As she hurried through slower-moving knots of people, one of the bulls curled up his trunk and trumpeted. She decided to take that as a welcome.

But the crowds! She had never seen so many people here before, milling around the rickety flight of steps where the travelers paid their fares and mounted. She scanned the group urgently. If everyone she could see was hoping to leave today, then there would simply not be room! A dozen mammoths and ten or twelve passengers per howdah meant ... meant ... well, not enough seats to empty the meadow, certainly. Where was the troupe? Loading had not yet begun, so they could not have left yet, but where were they?

Not everyone was there because of the mammoths, though. A troop of men drilled with pikes, another squad practiced archery. She also noticed a camp of three or four tents and a small herd of dragons. They were too far off for her to be sure, but that was probably T'lin Dragontrader's outfit. T'lin was her special friend. He trekked around the Vales with his herd, so she often ran into him, but this year she had not seen him since winter, in Jurgland. It was a pity she would not have time to speak with him before the mammoths left, because she had information for him.

The first mammoth was plodding over to the steps to load. The old mahout astride its neck looked like a doll, he was so high. There was still no sign of the rest of the troupe. Eleal began to feel seriously worried. Had they waited for her at the temple? Had they sent someone back to the hostel to look for her?

The seven hundredth Festival of Tion was attracting a far larger attendance than usual. All about her, people were making weepy farewells, issuing instructions and warnings. A surprising number were priests and monks, their colored gowns peeking out from under drab llama fleece robes added for warmth. Some were merchants, accompanied by bearers to carry their wares and even by armed guards. Others were athletes, large young men heading for the festival, receiving last-minute instructions from the fathers or uncles or friends who had trained them. She noted the usual cripples and invalids and blind people, going to seek a miracle. The remainder, men and women, could be assumed to be just pilgrims.

She squirmed through the crowd, hampered by her pack and her limp.

"Eleal!"

She spun around with a gasp of relief. It was Uthiam Piper—all alone, and without her pack. Uthiam was Ambria's daughter. She was eighteen, and the most beautiful actor: her looks, her voice, her grace. At the moment she looked cold as ice in her woolen robe, but she was still beautiful—and so welcome!

"You little chump! Where did you get to?"

"Oh...” Eleal said airily. “I went to pray to Kirb'l.” Then she realized that she hadn't. “Where is everyone? What's keeping them? So many people—"

"And more to come! The temple is packed."

"But the festival starts on Thighday!” And this was Ankleday! “If we don't—"

"The portents were bad!"

"Huh?"

Uthiam's face was grave. She bent to whisper, for the crowd had closed in around them. “Trong Impresario offered a white cockerel as usual. When the priests went to read its entrails, they discovered that it had no liver."

That was ridiculous! How could a cockerel not have a liver? What a terrible omen! Eleal's vision of a journey over Rilepass today suddenly dimmed. The goddess must be very displeased about something.

"So what is happening?"

"We have to wait until the priests have dealt with all the others. We shall have to offer a greater sacrifice."

The look on Uthiam's face gave Eleal cold shivers. “You don't mean..."

"Oh, no! At least, I don't think so.” She obviously wasn't sure, though. “The priests suggested a dragon foal."

Eleal gasped. “Ambria will have a foaming fit!” A dragon foal would cost more money than the troupe would take in in weeks. This was going to be a very expensive day. Hard times for the troupe meant thin eating.

Uthiam smiled. “But they'll probably settle for an alpaca."

Old Ambria was still going to have a fit. Even an alpaca would cost several nights’ take, especially the take in tightfisted Narsh, but the big woman would bridle her tongue for fear of upsetting the goddess further.

"We may not get away today,” Uthiam said, straightening. “I'd better go back to the temple.” Obviously the prospect did not please her.

"Me too?"

"No need for you to come. Wait here, just in case. I think I saw T'lin Dragontrader, didn't I?"

"Who?” Eleal demanded. Her friendship with T'lin was supposed to be a secret. Uthiam's amused expression indicated that she knew that and it wasn't. But Eleal would have time to visit with T'lin. She could wander around ... Then she recalled the crazy priest's warning that she was in danger.

"Uthiam, isn't Irepit goddess of something? What's a Daughter of Irepit?"

Uthiam looked understandably surprised. “They're a sect of nuns—down in Nosokvale, I think. They—"

"Rinoovale,” said a croaky voice, “not Nosokvale."

Eleal spun around angrily. “Eavesdropping is a sin!"

Uthiam's hand thumped the side of her head so hard she staggered. That was unfair—she had only been repeating what Ambria had told her lots of times.

The woman who had spoken was a nun, her flowing woolen garb conspicuous amid the leather-draped multitude. Whatever height she might once have had was now lost in a stoop and a hump, so she stood barely taller than Eleal. Her face was dominated by a long thin nose that seemed to be the only part of it not crumpled in wrinkles—it was red, with a shiny drop at the end of it, while her cheeks were an antique yellow, although the cold had added a purplish tint to them. Her hair and neck were hidden by a wimple, which, like her habit, had once been blue, although now both were threadbare and almost colorless. She was blinking at Eleal with eyes that likewise seemed faded to a colorless, blurry gray; they were watering copiously in the icy wind.

"Forgive her, holy lady,” Uthiam said. “She is a wayward brat.” She shook Eleal's shoulder. “Apologize!"

"The follies of youth are easily forgiven!” the woman muttered. Her pale moist eyes were still fixed intently on Eleal, whose ears were ringing. “In the Blue Scriptures, the Book of Alyath, it is written, ‘Time is the gods’ wages.’ Is that why the young, whose life is most enjoyable, should be so eager to see it pass, while the old, who have lost most of their capacity for joy, savor every moment?” She blinked more, apparently waiting for an answer.

A naked sword hung at her side, its point almost touching the ground.

"M-mother?” Eleal said, staring at that incongruous weapon.

"Sister,” said the nun. “Sister Ahn.” Her lips were almost as blue as her eyes, yet she seemed unaware of the cold. She turned her watery gaze on Uthiam. “Is it not wonderful how many are heeding the prophecies?"

"Prophecies, Sister?” Uthiam spoke loudly also.

The sword was a real weapon, a really-truly shiny blade, and it bore no speck of rust. Yet now Eleal noticed the woman's right hand resting on a staff. It also was blue, and the fingers were so twisted that they probably could not grasp a hilt firmly enough to draw. Just looking at this shivering crone made her feel cold.

Blue was the color of Astina, the Maiden, who was goddess of lots of things: justice and soldiers and athletes, among others. That might explain the sword, but why should Astina be goddess of soldiers, when the Man was god of war? And why athletes? They should be the concern of the Youth—who ever heard of a female athlete? The universe ought to be more logical, and an armed geriatric nun was carrying things altogether too far.

"The seven hundredth festival!” Sister Ahn suddenly smiled, revealing a few yellow pegs of teeth. “Great wonders are foretold. Praise to the god. But should we not approach the young man selling tickets?"

However well-intentioned, the old woman's smile was quite the most gruesome Eleal could ever recall seeing. Her accent was unfamiliar, but perhaps that was because her speech was smeared by lack of teeth.

Uthiam was studying the nun with an oddly wary expression. “We are waiting on friends to join us, Sister. May the Lady bless your journey."

"Ah.” The old woman sighed. “Ask rather that the Maiden grant you safe return. Many who see the wonders will not carry word of them home.” Muttering to herself, she tottered away, leaning on her staff, the point of her sword almost trailing on the grass. Understandably, the crowd eased open to let her through.

"Don't wander too far,” Uthiam said. “And stay out of trouble for once.” She turned and pushed off through the mob.

Eleal decided she might as well go and see T'lin Dragontrader.

8

A DOZEN OR SO CITY CHILDREN LURKED AROUND THE dragons, being ordered away by two men shouting in clipped Fionian accents. T'lin himself stood by the tents, talking with two more of his assistants.

Dragontrader was a big man with a monstrous copper beard. His face was roughened and scarred by weather and he usually sported a showy sword and outrageously bright clothes. In Narshvale, he bundled up in llama hide like everyone else, but his boots were dyed blue, his leggings yellow, and a green scabbard hung out from under his red coat. Above all that he wore a black turban. Undoubtedly he would have a white shirt or something on underneath—no god in the Pentatheon would ever be able to complain of being neglected by T'lin. He seemed almost as large as one of his dragons.

As Eleal approached, his eyes flickered over her with no sign of recognition, but almost at once he clapped one of his companions on the shoulder, ending the discussion. He stalked away in amongst the dragons, pulling a rag from his pocket. Eleal doubled around the herd to approach from the other side, glad that he had not been trading with a customer.

A few of the great shiny beasts were standing, munching at bales of hay, flapping their frills up and down softly in pleasure. Most had lain down to chew their cud, but the fences of horny plates along their backs rose higher than her head and concealed her admirably. The long scaly necks stood up like palm trees. She caught glimpses of Dragontrader's turban and worked her way in his direction.

She loved dragons. That was how she had met T'lin—hanging around his herd. Sometimes he had only five or six, sometimes forty or more. Today she thought about fifteen or twenty, so he might be either buying or selling. When she was young she had toyed with dreams of marrying T'lin and being with the dragons all the time. They looked so ferocious and they were so gentle. They smelled good, and they spoke in funny belching noises. As she went by them, she trailed fingers over the shiny scales, admiring the play of light on them. Bright green eyes watched her under heavy browridges, jewels in caves. In darkness, dragon eyes actually glowed.

She made out Starlight and detoured to greet him, T'lin's own mount. No dragon was ever a real black, but Starlight was what was called deep twilight, and the twinkle of light on his scales had given him his name. He truly resembled a starry night. The two long frills that extended back from his neck were magnificent, longer than any others she had ever seen, like small wings. He lowered his head to snuffle and belch hay scent quietly at her. She liked to think he remembered her, but that was probably just wishful thinking.

T'lin was standing beside one of the cud-chewers, a five-or six-year male of the color called Osby slate, a sort of blue-gray. It was not yet docked, the long crest of plates standing unbroken along its back. The big beast purred softly as T'lin busily polished its flank with his rag. He bent over as if to examine its claws. Then he squatted down on his heels and grinned at Eleal through his bush of beard. His face was still not very much lower than hers. They were quite private here, between the Osby slate and a glacier blue female. They were also sheltered from the wind.

"And how is the Beloved of Tion, the Friend of the Gods, the great singer?"

"She is very well, thank you,” Eleal said politely.

He looked oddly weary for so early in the day. Perhaps he had been traveling all night. She noticed a small gold ring in his left ear and wondered if that was new, for she could not recall seeing it before. How odd! And why only one ear?

"How is the goddess-impersonating business?” he asked.

"Slow, in Narsh at least. Tonight we shall meet with more fitting recognition. The citizens of Sussia appreciate art. If the gods will,” she added.

T'lin snorted loudly. That was a habit of his. She suspected he had picked it up from listening to his dragons’ belchings.

"You do not care for the worthy burghers of Narsh? You prefer that maniac rabble in Sussland?” He shook his big head in disbelief. “They are born mad and then go crazy."

Eleal racked her brains. “Narshians are so mean they won't even give you a cold.” She had been practicing repartee recently, and thought that remark showed it.

T'lin's green eyes twinkled. “Sussians don't know an assembly from a riot!"

She went on the attack. “How is the dragon-rustling business?"

T'lin covered his face with his big rough hands and wailed. “As the gods are my witness, the child wrongs me! No more honest trader ever crossed a pass."

That remark reminded her of the troupe's problem and stopped her from indulging in more banter.

"I have some information for you,” she said.

T'lin's shaggy red eyebrows shot up. “I await it eagerly. You are an invaluable source of information to aid a poor honest man in wresting a living."

He was joking of course, but his quick green eyes had noted her worry. Probably very little Eleal told him was ever news to him. Sometimes the troupe played in rich people's houses, and even in rulers’ houses, and then she might hear or see things he could not learn elsewhere. Everything else was mere gossip or obvious to any sharp eye, although he never said so. He was curious about all sorts of things: the chatter in the forum or bazaar, the price of foodstuffs, the lives of the rich, the grumbles of the poor, the edicts of the gods, the crops, the roads.

"When I buy a dragon,” T'lin had told her once, “I do not just look at its claws. I look at every scale, every tooth. I look in its eyes and its ears. Sometimes very small things can tell me very important things, especially if they can be added together, yes? Now, a young dragon with his saddle plate already docked but no wear on his claws and no girth marks on his scales—do you know what those mean, Avatar of Astina? Why, it means that he has never done much work, does it not? So he has been a lucky young dragon, yes? Or he has a problem, maybe. A bad temper, maybe. Now when I come to a land to trade, I do not just ask the going price of dragons, because no one would tell me. Well, they would tell me, but I would not believe them. No, I look at everything in that land—in the whole vale, everything! Finally I decide what the price of dragons should be, and whether I want to buy or sell there."

Then he would smile triumphantly and stroke his copper beard, and she could never tell if he spoke seriously or in jest.

When Eleal Singer reported to T'lin Dragontrader, therefore, she reported everything she could think of. He never said he already knew something, he never said that anything did not interest him. When she had finished, he would pick out an item or two from her list and ask for details, but she never knew which topics he would choose, or whether he was really any more interested in those than the others or was just being a good trader. His face never changed expression by as much as one red beard hair.

At the end, he would reward her. When she had been little, the reward had been a ride on a dragon, but now he gave her money—sometimes only a few coppers, once a whole Joalian silver star, but he would rarely tell her what she had said to earn it. Sometimes he would comment that she had reported well, or that she should have observed this or that, things she had missed.

She had learned how to note Things That May Interest T'lin as she went about her life. She had learned how to remember them and keep them organized in her head. Actors were good at memorizing, of course.

She took a deep breath and began with the floods in Mapland. Then she described the riot in Lappin with six people killed and two houses burned, and the unusual number of monks and priests on Fandorpass—all colors, white, red, blues, yellows, greens—and how there were as many waiting to get on the mammoths, although he would have noticed that for himself. She mentioned the magistrate who had died here in Narsh and the assembly to be held next Headday to elect his replacement. That reminded her ... “I am told there is a reaper in town!"

The glacier blue female belched thunderously and turned its long neck to stare at her reprovingly, as if she had made that disgraceful noise.

"There's a lot of Thargians in the city,” she finished proudly. “I've heard them talking. They were trying to disguise their voices, but we theater people are very attuned to accents. There were two blue monks at the show two nights ago, and three well-dressed women last night, although I only heard one of those speak. I heard two young men in the baker's. There was a fat man with a local merchant and his wife I've seen before. And I overheard a white priest in the street. They were all trying to speak Joalian-style, and the men had beards, but I'm sure they were all from Thargia. Well, from somewhere in Thargdom, anyway.” She thought quickly for a minute, and said, “That's all."

During her whole recital T'lin had just stared at her, motionless as a statue, balanced on his toes. She would not be his only informant in Narsh. Often she had seen him talking with people who could not be customers—children, beggars, priests. Most of them must be locals; she was probably the only one who traveled as he did. Once or twice he had remarked on that. Residents knew a lot, he had said, but travelers who came rarely saw changes better and noticed differences between places.

Now he took his rag and began to polish the Osby slate dragon thoughtfully. The monster purred. A dragon purr was an awesome sepulchral sound, like a hollow metal shell full of bluebottles.

"Men die all the time,” T'lin murmured. “Not every unexpected death is caused by a reaper."

"But some are!"

"And not all Thargians are spies."

"Then why do they try to disguise their voices?"

He shrugged. “What set off the riot in Lappinvale?"

"Followers of D'mit'ri Karzon attacked a house they said was being used by worshipers of the Prime. The house was burned and six people killed. The governor did not punish anyone,” she added. That should intrigue him. The Thargians usually kept very strict order in lands they ruled, although Thargland itself was said to be a rowdy place.

After a moment T'lin said, “In Lappin there is a temple to Zoan, the god of truth, who is an aspect of Visek, the Prime. Why should the whites need to worship him in a house instead of the temple? And why should Karzon followers care anyway?"

"That was what I heard."

He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Are you sure it was the Parent they were supposed to be worshiping? Tell me the exact words you heard."

T'lin Dragontrader had never admitted before, as far as she could remember, that anything she had told him was news to him. She felt rather excited, wondering how much he would pay her this time. She closed her eyes and thought very hard. Then she looked at him again.

"The One?"

"Are you sure or are you guessing?"

"Mostly guessing,” she admitted.

His eyes were like hard green stones. “What do you know of the One?"

"Well ... Usually it means Visek, the Parent, the Source. Or one of his aspects, like Zoan."

"Blessed are the avatars of Visek, father and mother of gods, blessed be his name. You said ‘usually'? Who else is the One?"

"Dunno.” Theology was confusing, and not something she had ever known T'lin to show an interest in before.

Now he polished the dragon in silence until Eleal began to fidget.

"There is a god whose real name is never mentioned,” he said solemnly. “He is called the One True God, or the Undivided."

"Visek."

The dragon trader shook his head. “The Parent was not called the One like that until this other came. Other gods do not approve of the Undivided. He has few followers in Lappin, I expect. Fewer now, you tell me. He has no shrine or temple there."

Eleal nodded, perplexed by his sudden interest in gods. Probably it was a blind anyway, for he suddenly changed the subject.

"These Thargian visitors? Can you describe any of them so I would know them? Any squints or cauliflower ears?"

"Of course not! What sort of a spy would he be? But the fat one I saw with the locals ... the local was Gaspak Ironmonger. He's thought to have a slight chance of being the new magistrate and if he supports the Joalians instead of the Thargians—"

T'lin chuckled and rose to his feet. “Did you ever hear of the chicken farmer who bought a leopard to rid his land of foxes?"

"No,” she said, bewildered.

"Joalians are the foxes."

"Oh! And the Thargians are leopards?"

Dragontrader laughed. He fumbled in a pocket. “Indeed, you are a mountain of useful knowledge, Beloved of Tion. Here!"

She held out her hands and he sprinkled silver into them without bothering to count it. She gasped in delight at this shower of riches.

"Well done, Leading Lady of the World,” T'lin said. “Give my love to Suss."

"If we can get there ... T'lin! Dragons can go over mountains!"

"Yes,” he said warily.

"Then, since the mammoths are so busy this year, and we need to get there more than, oh, a merchant say, or a priest—I mean, our art is important! I was just wondering...” She saw a glint in his eyes.

"Yes, I could put you and your friends on my dragons and be a ferryman, but I wouldn't get away with it twice. Do you know who owns those mammoths, Aspect of Astina?” He bared his teeth. “The temple of Ois! And the priests would not appreciate competition. They would have my trading license canceled."

"Oh."

"Yes. So you stick to acting! Good fortune at the festival."

How could he be so tactless? Did he not know the rules? “I have decided my art is not yet mature enough for me to enter."

T'lin shrugged. “Well, good luck in Sussland, anyway."

9

THE STRAPS OF HER PACK WERE CUTTING THROUGH EVEN her heavy fleece clothes as she trudged back to the mammoths across the muddy meadow. Squish, squash, squish, squash ... Her hip hurt, and she could feel a stitch starting in her side.

As she neared the loading point, the line of mammoths was already moving out, the leaders wading across the river. One last shaggy bull stood by the stair, and he raised his trunk to trumpet, perhaps calling on the others to wait for him. The loading had gone quickly. There had not been time for the others to complete another sacrifice in the temple; Uthiam Piper had known where Eleal was; they would not have left without her. Another night in miserable cold Narsh!

When she reached the crowd squashed in around the steps, she could see no sign of the troupe. She began squeezing her way through, ignoring angry protests about what the world was coming to and the usual mutters that children had no respect for their elders these days.

She could not see the huckster, but she heard voices raised in frantic competition as the customers bid for seats in the last howdah. Even if T'lin had given her enough money for a ticket—and it sounded as if the offers were being made in gold—she could not just go on by herself. Not without telling the others. It would have been a good idea to send her on ahead, though, because Gartol Costumer had left two days ago to make arrangements for a performance in Filoby tonight. He would wonder what had happened. A missed show meant patrons disappointed and more money lost. What a disastrous day!

The festival started in three more days! To miss the festival would be a tragedy.

Then she thought of even worse disaster. Ois was goddess of all passes. Suppose she would not turn aside her anger, and the troupe was stuck in horrible Narshvale forever? Even Fandorpass could be dangerous.

Something poked hard in her back. “Child!” said a sharp voice.

She wriggled around in the crush, and discovered the ancient blue nun peering at her accusingly. It was her staff that had done the poking.

"Is your name Eleal?"

"Yes! Do you have a message for me?"

"Oh, no!” Sister Ahn's long nose seemed redder than ever, her faded eyes even moister. “But that explains why we keep meeting."

"Do you know if my friends have left?"

"Friends?” She shook her head sadly. “Oh, your friends are irrelevant, child. You are the only one mentioned."

Suddenly the crowd moved like leaves in the wind. The two men in front of Eleal backed up so fast she was almost knocked over. She staggered, recovered, and found that she and the blue nun were alone in an empty space, looking across at the huckster. He was a beefy, red-faced young man, and there was an expression of comical astonishment on his pudgy features.

"Well, that helps,” Sister Ahn murmured, almost inaudibly. “Come, child.” She leaned a twisted hand on Eleal's shoulder and pushed with surprising firmness.

Eleal resisted. “I can't go without my friends!"

"You are the one who matters!” the nun snapped. “Is it not written, Eleal shall be the first temptation?"

"Written?” The crazy old priest had mumbled something about a prophecy. “Written where? Written what?"

"If you do not know, then it is probably destined that you shall not know. Come!"

She pushed harder. Peering down nervously to make sure the unsheathed sword was not about to cut her off at the ankles, Eleal found herself being propelled toward the huckster. She looked up suddenly as he uttered a wail of horror.

A man had come forward to the base of the steps—probably a man, possibly a tall woman. He was swathed in a heavy robe, like a monk's, keeping his head bent so the hood would hide his face. He was black, all black. Even the cord around his waist was black. The hand that reached out to offer a coin to the huckster wore a black glove.

The huckster dropped his satchel with a loud jangle and leaped back, colliding with the mammoth's leg. He tried to speak and made no sound at all. His eyes bulged; his face had gone comically pale. Trong Impresario himself could not have depicted terror more convincingly.

Again the black-robed stranger tried to offer payment. Again the huckster refused it, sidling away farther, clearly determined not to let that fateful hand come close to him. With a shrug the dark monk turned to the steps and proceeded to climb slowly up to the howdah. The mahout stared down in horror as this sinister passenger made his approach.

The crowd was scattering in sullen silence, many of them running.

"Truly the gods reward those who have faith,” proclaimed the blue nun. “Come, my dear, let us see what the price of a seat is now.” She hobbled forward on her staff, urging Eleal along also, but she had taken only a couple of steps before the huckster grabbed up the satchel he had dropped, dived through under the mammoth, and took to his heels as if Zath himself were after him.

"Wait!” cried the nun, but the wind swept the word away. The black monk had taken his seat. Nine seats around him remained empty. The stairs were empty.

"You can go now if you want,” Eleal said. Her mouth was dry, but surely the man in black could not be what she suspected he was.

"We must both go, for so it is written, but we cannot go until we have paid,” Sister Ahn wailed. “And now that young man who sells the tickets has departed."

She sounded confused. She was probably crazy. On the other hand, the rest of the world did not seem to be much saner. One man had been given a seat at no charge and no one else except Sister Ahn seemed willing to share the howdah with him, although the seats were now available for free. How to explain that miracle? In tightfisted Narsh, too! The mahout had eased himself up the mammoth's neck until he was almost sitting on its head, as far from the solitary passenger as he could get.

"Perhaps that driver up there will negotiate a price,” Sister Ahn muttered, but at that moment he spoke to the mammoth, and the big beast rolled forward.

Eleal looked around despairingly, but the onlookers were leaving. She was alone with the old woman. No one else had been willing to ride with the man in black. What else could he be? “Was that a reaper?"

Sister Ahn was still staring after the departing mammoth, apparently at a loss. She glanced at Eleal in bleary surprise. “He is a holy one, a servant of Zath. Yes, what they call a reaper."

Eleal's heart turned a cartwheel, her knees wobbled violently, and something seemed to squeeze her throat shut. “I've never seen a reaper before,” she croaked. “In daylight?” Reapers were never discussed, or at least only in whispers—or croaks. But the mad old priest had mentioned him.

The nun chuckled. “You certainly wouldn't be able to see him in the dark, my dear!” she said, her good humor apparently restored. “And why not in daylight? He's only human. He must do something between sunrise and sunset."

That was even worse! “You mean he goes around in disguise?"

"He doesn't normally wear his habit, no. You can see the effect it has.” The old woman shook her head disapprovingly. “No one would sit beside him."

"You would have?"

All the innumerable wrinkles around Sister Ahn's mouth puckered up in one of her gruesome smiles, although her watery eyes gave it an incongruous sadness. She raised her long nose so she could look down it. “Why not? If he wanted to gather my soul for Zath now, he could have done so. I am sure he can run much faster than I. In the Green Scriptures, Canto 2578, it is written, “All gods play dice, but Zath's never lose."

The worst part of this insanity was that she had expected Eleal to accompany her. “Then why did you not go?"

"Because I had not paid, of course. We children of Irepit are not permitted to accept charity. Everything must be paid for somehow—a story, or a lesson, usually. I had offered to give lessons on the journey, but the young man refused my bid.” Her eyes were wandering even more than before, and she seemed puzzled that her companion did not understand. “When the other offers were withdrawn, I hoped he would reconsider."

The reaper must have been present in the crowd earlier. When the ticket price became unreasonable, he had donned his robe and revealed his avocation. Eleal shivered.

"What is a reaper doing here?"

"Earning his living by day, I expect,” Sister Ahn said offhandedly, uninterested in reapers. “Gathering souls by night."

Eleal looked up at the sky apprehensively. The big moon would be setting about now, but the sky was cloudy. Trumb had not eclipsed for at least a fortnight; he must be about due.

When the green man turns to black,

Then the reaper fills his sack.

Which did not mean he didn't fill it other nights also.

In the distance the mammoth plodded into Narshwater, and across, and out the far side, gradually catching up with the others and dwindling into the distance. The tiny black figure sat alone with nine empty seats around him. Soon he became hard to see ... Why was the reaper traveling to Sussland? Who had earned the enmity of Zath? Trumb must start eclipsing again soon. Where was the troupe? Should she go to the temple?

Worried, shivering in the icy wind, she glanced around the meadow. It seemed almost deserted without the mammoths, although there were llamas and dragons in the distance, and market stalls set up near the city gate. The other team would arrive tonight from Sussvale. The pen stood deserted, a flimsy rail fence around a patch of mud and mammoth dung. Klip Trumpeter was sitting on his pack with his head in his hands and his back to her. Apparently he had missed the reaper drama altogether!

Eleal hurried over to him at her fastest skip: clop!clip! ... clop!clip!...

Apart from her, Klip was the youngest member of the troupe. He had played women's parts last year. Now he couldn't and he wasn't ready for men's, so he worked mostly as a roustabout. His pimples were as many as the stars and his opinion of himself as both man and musician was as high. Olimmiar, who was a couple of months older, considered him still only a boy. Golfren Piper would not perform with him. Why had he come? And why alone?

"Did you see who—"

He looked up. She recoiled at the pallor of his face. “What's wrong?"

"The alpaca,” he said hoarsely.

"What about it?” She saw that Klip had lost three years somewhere since dawn. The arrogant self-styled musician was just a frightened boy now, and the change scared her.

"It was beautiful, Eleal, beautiful! All white and silky! Not a dark hair on it. Not a scratch on its hooves. Ambria paid five Joalian stars for it!"

Five! “And?"

Trumpeter's face crumpled as if he wanted to weep. “And its insides were all rotten. Black, and foul. Horrible. The stench filled the whole temple."

Eleal was already trembling with cold. Fear was no help. First a crazy priest, then an even crazier nun, then a reaper, and now this! She dropped her pack beside Klip and sat down, tucking her hands into her sleeves. At least the reaper had left town.

"What have we done to anger the Lady so?"

Klip's tongue moved over his lips. His acne showed as ugly purple blemishes on his ashen cheeks. “The Lady herself, or just Ois? We don't know. The priests say ... Have you ever been to her temple?"

"No."

"That may be it. None of us worship at the temple here, except when we are about to leave. It may not have been enough."

Eleal felt sick. “And?"

Klip swallowed hard. “Now we have to make amends."

"All of us?"

"The women. Ambria tried to get Olimmiar excused, saying she was only fifteen and a maiden. The priests just said that made her service specially potent.” Trumpeter groaned and buried his face in his hands. He mumbled something that might have been, “Meaning they can charge more."

Eleal waited ... and waited. She could count the thumps of her heart. Finally she had to ask.

"Me too?"

He looked around sharply; she saw that the wind had filled his eyes with tears also. “No, no! Oh, I'm sorry, Eleal! I should have said! No, not you! Ambria asked, but the priests said no, not if the Lady has not blessed you yet and made you a woman."

She felt a rush of relief and despised herself for it. The others’ sacrifice would lift the Lady's anger and she would not have contributed. She did not want to, but neither did they.

"Maybe next year?” Klip smiled sourly.

"Maybe,” she said uneasily. It was certainly possible. Many girls received the Lady's blessing at thirteen or even earlier. She was oh-so-glad it was not this year, though! “So what do we do now?"

"Go back to the hostel and wait until their service is complete."

"You mean it may take a long time?"

"That's up to the priests, to decide when the goddess is appeased. Days, maybe."

Tion's Festival began in three days!

Klip rose suddenly and lifted the two packs. Eleal reached for hers and he moved it out of her reach.

"I can manage!” she shouted.

"I want the exercise,” he said gruffly. “I'm trying to make my shoulders stronger."

She detested people taking pity on her because of her leg, but she decided to believe him and let him take both packs. As they began to walk, she concluded Klip Trumpeter was not so bad after all.

"I'll let you into a secret,” she said. “If you promise not to repeat it. A couple of days ago Olimmiar remarked how big and muscular you were getting. You mustn't tell her I said so!"

He glanced down at her with a wan smile. “I won't tell her because I don't believe a word of it."

"Well it's true!"

"No it isn't."

Eleal sniffed and tossed her head. She had only been trying to cheer him up. The least he could have done was pretend to believe her. Just for that, she wouldn't tell him that she had overheard Trong say he would make a good actor one day.

They trudged in silence toward the gate. Then Trumpeter said miserably, “I think it was Uthiam all the time!"

"What was?"

"The priests asked for her specially."

"By name? They knew her name?"

"The one who played Herinia two nights ago, they said—was she there? It was all a plot, Eleal! Don't you see? Some rich man saw her as Herinia and coveted her. He prayed to the Lady, and offered gold, and she granted his prayer! The priests had been instructed."

"Klip!” She put a hand on his sleeve. “You mustn't say such things about the Lady!"

He glowered at her. “I'll say them about Ois, then, even if she is a goddess! They took Uthiam away from the others—so they could send word to the man that she was available now, see? And he could be first. Uthiam's the sweetest, most beautiful—"

"Yes, she is. But—"

"Golfren was going crazy! He offered ninety-four stars if he could be the man to lie with her, the only man. Ninety-four!"

Ninety-four stars? That was a fortune! Eleal had long wondered why Golfren wore a money belt, which he probably thought no one except Uthiam knew about. “How could a wandering troubadour like Golfren Piper ever have collected so much money?"

"Dunno. I think he was planning to offer it to Tion in Suss to grant victory to Uthiam in the festival!"

"The priests refused?"

"They said husbands didn't count. I thought he was going to hit them!"

"Oh, Klip! Poor Golfren!"

Poor Uthiam!

Suddenly Trumpeter stopped and threw down one of the packs, so he could wipe his nose on his sleeve. He glared at Eleal with red-rimmed eyes. “I'll see you back at the hostel!"

She nodded sadly and limped away among the market stalls and the people.

10

AS SHE REACHED THE CLUSTER OF TRADERS’ STALLS BY the gate, Eleal realized that she was very hungry. She felt she should not be thinking of personal comfort when her friends were making so terrible a penance, but she had not eaten since the previous evening—and she no longer had Rilepass to look forward to. She wandered in among the fleece-wrapped servants and housewives, inspecting the wares. Mostly the offerings were of vegetables, for these were farmers’ stalls. Eventually a savory scent drew her and she discovered a booth dispensing meat pies.

T'lin had given her money, of course, but she wanted to keep that. Many women were crowding around that table, competing for the trader's attention. Eleal moved in close at one end, and knelt as if to tie a lace. A moment later, as a customer clinked coins in payment, a small hand made a deft grab between two bulky customers. A pie vanished from the display.

Gleefully clutching her prize close to her, Eleal rose and walked away. When she reached a safe distance, she produced her loot and simultaneously bumped into a tiny woman in blue.

"This is kind of you, my child,” Sister Ahn said, taking the pie in her twisted fingers. “It is long since I last ate. My, this smells delicious!” Her eyes were faded, watery, and filmed by age. They were also quite free of guile.

After a brief pang of annoyance, Eleal decided to be magnanimous. To feed this batty old crone would be meritorious. The Maiden would notice and might intercede with the Lady to turn aside her anger. And there were lots more pies where that one had come from.

"Oh, you are welcome, Sister! You really ought to be taking better care of yourself. A good llama fleece coat is what you need. Do you have somewhere warm to sleep?"

"I cannot accept charity,” the nun mumbled, gazing longingly at the pie she held. “It is written, Everything has its price."

"Payment is not necessary. One of my business ventures proved unexpectedly profitable this morning, so I can easily afford it."

The old woman still appeared frozen in her skimpy wool habit, and still unaware of the fact. The tip of her nose was turning white. “Here is what we shall do,” she said, looking around vaguely, as if in search of a table and chairs. “We shall share this and I shall explain to you about the reaper. Take care of it for a moment.” She returned the booty while she settled herself on the grass—an awkward procedure for which she leaned on her staff with one hand and adjusted the sword with the other, so as not to cut herself. Eleal wondered why the wind did not blow her over.

"Well, I do have pressing business engagements,” she said, dropping to the ground. “But I admit I should like to know about the reaper and why you journey to Suss and why you carry a sword and several other things."

Sister Ahn took the pie in her grotesquely warped fingers, broke it in half, murmuring a grace, and then offered Eleal the larger piece. It was rich and juicy and delicious, still faintly warm from the oven.

"So you are Eleal!” she said, chewing vigorously. “Younger than I expected. What trade do you follow?"

"Eleal Singer. Actually I am more of an actor now, but we have so many Actors in the troupe that it seemed wise—"

The nun frowned. “What do you act?"

"Both tragedy and comedy. And I sing in—"

"What,” Sister Ahn demanded, removing a piece of gristle from the mouth, “is the difference?"

Carefully not showing how shocked she was by the old woman's ignorance, Eleal explained. “Comedies are just about people. Tragedies have gods in them. People too, of—"

"Mmph! You portray goddesses?"

"Sometimes. I mean, I shall when I am tall enough."

"Then you must learn how goddesses think. You will travel to the festival tomorrow?"

Eleal told of the cockerel and the alpaca. When she started to explain what the other women in the troupe were doing, she felt nauseated and stopped eating.

Sister Ahn continued to work on the pie with her few teeth. The skin of her cheeks was like crepe, with all the underlying flesh underneath wasted away. A wisp of pure white hair had escaped from under her headcloth.

"Their penance may last a long time,” she mumbled with her mouth full, “and the festival is soon. You will have to go without them."

"I can't! I mustn't!"

The nun waved a hand dismissively. “It has been foreseen that you will. You can't fight destiny. History awaits you."

"I am not going to leave Narsh without my friends! I must stand by them in their hour of distress."

The nun pursed her already shriveled lips. “Your religious education has been woefully neglected. Why ‘distress'?"

"It seems so horrible!"

"Oh it is. That is why it is valuable. Have you not been taught that everything has a purpose? The purpose of life is to learn obedience to the gods."

"Of course.” Eleal forced herself to take another bite of pie. She did not want to think about what was happening in the Lady's temple. Before she could ask about the sword and the reaper instead, the lecture resumed.

"The gods made us to serve them.” Sister Ahn wiped gravy from her chin with a gnarled hand. “In this world we learn to do their will. When we have completed our apprenticeship, Zath gathers us to their judgment, to serve in whatever manner we have shown ourselves best fit for. In the Red Scriptures, the Book of Eemeth, it is written, Among the heavens and the constellations thereof shall they be set, lighting the world as the lesser gods."

Eleal had never understood the attraction of being hung in the sky like laundry for all eternity.

"To do what we want is easy,” the nun said, still chewing. “To do what the gods want may not be. The reaper upset you, and a deal of other people also, but he worships Zath as Zath commands him. To take life is a sin for most of us. To obey the dictate of a god is never sin. A reaper can slay with a touch of his hand, but only because Zath has given him that power. Likely the god gave him other powers also, to help him in his unhappy task. He must put the god's gifts to their intended use. What for you or me would be murder is for him both a sacrament and a duty."

Eleal shivered. “And the Lady?"

"Likewise. To offer your body to a man for money would be a crime most foul. To do so as a sacrifice to the Lady when she commands it is a holy, precious thing. Obedience is all."

The faded gray eyes turned from Eleal to stare blankly across the windy meadow. “I have never lain with a man. I have never killed anyone. That does not make me better than those who do such things in holy service. I am sworn to obey another goddess in other ways, that is all."

A troop of armed citizens went striding past, returning from their drill. They all seemed to glance sideways at Eleal's odd companion, and she realized that no other passersby had come as close. Apparently a Daughter of Irepit was to be avoided—not given as wide a berth as a reaper would merit, but wide enough to remind Eleal of Uthiam's wary expression when she faced this cryptic crone.

"What goddess? Irepit? Is she an avatar of the Maiden?"

"Of course—Astina in her aspect as goddess of repentance. A stern goddess! Not as stern as Ursula, her aspect of justice, but—"

"Why drag that sword around if you don't use it?"

The old woman smiled her gruesome smile happily. “Because the Holy Irepit has so commanded, of course. It is a reminder and a burden, a burden I bear gladly."

"A reminder of what?"

"A reminder of mortality and obedience.” She pointed a bony finger at Eleal's right boot, with its two-inch sole. “You also bear a burden, child."

"Not willingly!” Eleal was annoyed to feel her face flushing.

"But perhaps the gods had their reasons for laying it upon you."

It was very impolite to discuss people's infirmities. The sword was not the same thing at all.

"Swords are valuable! Suppose some man covets it and threatens to kill you for it?"

The nun shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Then I refuse and he kills me. If he takes it without killing me, then I must kill myself in penance for whatever evil he may someday do with it. I said it was a burden."

"You may never use it?"

"Only in ritual. Some of my sisters have frozen to death rather than profane their swords by chopping wood with them."

"Well!” Eleal said crossly. “You tell me that everything has a purpose. Obviously the purpose of a sword is to kill people, er, men, I mean."

"Oh, I never said it had not killed people!” The nun patted the hilt of the weapon lovingly. “It has belonged to my order for a long time, so I expect it has been the death of many."

That made no sense at all. The woman was as crazy as the equally ancient priest who had first mentioned her. The two of them must be in cahoots somehow. Feeling very uneasy, Eleal scrambled to her feet.

"To endure without complaint, to obey without question,” Sister Ahn said, as if unaware of the movement, “this is what life is for. It is written in the Book of Shajug how holy P'ter, having ruled over the Thargians for tenscore years and seven—"

"Why are you traveling to Suss?"

The nun sighed. “The play was written long ago. By your definition it is a tragedy, for the gods are involved. There is a part in this play for one of my order. I deemed ... I was deemed the most expendable."

"And me? You knew my name!"

"Your part is written also."

"Namely?"

Sister Ahn peered up awkwardly at this impertinent young questioner. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. “So many questions! In the Blue Scriptures, the Book of Alyath, we read, Ask not lest the answer displease you; seek not lest you become lost; knock and you may open a dangerous door."

Crazy as a drunken bat!

"I really must be off!” Eleal said royally. “Business, you know. I do wish you would find yourself some warmer garments. Now, pray excuse me."

She stalked away. She half expected to hear an order that she stay and listen to more, but it did not come.

11

SUNDAY NEVER REALLY EXISTED FOR EDWARD EXETER. From time to time the pain in his leg would solidify out of the fog and he would open his eyes and see the mess of bandages and ropes and discover that he could not move. His head throbbed. He faded in and faded out. Often he would try to turn over and again be balked by those ropes and that leg stuck up in the air. He was vaguely aware of nurses coming around at intervals and talking to him. As soon as he grunted a few words, they would go away satisfied. Sometimes they tucked thermometers under his tongue and scolded when he went to sleep and dropped them. There was a nasty business with a bottle, too.

Often the world was filled with silent music, sometimes music soaring like a Puccini aria, sometimes funny music, like a Gilbert and Sullivan patter song, although he heard no words.

Once or twice he noted the drab brown walls and the stink of carbolic and ether. Then he would deduce yet again that he must be in a hospital and therefore was being cared for and could safely drift off again. At other times he thought he was back in Paris and reflected that Smedley's uncle kept jolly hard beds. Once he had a memory of pain and streaming blood; he started to cry out then. Someone came and jabbed a needle in him and the music returned.

A voice he knew spoke his name, very far away. His eyelids were heavy as coffin lids, but he forced them open and saw Alice.

"I'm dead, aren't I?” His tongue was too thick, his lips too stiff.

"Not very."

"Then why am I seeing angels?"

She squeezed his hand. “How do you feel?"

"Not quite as good as usual."

"You'll be better tomorrow, they say."

He blinked to try and make his eyes work correctly. There was an electric light up there. “What time is it?"

"Evening. Sunday evening. You had a bang on the head. I told them there wasn't much brain there to start with."

He tried to say, “Tell me you love me and I'll die happy.” He wasn't sure if he managed to. They woke him later to give him a back rub, but Alice had gone.

12

ELEAL HAD BEEN WANDERING AIMLESSLY AROUND THE city's dreary gray streets until eventually her feet brought her into the temple quarter. The house of Ois was easily the tallest building in town, but no less ugly than any of the others. She did not want to visit that! Old Sister Ahn might describe what was happening there as a great and holy sacrifice, but Eleal still felt that it was degradation, and she would not witness her friends’ shame.

Then she recalled the silver in her pocket. She was the only member of the troupe who had not made an offering that day, unless half a pie to a nun counted. She decided she would go to Tion's shrine and sacrifice some money there. If the crazy old priest was still there, she could reassure him that she was obviously in no danger and the reaper had left town anyway.

But why just the Youth? Why not visit all the shrines? She could pray to the Parent for comfort and the Maiden for justice and even to the Man for courage. She could ask them all to intercede with the Lady. She headed for the street behind the temple. The area was busy now, full of hurrying Narshian troglodytes.

She had often come along this street, so she knew the first shrine was Visek's, although she had never entered it before. Its imposing archway, which must once have been white, was now a grubby drab color and the faded sun symbol of the mother and father of gods was barely visible. She walked in boldly, to the small and shadowy courtyard, overgrown with somber trees and roofed by black branches and gray sky. The walls were smeared with lichen. Faint scents of stale incense cloyed the air. There was no one else present.

The statue of the Father opposite the entrance was crude, spattered with bird droppings and shedding flakes of white paint like dandruff. It depicted a stern, bearded man wearing a crown and long robes. The contorted Narshian script on the plinth was obscured by moss, but the god had only one eye and one ear, in his aspect as Chiol, god of destiny. She hoped he had his one ear turned her way now, to hear her prayer. Chiol had a very splendid temple in Joal, which she had seen but never visited—she never had problems with destiny.

She knelt before the figure. To pray to the All-Knowing, one should wear something white. Well, the inside of her fleece coat was sort-of white, so that was all right. She pulled out two of the silver coins Dragontrader had given her, unable to see what they were in the gloom.

There were other offerings lying on the plinth: a few coppers, two jars and a bottle, a cold leg of goose with flies crawling on it, a hank of wool, and a string of beads, which was probably somebody's most precious thing. She resisted a temptation to open the jars and sniff at the contents. She laid the silver beside them.

She bowed her head and repeated a prayer from the White Scriptures: “Father of Gods, Mother of Mortals, Giver of Truth, grant us comfort in our sorrows and forgive us our sins."

That was very appropriate, she thought, and in a moment she did feel better. Surprisingly better—but then she had never offered silver to a god before. She murmured the first thanksgiving she thought of; it was from the Blue Scriptures, but that would not matter.

Eleal limped out cheerfully, into a swirl of snow.

White flakes danced around in the streets, sticking only to people, it seemed, and not settling on the ground. They made it hard to see where she was going. Tugging her collar tighter, she set off between the hurrying pedestrians, the carts, and wagons. The high wall continued, marked by unwelcoming doors. Trees looked over the top in places, suggesting private gardens. The next shrine was Karzon's, in his aspect of Krak'th, god of earthquakes. She had rarely prayed to the Man before, and certainly never to Krak'th. She had no more problems with earthquakes than she did with destiny.

The afternoon was drawing to a close already; she was cold and weary. Her hip hurt. Blinking into the snowflakes, she saw a familiar figure stalking toward her. Anyone could recognize Dolm Actor at a distance by his height and rolling gait. Normally, of course, she would run to him. Dolm was a gangly, cheerful man, almost as tall as Trong Impresario, but much younger. He had a wonderful voice, although he moved poorly and his gestures were graceless. She could just remember when Dolm had been young enough to play the Youth. Now he usually portrayed the Man when the troupe performed tragedies, lovers or warriors in the comedies.

But Dolm would not be cheerful today, with Yama sacrificing in the temple. Dolm was very probably doing what she was doing—making a pilgrimage to all the shrines of Narsh—and in that case he was heading for Karzon's, as she was. She did not want Dolm to listen to her prayers.

She did not think she was wicked enough to listen to his. It wouldn't be easy to arrange, anyway. She stepped behind a parked wagon to let him go in unmolested. As he came closer, she decided that there was something strange about the way he was behaving. He passed by without seeing her, and without entering the shrine.

Curiosity is a sin, Ambria Impresario scolded.

Curiosity is a great talent, T'lin Dragontrader said.

So Eleal watched, and in a few minutes she decided that her hunch was correct, and Dolm Actor was being furtive. She stepped out from behind the cart and followed, keeping close to a rumbling wagon of bales. He walked faster than the yaks plodded, but every few minutes he would pause and look behind him.

He was tall and she was small. She could be a lot more inconspicuous than he could, and on a gloomy afternoon in a rio of snowflakes, she could be downright invisible.

Perhaps he was going to Chiol's shrine, to begin there, as she had. Why should he make such a mystery of it, though?

Without warning, Dolm vanished. Eleal caught a brief glimpse of a closing door. She stamped her heavy boot with annoyance.

Curiosity howled in frustration. Like her, Dolm visited Narsh only once a year, and briefly, yet he had obviously known exactly which door he wanted. As it was just a spread of timber in a featureless stone wall, with no name or marker on it, he must have been here before. The wall was too high to climb even had she dared try such a thing in a busy street. Shrubbery protruded over the top, so there was a garden beyond. It might be a back gate to the temple, or else another courtyard, like Chiol's shrine.

Another courtyard, next to Chiol's shrine!

Without pausing to think, Eleal sprinted back to the archway and through, into the gloomy shrine. There was still nobody there. Without a word of apology to the god, she hurried to the sidewall. Cursing her cumbersome boot and her heavy Narshian fleece, she scrambled up a tree until she could peek over.

Below her lay a larger courtyard, enclosed by high mossy walls, overgrown with old trees and gangly shrubs. It had an air of neglect and decay about it, as if no one ever came. It was another shrine, although never in her life had she heard of a sacred place being kept secret. Despite the snow swirling in the air, she had a clear view across the wet cobbles to the god.

The figure was so lifelike that it stopped her breath. She had never seen finer, even in the grandest temples. It was larger than mortal, wrought in bronze, a male in a loincloth. The Youth was usually shown nude and Karzon fully clad, but this must be the Man, for he was a heavyset mature adult, not a slim-waisted adolescent. Besides, he bore a skull in one hand and a hammer in the other. He was also weathered to a muddy green, and green was the color of Karzon, the Man. He stood in a sort of thicket of implements that stuck up around his feet: a spade, a word, a scythe, a shepherd's crook, and other attributes of his many aspects. All of those were also of green bronze, except the word, which was red with rust—she hoped it was rust.

That was no minor local god. That must be Karzon himself, god of creation and destruction. She had never been to his temple because it was in Tharg. So the Man had two shrines in Narsh—a public one to Krak'th and a private one of his own. Curious!

Then she saw Dolm, sitting on the ground below her, bare to the waist. While she watched, he hauled off his leggings and stood up, wearing nothing except a black cloth tied around his coins. He was visibly shivering as the snow settled on his shoulders and the prominent bald spot on top of his head, but the fact that he had stripped off everything except that one monocolored garment meant that he was about to perform some special ritual sacred to one god. Black meant Zath Karzon, the Man's avatar as god of death.

She wanted to vanish, but mad curiosity froze her to her perch on the branch. Even if Dolm looked up, he would not notice her face peering at him through the foliage. Yet outsiders prying into secret rites were asking for very serious trouble. Trouble from Zath?

And Dolm?

Dolm Actor, her friend?

Piol Poet would never eat fish. Ambria belonged to a women's cult that she would never discuss, and recently had begun taking Uthiam along to meetings, whenever they could get away. Eleal had overheard them talking about it when they did not know she was listening, but she had not learned much more than that it had something to do with Ember'l, who was goddess of drama, avatar of Tion in Jurg. Probably many people had sworn special allegiance to some particular god or goddess. A twelve-year-old was not likely to be told about such private matters.

Oh, Dolm!

Soldiers always wore something black. Many other men did—but an actor? An actor worshiping Zath?

She stared in disbelief as that lanky, bony man strode forward to stand before the god and raise his lean arms in supplication. He was almost as tall as the idol. She did not recognize the word he began to chant—they sounded Thargian, but not a dialec she recognized.

It was a complex ritual. Dolm turned around several times—he had an extremely hairy chest, Dolm. He dropped to his knee and touched his face to the ground. He sprang up, legs astride and recited something else. He touched his toes, crouched, rose bowed, in careful sequence, chanting softly all the time in his sonorous actor's voice. He dropped on hands and knees and barked three times like a dog. And finally he wriggled forward on his belly to the base of the plinth. Eleal shivered at the thought of all that cold, wet stone, and snow.

Dolm Actor rose to his knees, and grasped the sword with his left hand. It came free of the plinth easily. He recited another formula and kissed the rusty blade. He stretched out his right arm, laying his hand at the god's feet, palm upward. For the first time his voice faltered and he seemed to hesitate. Then he slashed down at his wrist as if trying to sever it completely.

He cried out, dropping the sword. A torrent of blood spilled from the cut arteries.

Eleal's hair rose straight up, or at least felt as if it did.

Steadying the wounded arm with his left hand, Dolm lifted it so the red fountain of his own life's blood gushed down upon his own balding head. The injured hand hung limp and useless.

That last obscenity snapped the spell that had rooted Eleal. This was no normal worship! This was no little clique of gossipy women muttering secret prayers. This was some arcane invocation. Hiding from Dolm Actor was child's play, but she could not hide from the god of death if he came in person.

Teeth chattering, she slithered wildly downward through the branches until she collapsed on the leaf-strewn ground. Then she sprang to her feet and fled.