Past Imperative

13

THE NEW HOTEL IN GREYFRIARS WAS A GLOOMY VICTOrian structure of red brick, a short walk from the High Street, blanked by Robinson & Son Drapers on one side and Wimpole Bros. Chemists on the other. Its prices were reasonable—four shillings and sixpence for bed and breakfast. It was convenient to the station and much favored by commercial travelers. On Bank Holiday weekend, it was as vivacious as the inside of a sealed Comb. No games of auction bridge would liven its Residents’ Lounge this evening. Very few pairs of shoes would be set outside its bedroom doors tonight for Boots to polish before morning.

The entrance hall was dark, but still stuffy from the day's heat. Permanent odors of yeast and stale cigar smoke lingered amid the aspidistras drooping in the windows and the horsehair sofas banking the dead hearth. Walls and woodwork were a uniform, sad brown; the elaborate plaster ceiling was stained to the color of old tea. As the revolving door hissed to a stop behind her, Alice Prescott mentally prepared for a few hours of dread boredom before she could sleep. Her room would still be hot, and it overlooked the shunting yard. The bed was surely the lumpiest south of the Humber.

The West Country could never be as unbearable as London, but she longed to reach her room and shed a few clothes. Africa had been hotter, but in the Colonies a woman was not required to wrap herself in quite such absurd creations of Oriental silk underskirts and ankle-length cotton voile gowns and broad silk sashes. Or, if she were, then she would not be expected to spend an afternoon trudging around a county town.

Her plumed hat was going to come off before anything else did.

Most Sunday evenings in Greyfriars would offer nothing whatsoever in the way of entertainment except Divine Service at St. Michael and All Angels'. Today, however, there had been an impromptu meeting in the park, which had provided sorry unexpected excitement. Mr. Asquith, God Bless Him, had been three-cheered several times, the Kaiser had been loudly booed. The mayor had spoken a few words about the Empire on Which the Sun Never Sets and England Expecting Every Man to Do His Duty. A hastily gathered band from the Boys’ Brigade had played some martial music, and everyone had sung “Land and Hope and Glory” and “God Save the King.” Then the crow had quietly dissolved, slinking away as if ashamed of having displayed emotion in public.

Alice headed for the desk to collect her room key. She could see it dangling on the board with the others, well out of reach. There was no message in her pigeonhole, and no news was good news because the only people who knew where she was staying were the hospital and the police.

She hoped D'Arcy had found the note she had left for him in the sitting room—at times he could be quite astonishingly unperceptive, blind as a mole. She teased him about that. She had left another note on the pillow: “See note on mantelpiece. She wondered what he had done this morning without her. Perhaps this Sunday he had actually gone to church! She would send a telegram to his chambers in the morning. Unless Edward took a grave turn for the worse, she absolutely must get back to town tomorrow.

The clerk was not in evidence. Before she could lift the little brass bell thoughtfully placed on the desk for just such an emergency, a man spoke from the far end of the hall.

"Miss Prescott?"

She jumped and turned.

He must have been sitting in the corner armchair. Now he had risen. He was large, portly, dressed like a banker in his Sunday best, waistcoat and gold watch chain.

"I am she."

He nodded and walked over to her, taking his time, carrying his bowler. She closed her fingers on the bell. His hair was thinning, his graying mustache turned up in points like the Kaiser's.

"Inspector Leatherdale of the County Constabulary, Miss Prescott. Wonder if I might have a word with you?"

Alice released the bell. Her heart was behaving disgracefully. “Of course, Inspector. I hope you can inform me what has transpired. I did inquire at the station, but the officer there was most uncommunicative."

The policeman nodded, as if that was to be expected. He gestured to the heavy sofas by the fireplace. “There are some gentlemen in the Residents’ Lounge, ma'am. This should be private enough."

She led the way over there and perched carefully on an edge, keeping her back straight as a musket. The cushion sagged so low that her knees tilted uncomfortably to the side. She stood her parasol upright against the arm and removed her gloves. Leatherdale pulled up the creases of his trouser legs at the knees in thrifty middle-class fashion, then settled deeply into the sofa beside hers. He produced a notebook and fountain pen.

He looked annoyingly comfortable. She hoped she appeared more composed than she felt, because she felt like a felon caught red-handed, which was ridiculous. Dear Uncle Roland would consider her sense of guilt very fitting if he knew of it and knew what caused it. He could not know, of course, but absence of evidence would never lead him to doubt. He had been convinced of her depravity as soon as she moved out on her own, and that had been long before she met D'Arcy. Immorality was not a criminal offense. It just felt like it at the moment.

"Now, Inspector! I understand that—"

"Your full name, please, ma'am. For the record."

He took charge of the conversation so effectively that she found herself waiting in obsequious silence while he wrote down every answer. What did her age have to do with Edward's accident? Or her address? Or that she had been born in India, raised in British East Africa, was self-supporting, taught piano?

"Edward George Exeter is your first cousin?"

"He is. He is also seriously injured, Inspector. I was told he fell down some stairs, but I have yet to learn—"

The inspector looked up with eyes as cold and penetrating as the iceberg that sank the Titanic. “We do not know how he came to fall down those stairs, Miss Prescott. That is something we hope to establish when he is well enough to answer questions."

"You mean it was not an accident?"

"What happened to Exeter may or may not have been an accident. The other young man involved was stabbed to death. I can tell you, though, that there seems to have been no one else present at the time. As of this date your cousin has not been charged, but he is an obvious suspect in a clear case of murder."

The ensuing silence had the impact of bells. Stabbed to death? Murder?

Edward? She felt herself opening and closing her mouth like a fish.

The questions began to roll again. She did not hear them, and yet she could hear her voice answering them.

"Anything I can do to help ... caught the first train ... uncle's housekeeper sent me a telegram ... very fond, extremely fond of Edward ... more like brother and sister..."

It was unbelievable. Edward would never murder anyone! Murder was something that happened in the slums of Limehouse. Murder was Jack the Ripper or Dr. Crippen, not Edward! There had been some horrible mistake.

She must have said so, because the inspector was nodding understandably. “I know how you must feel,” he said, and suddenly he seemed avuncular and less intimidating. “Between ourselves, I am much inclined to agree with you, Miss Prescott. Your cousin seems like a very promising young man, well thought of, of good family..."

He must have asked, or she had volunteered, because she discovered that she was telling him all about their family, and about herself.

"...other sahibs fled town when the cholera arrived. My parents were both doctors, though ... sent me away and they stayed ... I don't remember them at all ... mother had two brothers. I was sent off to Kenya on the mail boat, like a parcel. Uncle Cameron, Aunt Rona ... like parents to me..."

She was telling of Africa, the only childhood she could recall ... Why should the policeman care about that? Yet he was still making notes, apparently managing to keep up with the story pouring out of her.

"And you came Home when exactly?"

"In 1906. Edward followed in ‘08, when he was twelve."

"You do not live with your uncle now, though?"

"I am of age, Inspector."

"But you have lived on your own for some time?” he asked, watching her shrewdly under bushy gray brows.

She took a deep breath. She knew the conclusions men drew when a woman lived on her own. That those conclusions were now true in her case made them no less unfair. They would have been there had she never met D'Arcy. There had been no one before D'Arcy.

"Uncle Roland is not an easy man to live with."

"Your cousin shares that opinion?"

To describe Edward's opinions of Holy Roly could not help, although they were starting to look appallingly accurate. “The relationship is cool on both sides. It was all right at first, but since Aunt Griselda died, my uncle has become ... well, difficult."

The inspector nodded thoughtfully and studied his notebook for a moment. Hooves and wheels clattered past the windows.

"Exeter rarely stayed with his uncle, even in holiday time?"

"My uncle goes out of town a lot. He ... He tends to distrust young people. He preferred not to leave us in the care of the servants. I was more fortunate. My father was survived by two elderly maiden aunts. I mostly spent my summers with them in Bournemouth.” The Misses Prescott had been reluctant to put up with their great-niece. They had had no use for an adolescent boy about the house, a boy unrelated to them.

"So he lived year-round at Fallow?"

"Not completely. Friends would often invite him to visit during the holidays. He has been to the Continent several times, France and Germany, staying with families to learn the language. The school arranges such things."

The more she could tell about Edward the better, surely? Then the police would see how absurd it was to suspect him of anything.

"You know, I don't believe Edward has ever told a lie in his life, Inspector? He—"

The policeman donned his fatherly smile. “Your family seems to have been very dedicated to the Empire, Miss Prescott. Let me see if I have them pegged correctly. Mr. Cameron Exeter, Edward's father, was a district officer in British East Africa. Dr. Roland Exeter was a missionary in the South Pacific for the Lighthouse Missionary Society, of which he is now director. Your mother, Mrs. Mildred Prescott, was a doctor in India?"

Alice laughed for the first time. “I think we all have guilty consciences. My great-grandfather was a nabob. He made a fortune in India. Loot, Edward calls it."

Leatherdale made another note. “Your family has money still, then?"

"Some, Inspector. We are by no means wealthy, though."

That might be more true than she meant it to be. More and more it looked as if Edward was right and Holy Roly had poured the whole lot into his blessed Missionary Society. She had not seen a penny of her inheritance yet. But surely that scrap of dirty family laundry was irrelevant? Surely this whole family history was irrelevant?

The policeman did not seem to think so. Was he truly on Edward's side as he had claimed, or was he somehow trying to trap her into saying something she should not? But what on earth could she reveal that would be damaging? Nothing!

"Your uncle, the Reverend Roland Exeter, is an elderly man?"

"In his seventies, yes."

"Seventy-two, actually,” Leatherdale said offhandedly. “Born in 1842. And your mother?"

Puzzled and oddly uneasy now, Alice said, “I'd have to work it out. She was thirty-eight when I was born. I can't recall why I know even that much."

Leatherdale scribbled. “So 1855 or “56. And Roland in “42. How about Cameron?"

"I don't know. I never saw them after I left Africa, remember. But he must have been much younger."

The bushy brows flickered upward. “According to Who's Who, your uncle Roland was the second son—meaning Cameron was the oldest child."

She smiled and shook her head. “I'm quite sure he wasn't! I remember how shocked I was at how old Uncle Roland was when I met him. Perhaps it's a misprint?"

"Possibly.” The inspector seemed to change the subject. “It seems odd that your adoptive parents never came Home on leave. District officers are usually granted leave every two years or so, aren't they?"

"I don't know. Yes, I suppose so. Nyagatha is very remote. It was even more remote in those days.” That seemed irrelevant, somehow. All the Empire was remote.

"Your cousin Edward. Last week he was on his way to Crete. When he had to cancel his plans—when he came back to England—why did he come to Greyfriars?"

"I'm not sure."

"Did he get in touch with you?"

Alice shook her head. “He dropped me a postcard on his way through London. I am not on the telephone, you know. He just said the trip was off and he was coming here, to stay with General and Mrs. Bodgley."

"He did not wish to stay with his uncle,” Leatherdale said. “Why not with you?"

She felt herself blushing, but it would not matter. “I could not put him up!"

"Why not?"

Her cheeks felt warmer yet. “Really, Inspector! If the highly respectable ladies who employ me were to hear that a young man had been seen entering and leaving my flat, then they would never allow me across their doorsteps again! They would not let me near their pianos, let alone their children!"

Which was true, but not the real reason. What if Edward had stumbled on something of D'Arcy's lying around? His dressing gown, for example? Edward was a romantic. It would kill him.

"You are on good terms, though?"

"Oh, yes! I told you, I regard him as a brother."

"And what are his feelings toward you?"

She turned and stared at the empty fireplace. “You had best direct that question to him, Inspector."

"Murder is no respecter of privacy, Miss Prescott!"

She turned to him in horror. “Heavens! You don't mean I am going to find myself pilloried in the gutter press? The News of the World?” If the reporters ever scented a scandal as well as a murder and dragged D'Arcy in, his career would be completely ruined. His wife was a vindictive bitch.

The big man shrugged. “In normal times I expect you would. I believe the Kaiser will save you in this instance."

"Well, that is certainly a relief!"

"So will you answer my question, ma'am?"

"My cousin believes he is in love with me."

"Believes?"

She turned again to the fireplace. “Edward has led a very sheltered life, and in many ways an extremely lonely one. He last saw his parents when he was twelve. They died in very horrible circumstances four years later. I was the only person he could turn to. I am three years older, which is a lot at that age. Some of his letters were heartbreaking!"

And just when the pain was easing, Cameron's reputation had been stamped into the mud by the board of inquiry. For Edward, that had been a toboggan trip through Hell.

She forced herself to meet the policeman's steady stare. “I am literally the only girl he knows! Can't you see? Edward has a romantic Celtic streak to him. He believes he is in love with me. Now he has left school ... in a few months ... when he has had a chance to meet other girls..."

Edward would not meet many girls if he had to spend those next few months in jail.

14

ABOUT THE ONLY GOOD THING AMBRIA IMPRESARIO EVER found to say about Narsh—and Eleal agreed with her on this—was that it had a very good hostel. True, it was shabby and none too clean, like the rest of the city, but it was located conveniently close to the shearing barn where the plays were performed. It provided innumerable poky rooms, and it was never busy so early in the spring, when the troupe needed it. There was no embarrassing pretending to be asleep when the troupe played Narsh.

Snow was starting to pile up in alleys and the light was failing when Eleal at last found her way back there—thinking gloomily that they should all be down in warm Filoby by now, getting ready for the evening's performance.

She was still very shaky from her narrow escape, but no terrible gods had come after her. Dolm Actor himself might have bled to death, if his rites had failed. He would have been in too much pain to notice any noise she had made in leaving, and the snow had not been lying then, so she should have left no tracks.

Now that she had recovered from her fright, she felt angry, which was strange. Perhaps she should feel sorry for Dolm, who served so terrible a god, but she couldn't feel sorry. Murdering people was wrong, no matter what old Sister Ahn might say. Dolm had deceived her all her life, and she just felt angry.

She wondered what T'lin Dragontrader would say when she told him about that bizarre performance. He would believe her. To mention it to anyone else was unthinkable—even if Dolm Actor never returned, the troupe would not credit her story. She would be the only one who would ever know what had happened to him.

The hostel was a welcome sight in the dusk. There was no smoke rising from the chimney, though, as she had hoped there would be by now. She found the key in its usual cranny under the step. The door opened into the big communal kitchen that took up most of the ground floor, big enough and high enough to house a family of mammoths. Another door led out to toilets and washrooms; a wooden stair against one wall led up to sleeping rooms above.

She stood for a while, sniffing the familiar smells of ancient cooking and old tallow, listening to wind rattling the casements and whining in the eaves. There seemed to be no one else in the familiar old warren. She decided she would take off her coat first, comb her hair, and then kindle a fire to heat up wash water. She felt limp and sore from a long day. Only a llama should be expected to spend so long inside a heavy fleece.

She set off up the staircase that clung to the high, raw-stone wall. From long habit, she stepped on the ends of the treads. Ambria was always accusing her of sneaking, but she hated the sound of her uneven gait and had learned to move quietly in consequence. Our Lady Mouse, Golfren called her sometimes.

In some cities the troupe slept in one big room, while in Jurg they stayed in the king's house. The Narsh hostel lay somewhere between those two extremes. It was so large and so empty at this time of year that Eleal had a room all to herself, not having to share with Olimmiar. She walked down the long corridor, turned the corner, and saw her pack lying abandoned by Klip Trumpeter's door. Muscle building only went so far, obviously.

As she stooped to lift it, she detected a faint rasping coming from the room itself. The door was ajar, but whatever was making that odd noise was not visible through the crack.

One of the really nice things about the Narsh hostel was the size of its keyholes. Trumpeter was standing with his back to her, stripped to his breechclout as Dolm Actor had been. But Klip was not engaged in any arcane holy ritual. The cloth was white, anyway, although not as white as it should have been. He had a brick in each hand, and he was swinging them up and down, up and down. His bony back and shoulders gleamed with sweat, and the noise was his panting. He sounded almost ready to collapse.

He was really serious about those muscles! Perhaps he had believed her little lie after all? She sensed interesting opportunities for teasing—she might mention bricks at supper and smile at him innocently. That would make Trumpeter's face glow like one big all-over pimple.

Amused, Eleal took up her pack and tiptoed off along the corridor. Then she came to another open door, and her heart jumped into her mouth and stayed there.

This was Yama and Dolm's room. Like the others, it contained no furniture except a straw pallet, but their packs were lying there. Someone must have brought all the baggage back. Shivering with a sort of sick excitement, Eleal stared at this deadly opportunity.

When she had been little, she had found people's packs absolutely irresistible. There was always something interesting in them! Once she had found a hand-tinted print of a naked woman in K'linpor Actor's, and had produced it at lunch for everyone to admire. That had been a painful experience all round.

She had grown more discreet after that, but about two years ago Ambria had caught her going through Trong's pack and had taken a belt to her. That had really hurt. And then Ambria had said that Eleal Singer was nothing but a stray fledgling and the troupe had no duty to care for her and feed her and if she was ever caught prying like that again, she would be thrown out on the street where she belonged. That had hurt even more.

Since then, she had mostly managed to resist personal packs. They were a bad habit.

This, however, was different! This was important.

This was crazy—the man served Zath.

He was almost certainly dead, victim of his own clumsiness in botching a ritual. If he wasn't, there might be evidence in that baggage that would convince the others.

There was no one else in the building except muscleman Klip, and he was busy.

All packs looked much alike. Whoever had brought the baggage back could easily have made a mistake. About three heartbeats after that last thought, Eleal Singer was limping along the corridor carrying Dolm Actor's pack instead of her own. It was very little heavier.

Panting like a cat, she laid it on her pallet, then spared a moment to lock and bolt her door.

Her hands trembled so much that she could hardly manage the buckles. Gasping for breath, she began hauling out clothes, spare boots, a printed book containing extracts from the Green and the Blue Scriptures, a couple of manuscript copies of plays—this year's repertoire. A makeup kit. A wig that ought to be in the prop box and had probably been left over after last night's performance. And a little bag of dream pods—well! Ambria Impresario would be very interested to know about them.

When Eleal had taken out everything, she looked for secret pockets like those in Golfren and Klip's packs. This one was a little trickier to figure out, but she managed it. It contained exactly what she had feared, a black garment. She did not even dare pull it out to inspect it. She had no need to. It was bulky enough.

A door banged, and voices came drifting up from downstairs. Almost retching with terror, Eleal began stuffing everything back in what she hoped was the right order, making a frantic muddle.

Curiosity is a sin!

Curiosity is a great talent, but this time that talent had worked too well.

Only a reaper would ever dress all in black. Sister Ahn had said, murder was both a sacrament and a duty for reapers. She had not mentioned whether their powers included the ability to know when someone had been ransacking their packs.

With her hair combed, wearing her shawl over her warmer dress, Eleal approached the stairs. She was an actor, wasn't she, sort of? Very well, she must act as if she still believed that Dolm was just an innocent, none too talented, actor. Holding her head high, she began to pick her way carefully down the stairs, holding the banister.

Then she saw that she had no need to act. Only Piol Poet and Golfren Piper had returned, and they were in no state to be an audience. Dull evening light struggled through high barred windows to show plank tables and the black iron range. The big kitchen was as bleak and cold as the streets outside. If there was no snow on the flagstone floor, Eleal could imagine it just by looking at Golfren Piper's face.

Wizened little Piol Poet knelt at the grate, trying to start a fire and producing nothing but smoke. He was the oldest of them all, but practical and helpful, a quiet soul who never said an unkind word. His wife had died years ago, so he was less intensely involved than the others in today's disaster.

Golfren Piper had perched on a stool and was gazing sickly at some empty, cobwebby shelves as if the end of the world had come and gone and left him behind. His pale blue eyes flicked round to look at Eleal, though. He raised eyebrows inquiringly. She nodded reassuringly. He forced a faint smile of approval and looked away again. She liked Golfren. He was slim and fair and would have been well suited to playing gods had he not been so wooden on stage that he resembled a tree with rheumatism. Piol wrote walkon parts for him, but his main value to the troupe was as a musician and as Uthiam's husband.

Klip Trumpeter was probably still upstairs, giving himself a rubdown. Gartol Costumer had gone on ahead to Suss and would soon be wondering what had happened to everyone. That left three men unaccounted for, including Dolm Actor.

Eleal tried to muffle an immense sigh of relief. She dallied for a moment with the idea of racing back upstairs to rearrange Dolm's pack better. Then she decided someone might come to investigate, and Dolm himself might still return any minute anyway—she could not be certain he had died.

She sat down on a chair and looked around, being calm as the Mother on the Rainbow Throne in The Judgment of Apharos.

"You feeling all right?” Golfren asked, frowning.

"Yes. Yes, quite all right. Er, where's everybody?"

He shrugged. “Don't know. Trong and K'linpor went to consult their brothers. Dolm and Trumpeter—"

"I'm here,” Klip said, clattering down the stairs, rubbing his hair with a grubby towel. “What brothers?"

Golfren pulled a face. “Local lodge of the Tion Fellowship. Forget I mentioned it."

Klip glanced thoughtfully at Eleal and then asked, “Any news from the temple?"

Golfren shook his head mournfully.

Piol rose stiffly from the range, where faint flickers of light showed success. He scowled at his hands and took the towel from Klip to wipe them. The murderous silence was broken by thumping of boots on the stoop. The door creaked open, swirling snowflakes, sucking smoke from the range. Trong Impresario slunk in. His son followed, closing the door with an angry bang.

As always, Trong bore the haggard, tragic expression to be expected of a man who died two hundred times a year. Usually he walked tall, a rawboned giant with a mane of long silver locks and beard, striding through the world without deigning to notice it, his mind far away among divine wonders of poetry and fate. Tonight he shuffled across the room in silence and crumpled onto a chair like a wrecked wagon, gangling limbs awry. That was not the way he depicted sorrow on stage, but it was more evocative.

K'linpor Actor looked nothing like his father. He was round-faced and pudgy—a fair actor, except that his voice lacked power. K'linpor was also a surprisingly agile acrobat in the masques. He sat down by the table and laid his head on his arms in utter dejection. He would be thinking of Halma, of course. Their marriage was even more recent than Golfren and Uthiam's.

"What news, sir?” Golfren inquired.

Trong shook his head without looking up. “None.” His voice had lost its usual resonance. “It's just us, apparently. They have heard no word of the Lady banning others."

"Nothing they can do?"

"Pray. They will sacrifice a yak this evening on our behalf."

Silence fell. Eleal wondered who “they” were. Important, rich citizens, apparently, if they could afford to donate a yak. And was it to be sacrificed to the Lady, or to Tion?

Dolm Actor had offered a lot more than that to his chosen deity.

Trong roused himself with a sudden surge. The big man straightened and glared around in his god aspect.

"We have a free night before us. It is a fortuitous opportunity to rehearse the Varilian. The child can stand in for Uthiam—"

K'linpor raised his face slightly. “Father, you are talking dung.” He laid his head back on his arms.

Trong looked shocked, then slowly melted back to his former desolated posture and stared at the floor.

Men without women ... The range was crackling cheerfully, gushing smoke. Eleal pulled herself away from awful thoughts of reapers. She stood up, marched across, and flicked a lever.

"It helps to open the flue first!"

Old Piol scratched at the silver stubble on his jowl. He smiled and started to say something; it became an attack of coughing.

Eyes stinging, Eleal moved away from the range. “We must eat,” she said in her best goddess voice, because that was what Ambria would say. “I don't feel like it either,” she told the disgusted expression all around, “but we should. The markets will close soon."

"She's right,” Golfren said, rising. “You will be our keeper tonight, Eleal. I'll come with you."

"I'll get my coat..."

Boots thumped on the step outside. Heads turned.

The door flew open, swirling snow and smoke and cold air. Dolm Actor swept in with a basket on his arm. He slammed the door and glanced around with an inquiring grin.

Eleal looked down quickly at the greasy flagstones, unable to meet his eyes. Invoking Zath! Self-mutilation! Black gown in pack! Reaper! She scurried back to her seat by the table and hunched herself very small, trying to hide her shaking.

Dolm's resonant voice rang out, reverberating in the big room. “Well, you're a glum lot! Nobody thought about food, I suppose?"

K'linpor straightened up, soft face flushing. “Where have you been?"

There was a momentary silence. Eleal did not glance up, frightened that Dolm might be watching her.

"Me? I went back to the temple."

Golfren roared, “What?” and stepped backward, knocking over his stool with a crash.

"I didn't see any of our ladies there, if that's what's worrying you,” Dolm said soothingly. He stepped to the table beside Eleal and laid his basket on it. He was so close that she could smell the wet leather of his coat.

"I did what we should have all done ... except Klip Trumpeter maybe. Yet, why not him, too? He's a staunch young man now. I dropped some of my own hard-earned silver in the bowl, and I made sacrifice to the Lady."

Liar! Eleal thought. Liar! Liar!

Trong bellowed, “No!” in a voice that seemed to shake the house. His craggy features flamed red.

"Yes,” Dolm said calmly. “I saw it as my duty. I chose the oldest, ugliest woman I could find. She was immensely grateful."

"That is utterly foul!” Golfren Piper yelled.

"It was a holy ritual! Do you criticize the goddess?"

Silence. Eleal stole a glance at Golfren. He was as red as Trong—redder even, because his face was fair-skinned and clean-shaven. His knuckles were white. She wondered if there was about to be a fight.

Yes, she thought, it was foul. She thought of Dolm's long, hairy limbs and body, and she shivered. Goddess or not, it was foul to make a woman submit to that against her will.

"Well?” Dolm Actor inquired.

Piper growled, “No."

"Wise! The woman in question had been assigned a penance. I did not ask for what, naturally.” Dolm was always a cheerful, almost boisterous person, but now he sounded exuberant, excited. Eleal wondered if he had been drinking, but she could not smell wine on him, only the wet leather.

Dolm laughed. “She had been waiting there every day for two fortnights, she told me. Of course she was grateful! I trust the Lady approved. It wasn't my most enjoyable experience, I admit, but I did my duty in a spirit of proper humility, with prayer."

Golfren muttered an obscenity and turned his back.

"I find I cannot disapprove under the circumstances,” Trong Impresario declaimed with obvious reluctance.

"Good!"

Eleal was still shaking, hoping no one would notice, too terrified to move, still staring at the disgustingly dirty floor. Dolm was lying! No matter how brief the remainder of his horrible ritual had been, there had not been time for him to recover and go to the temple and then visit the markets and come back here. He had not been running, or he would be puffing. Running? Lying with a woman? After losing so much blood? He had been soaked in blood while she watched, and more blood still pumping out of him.

"Furthermore,” Dolm said, “we all..."

Alerted by the silence, Eleal glanced up.

He had sensed something wrong. He raised his head as if sniffing. He looked slowly around the big room, studying each face in turn. Finally he dropped his eyes to hers.

Then he smiled, and the recognition in his dark eyes was obvious—fond reproof. He knew! He knew she knew. She was the one.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Dolm reached down with his left hand to scratch his right, which rested on the handle of the basket beside her. His sleeve slid back. She could see his bony, hairy wrist. There was no mark on it, no scar, no bandage ... No bloodstains, even!

She looked up again at his face.

No blood on it, no blood in his hair—and the hair combed over his bald pate was lank, showing no sign that it had been recently washed.

He was still smiling, like a snow cat.

"This must have been a difficult day for you, child!” he said softly. “Are you feeling all right?"

She started to turn her head away and his hand shot out to grasp her chin. The touch of a reaper!

Eleal screamed and leaped away from him. She hurtled across the room and threw herself against Golfren Piper, hugging him fiercely. She needed Ambria, but he would have to do. Everyone seemed to shout, “What?” at the same moment.

Golfren put his arms around her and lifted her bodily, as if she were a child. He muttered soothing noises. “Yes, she's had a very hard day!” he said.

The door flew open with a crash and Ambria Impresario made an Entrance.

15

AMBRIA WAS AN IMPOSING WOMAN ON THE MOST TRIVIAL occasion. She could peel a tuber dramatically or ladle gruel with majesty. These days the heavy breasts sagged and the hair was dyed, but no more convincing goddess had ever trod the boards, and she blazed with authority in that kitchen doorway. Taller than most men, deep-voiced, big-boned, she had been known to silence a hall of drunken miners with a single gesture. Now one arm was extended shoulder high from hurling open the door; her hood was back, letting her dark hair flow to her waist, framing aquiline features normally pale, ashen in her present distress. The snow-mottled cloak hung to her boots, making her seem taller than ever.

"We are all here.” Her voice rang through the vast room. “We are all unharmed, save a few bruises.” She swung aside in a swirl of leather to let the others enter.

The men cried out in joy. Uthiam Piper ran in, heading for Golfren, who dropped Eleal instantly. She caught a brief glimpse of a livid welt on Uthiam's cheek before it was hidden in an embrace.

Yama Actor ran to Dolm; Halma to K'linpor. Olimmiar stepped inside last, holding a rag over one eye. She stopped beside Ambria and stood with face lowered. Trong rose, moved one foot forward a pace, and spread his arms in welcome.

Ambria swung the door halfway closed and halted it there. “Hold!” Her deep voice boomed like a thunderclap, silencing everyone. “There is no need for us all to repeat the sordid details. I shall tell the tale.” Her compelling eyes raked the room in challenge. Everyone watched; no one spoke. The door remained half closed.

"We did as we were bidden.” The spectacular voice dropped to a lower register. “We offered ourselves in the service of the Lady. A man came to each of us—"

"Three,” Olimmiar said with a sob.

Ambria enveloped her in a powerful arm and pulled her close without looking down. “Each of us was accepted, then. Not one of the men was able to...” She drew a deep breath. “...complete the holy ritual. The goddess refused our sacrifice."

"You mean they were all impotent?” Dolm Actor barked.

Ambria slammed the door so the building shook. Everyone jumped. “Yes,” she admitted. “The priests are deeply concerned, naturally. But none of you husbands need worry about, er, consequences."

"That's insane!” Dolm said, and suddenly laughed shrilly. Everyone glared at him, even Eleal. “And three tried with Olimmiar, one after the other?” His eyes flicked inquiringly to Uthiam.

"Two."

"So a total of eight—"

"We need not discuss sordid trivia,” Ambria Impresario proclaimed. She strode majestically across the big chamber toward Trong, one hand extended, the other sweeping Olimmiar Dancer along beside her. “Some of the men became violent in their distress, but the priests stopped them before there was any serious damage. Now you know. The matter is closed.” She stepped into her husband's embrace.

"No it's not!” Dolm was grinning and quite unabashed by her anger. Eleal had never seen any member of the troupe defy Ambria openly like that, but then Dolm had been bubbling like a kettle since he came in, and a reaper certainly need not fear an aging female actor.

Ambria whirled around in wrath. Olimmiar looked up in astonishment, revealing a puffy swelling around her eye. K'linpor's mouth was hanging open.

"It's a miracle!” Dolm jeered. “A holy miracle! Of course we must discuss it. Were they all old, fat factory owners?"

Ambria's ivory cheeks flamed scarlet in a way Eleal would never have believed possible. “No they were not!” Echoes rang. “In my case, as I remained unchosen, the priests went out and found a twenty-year-old quarry worker who has already fathered two children. Does that satisfy your prurient curiosity, Dolm Actor?"

He sniggered. “Did it yours? Well, now what happens? Are we free to depart from Narsh, as Ois has apparently no use for us?"

The big woman seemed to shrink slightly. “No. We are summoned to the temple at dawn. The priests will seek an oracle to discover the Lady's will."

Even Dolm Actor flinched.

There was a moment's silence, and then he said softly, “All of us?"

"All of us."

Everyone turned to look at Eleal Singer.

When times were good, the troupe was one big happy family. When times were otherwise, which was more frequent, it was still one big family, and rarely too unhappy. Everyone was related to everyone else in some contorted fashion. Old Piol Poet was the brother of Ambria's first husband and thus Uthiam's uncle. Even Klip Trumpeter was a stepbrother of Gartol Costumer, who was Trong Impresario's cousin. Everyone was family except Eleal Singer. Although she could recall no trace of her life before the troupe took her in, she was the outsider, the waif, the stray.

Normally she never thought about that distinction. Certainly nobody ever mentioned it, not even Olimmiar at her most catty. That evening Eleal could smell it. She was the only one who had not been to the temple of the Lady. She was the last hope. All other efforts had failed, so in the morning they would take her there and she would be unmasked as the cause of the trouble. It was obvious.

Perhaps Sister Ahn's lunatic babbling had been true, and the gods were staging some great cosmic tragedy that involved little Eleal Singer.

Wives clung to husbands. Olimmiar Dancer had attached herself to Halma, her sister. Old Piol fussed around, preparing a meal in tactful silence. Trumpeter soon went up to his room and came down muffled in llama fleece. He announced briefly that he was going out for a walk, and vanished rapidly through the door into a near-blizzard, followed by a puzzled frown from Ambria, a glare of outrage from Trong, and a sardonic smile from Dolm. Young Klip knew an opportunity when he was handed one.

He might be heading for a disappointment, though—he did not know that Dolm had been lying about going back to the temple.

Every time Eleal risked a glance in Dolm's direction, he was directing his sardonic smile at her. She wondered about her chances of living through the night. No one ever spoke of reapers; to denounce one was probably suicide. To denounce Dolm Actor would be an act of rank madness. The others would just assume that the stressful day had unhinged her mind—he was Ambria's cousin's husband, one of the family! The only evidence Eleal could hope to produce was that black garment hidden in his pack and she was certain that it would have gone elsewhere by now. Even if it could be produced, he could always claim that it was an old stage costume and then accuse her of having stolen something.

Maybe it was only an old costume, although she could not imagine any audience tolerating a play with a reaper in it. Maybe she had imagined the loathsome ritual. Maybe she had gone crazy.

As the evening dragged on in quiet confidential whispers, she realized that everyone was planning to head off to be alone very early. Actors were night birds by profession, but tonight wives wanted to be alone with husbands and husbands wanted to be alone with wives.

Larger and larger in her mind grew an image of her cubicle door, with its heavy lock and its thick iron bolt. Not even a reaper was going to break through those without waking everybody!

Then Dolm himself stretched his long arms overhead and yawned.

Eleal realized that she must leave before he did, or she might find him waiting for her in her room.

"G'night!” she snapped, jumping to her feet.

She scampered across the room to the stairs—Clip, clop.

"I'm very sleepy,” she explained, racing up them two at a time.

Clip, clop ... “See you in the morning,” she shouted back as she tore along the corridor.

She dashed into her room—took a hurried glance around to make sure it was unoccupied—closed the door. It creaked loudly, but at the last minute she slowed it so it would not slam. She turned the key gently, wrestled the bolt over, and flopped down on the floor, panting as if she had run over Rilepass carrying a mammoth.

The window was barred. The walls were solid stone, the floor and ceiling thick planks. If anywhere was safe from a reaper, this was it. As an afterthought, she took the big key out and tucked it in her pack. She stuffed a sock into the keyhole.

Preparing for bed was never a lengthy process in chilly Narsh. She donned her woolly nightgown, rolled up her second-best dress to be a pillow, and laid her llama fleece coat on the pallet as a cover. Then she knelt and took hold of her amulet to say her prayers.

The amulet was a little golden frog that Ambria had given her a long time ago, as soon as she could be trusted not to swallow it. It looked like gold, but it left green stains on her chest. It seemed a very frail defense against the god of death, whom she had probably offended mightily by spying on his sacred ritual.

The wind rattled the casement hungrily. Her usual prayers seemed grievously inadequate this night. She extemporized a long addition, addressed to Kirb'l Tion, asking for his aid in letting the troupe travel to the Tion Festival in safety. Shivering with cold, then, she whispered an apology to the Man for spying on holy ceremony in his shrine. After all, the shrine itself had not been specifically dedicated to Zath ... she could not speak that name.

At last she snuggled in under the heavy fleece. Cockerel with no liver, alpaca white outside and black inside, a reaper on a mammoth and another in the troupe, men stricken impotent by the Lady ... She would not be able to sleep a wink!

But she did.

16

NIGHTS IN HOSPITALS ARE MUCH LONGER THAN DAYS. EDward Exeter had discovered this truth during his first term at Fallow, when the unfamiliar diseases of England had made him a frequent patient in the san. He rediscovered it in Albert Memorial.

A nurse came around with a light, checking on people.

"Where am I?” he asked.

She told him.

"What happened?"

"You had an accident. Do you want another needle?"

"No. I'm all right.” He did not like the silent music the drugs brought.

"Try to sleep,” she said, and went away.

Trouble was, he seemed to have been sleeping for weeks. The shock was wearing off, he decided. His leg lashed him with a sickening beat of pain, he was stiff with staying in the same position so long. He kept trying to remember, and when he did remember, he didn't want to. His recollections were very patchy and most of them must be nightmares.

When he did sleep, he was tormented by those same nightmares. He would wake up in a state of shivering funk, soaked with sweat and remember nothing of what had so frightened him. For the first time he began to wonder what on earth he had done to himself. Not playing rugby at this time of year. Train accident? There was a bandage around his head and his leg was in splints.

Yet the strangest dream that came in that endless night was amazingly sharp and memorable, so that in the morning he was to wonder whether it had really been a dream at all.

Light was shining in the door, and the room was a mass of confusing shadows. This time he seemed to have just wakened naturally, not frightened. His leg throbbed with a regular pulse that seemed to go all the way through him. He studied the ropes holding it up and then turned his head on the pillow. There was a window there with no curtains, and the sky outside was black. He rolled his head over to the other side to look up at the man standing there.

"Behold the limpid orbs,” the man said, “reflecting the sense within, the very turning of the soul. Prithee, then, this maiming of thy shin, it does not pain thee o'ermuch?"

Edward said, “It's not too bad, sir.” It wasn't, really.

"To dissemble thus becomes thee more than honesty."

The visitor was an odd little man—quite old, with a fuzz of silver curls and a wrinkled, puckish face, clean-shaven. He was stooped, so his face stuck out in front of him. His overcoat had a very old-fashioned Astrakhan collar and seemed slightly too large for him. He was holding an equally antique beaver hat in one hand and a walking stick with a silver handle in the other.

"We have not come into acquaintance beforetimes although ink in veritable tides has flowed between us. I am your worship's servant, Jonathan Oldcastle.” He bowed, clutching the topper to his heart.

"Mr. Oldcastle!” Edward said. “You're ... You're not what I expected, sir.” In the way of dreams, Mr. Oldcastle's appearance seemed perfectly acceptable for an officer in His Majesty's Colonial Office. Yet none of the letters he had written to Edward in the past two years had read like Mosley Minor's atrocious efforts to extemporize Shakespeare.

The little man chuckled, beaming. “I fain perfect attainments beyond expectation. This council needs be consummated with dispatch. Pray you, Master Exeter, being curt and speedy in response, avise me what befell, what savage circumstance contrived this havoc upon thy person and thy fortunes. Discover to me the monument of thy memory that we may invent what absences the dickens may have wiped thereof."

He had a broad accent, which Edward could not place, and his speech would certainly have been unintelligible had this not all been a dream.

"I don't remember much, sir. I went ... I went to the Grange, sir, didn't I? To stay with Bagpipe."

Mr. Oldcastle nodded. “I so surmise."

"Just for a few days. They said they didn't mind, and I was welcome. I'm planning to enlist as soon as mobilization starts of course, but until then..."

There hadn't been anywhere else to go. Words caught in his throat and he was afraid he was going to start piping his eye.

"Comfort thyself!” Oldcastle said soothingly. “I think someone approaches. Tarry a moment."

Edward must have drifted off to sleep again, because he jumped when Oldcastle said, “Now, my stalwart? What else lurks in thy recollection?"

"Dinner? I didn't have any proper togs. It's all very vague, sir."

Mr. Oldcastle breathed on the silver head of his cane and wiped it on his sleeve. “And after that?"

"We turned in. The general was going to be reading the lesson in church next morning."

"Yes?"

A curious smell of mothballs was overpowering even the ever-present stink of carbolic.

"Then Bagpipe came and said did I feel like some tuck, and why didn't we raid the larder."

"And you did. And what then befell?"

Screaming? Long curly hair? Porcelain sink....

"Nothing!” Edward said quickly. “Nothing! I can't remember."

"Be not vexed,” Mr. Oldcastle said, matter-of-factly. “Oftentimes a wounding of the head will ruptures cause upon the spirit withall. Thou cannot fare hence upon the morrow, good young coz. Dost peradventure know by rote the speech of bold King Harry before Harfleur?"

"'Once more into the breach,’ you mean, sir?"

"The same."

"I should. I played the king when Sixth Form did Henry V last Christmas."

"Be it that, then. No bardic fancy ever better nailed the spirit of a man. Now mark me well. Here are you well cosseted and I shall set a palliation about thee, but if thy foes evade my artifice and so distrain thee, do thou declaim that particular poesy. Wilt keep this admonition in thy heart?"

"Yes, sir, I'll remember,” Edward said solemnly. In the way of dreams, the instructions seemed very important and logical.

"I wish thee good fortune, Master Exeter."

"Goodnight, Mr. Oldcastle. I'm very pleased to have met you at last, sir."

He slept better after that.

17

A CLICK FROM THE BOLT WAKENED ELEAL. THE LOCK turned, making much less noise than it had for her. In utter darkness, all she could see was the window, a lopsided patch of not-quite light, distorted by clinging snow. Yet somehow there was enough light for her to know how the door swung open, with not a hint of its usual squeak.

He glided in, blacker than black, making no sound. The door closed, equally silent. Moving like smoke, he approached. He stopped at her feet and she supposed he was looking down at her, but she could see no face, no eyes, only a pillar of darker dark.

All she could hear was her heart.

"You saw.” It was a whisper, but even a whisper had resonance when it came from Dolm Actor.

The words were not a question and she was incapable of answering anyway.

"Normally that would seal your fate in itself,” said the whisper.

Normally? Was there a shimmer of hope there? Would she die of terror before she found out?

Obviously he knew she was awake. “You are an incredible little snoop. I always wondered if you would ransack my pack one day. I would have known, of course. It is given to us to know when we are detected. Then I should have had to send your soul to my master. I hoped it would not be like that, Eleal Singer. We do have feelings, you know. We are not monsters. We mourn the necessity."

Pause.

Not quite a chuckle ... yet when the deadly soft voice spoke again, it held a hint of amusement. “I thought I was the problem, you see. I thought it was my master's print on my heart that had displeased the Lady. Yes, my master is he whom you call Zath—the Unconquerable, the Last Victor. I reported to my master, as you saw, seeking guidance. I was told that it is you who are the problem, not me."

She wanted to scream, Why me? and her mouth was as dry as ashes. Her nails were digging into her palms and her insides were melting to jelly. Her teeth continued to chatter.

"The Filoby Testament ... but you will not have heard of that. Never mind. The gods have decreed, Eleal Singer, that you shall not journey to Sussland. That is all. Your presence there might change the world. I was instructed to ensure it does not happen."

She thought of the priest and Sister Ahn. She could not even scream.

The reaper sighed. “Please believe, the necessity distressed me. I am not evil. I am not vindictive. I honor my master with the gift of souls—that is all. True, he grants me great rapture when I perform this service, but I would rather offer strangers, really I would."

Dolm, who was always so jovial...

The reaper moved. Without exactly seeing, she knew that he had knelt down at her side—within reach.

She could not hear him breathing. Did he breathe when he was being a reaper?

"But here tonight I learned that it will not be necessary. Holy Ois knows who you are and how to stop you. She has the matter in hand. I was told I need not meddle within her domain. In the morning she will do what she wills, whatever that may be. You will not be journeying to Sussland."

That did sound like Eleal Singer was not going to die now.

The morning could look after itself.

"Is there anyone you wish to die?” the reaper inquired softly.

Eleal's teeth chattered.

"Well?” he asked. “Answer!"

She stuttered, “N-n-no!"

"Pity. Because if you wish to see someone die, Eleal Singer, then you need only tell that person that I am a reaper. I shall know, and they will die. Is that clear?"

She nodded in the dark, and knew he knew that.

"If by any chance Holy Ois does allow you to go to Suss, then of course I shall have to act.” Dolm sighed, and floated erect again. “And I must go and act now. Act? Actor?” He chuckled drily, as Dolm did when he was about to make a joke. “Ironic, is it not? That rare performance you saw had but one spectator, yet she does not have to pay. Others must pay, strangers must pay. An expensive performance! He will want two at least, perhaps three if they are not young. Sleep well, little spy."

The blackness drifted toward the door. Then it stopped.

"I only came,” said a whisper more definitely in Dolm's usual offhand tone, “because I thought your remarkable curiosity had earned an explanation."

The door opened, closed. The bolt slid. The lock shut.

Eleal drew great sobbing breaths of icy air. She was going to live through the night. Compared to that, nothing else mattered, not even her wet bed.

18

PATIENTS WERE WAKENED AT SIX O'CLOCK SO THEY COULD be washed and fed and have their beds made before the doctors’ rounds. Shaving in bed was bad enough, but other things were worse. Bedpans were the utter end.

The nurse wanted to give Edward another needle, but he refused it, preferring to put up with the pain, rather than have porridge for brains.

She was quite pretty, in a chubby sort of way, with a Home Counties accent and a brusque manner. She would tell him nothing except he'd had an accident and Doctor Stanford would explain. His dream kept coming back to him and the memories he'd had in his dream—he could remember remembering them, sort of. Bagpipe was in there somewhere.

He was in hospital, in Greyfriars. He still could remember almost nothing after those awful images of dinner and him with no evening dress. After dinner ... nothing, just fog. And nightmares.

He was worried about Bagpipe. He asked about him, Timothy Bodgley.

"No one by that name in the hospital,” the nurse said, and then just kept repeating that Doctor Stanford would explain. She wouldn't even say how she was so certain that there was no one by that name in the hospital when she had not even gone to check. She did admit that this was Monday, and visiting hours were from two till four. “You've got a fine collection of stitches under that bandage,” she added, changing the subject clumsily, “but your hair should hide most of the scar."

"You mean it won't spoil my striking good looks?” he asked facetiously, and was shaken when she blushed.

He surprised himself by eating the greasy ham and eggs he was given for breakfast. The tea was cold, but he drank it. He had a private room, and that worried him. He had a broken leg—a badly broken leg—and that worried him even more. He could not enlist with a broken leg, so he might be going to miss the war. Everyone agreed it would be over by Christmas.

He asked for a newspaper to find out what was happening in the crisis, and the nurse said that was up to the doctor.

He was left alone for a long time, then. Eventually a desiccated, graying man in a white coat marched in holding a clipboard. He had a stethoscope protruding from one pocket. Right behind him came Matron, armored in starch, statuesque as Michelangelo's Moses.

"Doctor Stanford, Mr. Exeter,” she said.

"How are we this morning?” The doctor looked up from the clipboard with an appraising glance.

"Not bad, sir. Worried."

The doctor frowned. “What's this about you refusing a needle?"

"It doesn't hurt too much, sir,” Edward lied.

"Oh, doesn't it? You can overdo the stiff-upper-lip business, young fellah. Still, I'll leave it up to you."

A few questions established that the only real problem was the leg. The many-colored patches Edward had discovered on his hips and arms were dismissed brusquely. Eyes and ears, fingertips on his wrist and a beastly cold stethoscope on his chest...

The doctor changed the bandage on Edward's head. “Eighteen stitches,” he said admiringly. “Most of the scar won't show unless you want to try a Prussian haircut.” He scribbled on the clipboard and handed it to Matron. “Get the blanks filled in now he's conscious, will you?"

He stuffed his hands in the pocket of his white coat. “You have a badly broken leg, Exeter, as I'm sure you know by now. In a day or two we'll take off the splints and see if we can put it in a cast. Depends on the swelling, and so on. We may have to load you in an ambulance and take you to have it x-rayed, but we hope that won't be necessary. You're a healthy young chap; it should heal with no permanent damage. In a year you'll have forgotten all about it. For the time being, though, you have to endure the traction."

"How soon can I enlist?"

Stanford shrugged. “Three months."

"May I see a paper?"

"If you take it in small doses. Don't persist if you get a headache. Anything else you need?"

"I'd like to know how I got here."

"Ah! How much can you remember?"

"Very little, sir. Greyfriars Grange? Bagp ... Timothy?"

The look in the doctor's eye told him before the man said it. “He wasn't as lucky as you."

The ham and eggs rose and then subsided. Edward swallowed hard a few times and then said, “How?"

"He was murdered."

"Murdered? Who by?"

"Don't know yet. Do you feel up to answering some questions for the police?"

"I'll try. I don't remember very—"

In strode a large, heavyset man. He must have been waiting by the door. He was dressed like a banker, but he had Roberto written all over him, and the look of a man who might have been a first-rate rugby fullback. Getting a ball past him would be like swimming up Victoria Falls, even now, with a staunch bow window stretching the links of his watch chain. His mustache spread out like the horns on a Cape buffalo, turning up in points at the end.

"Five minutes, no more,” the doctor said.

The policeman nodded without a glance at him. The doctor departed. Matron followed him to the door, but in a way that suggested she was not going far.

"Inspector Leatherdale, Mr. Exeter.” He pulled up the chair. “I am not asking for a formal statement. You do not need to tell me anything, but I would appreciate hearing what you can recall of the events which led to your injuries."

Edward told what he could, mostly while studying the way the inspector's hair was combed over his bald spot. His memories were so patchy that he thought he must sound like an absolute ass.

"That's the lot, sir. Er..."

"Take your time. Even vague impressions may be helpful to us."

"Crumpets? Crumpets and strawberry jam on a deal table."

"Why crumpets at your age? Why not raid the sherry?"

Edward started to smile and then remembered Bagpipe. “We tried that three years ago and were sick as dogs. It was a tradition, that's all.” Never again, Bagpipe!

"Anything else you recall?"

"A woman with long curly hair?"

The rozzer's face was as unmoving as a gargoyle's. “What color hair?"

"Dark brown, I think. It hung in ringlets, sort of a Gypsy look. Very pale face."

"Where did you see her? What was she doing?"

Edward shook his head on the pillow. “Screaming, I think. Or shouting."

"What was she wearing?"

"Don't remember, sir."

"But this might have been hours earlier, and you don't know where?"

"Yes. No. Yes it might have been and no I don't know why I remember her."

"What more?"

"A ... A porcelain sink turning red, scarlet. Blood running into a sink. A stream of blood.” He felt a rush of nausea and bit his lip. He was shaking—lying flat on his back and shaking like a stupid kid!

Leatherdale studied him for a minute, and then rose. “Thank you. We shall require a formal statement as soon as you are up to it."

"Bodgley's dead?"

The massive head nodded. “You fell down some steps. He was stabbed."

"And you think I did it?"

Inspector Leatherdale went very still, and yet seemed to fill the room with menace. “Why should I think that, Mr. Exeter?” he asked softly.

"Private room, sir. You said I didn't need to tell you anything. Nobody would answer my questions."

The man smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes. “No other reason?"

"I didn't!” Edward yelled.

"Five minutes are up, sir,” Matron said, sailing in like a dreadnought, clipboard ready and fountain pen poised. “Your full name and date of birth, Mr. Exeter?"

"Edward George Exeter..."

The inspector moved the chair back to where it had been without taking his eyes off Edward.

"C. of E.?” Matron said, writing busily.

"Agnostic."

She looked up with a Medusa stare of disapproval. “Shall I just put, ‘Protestant'?"

Edward was certainly not going to support any organization that tolerated Holy Roly as one of its advocates. The Nyagatha horrors had been provoked by meddling, addle-headed missionaries, and that was another reason.

"No, ma'am. Agnostic."

She wrote unwillingly. “Diseases?"

He listed what he could recall—malaria and dysentery in Africa, and all the usual English ones he'd caught when he came Home: mumps, measles, whooping cough, chicken pox.

Then he saw that the policeman was still standing in the doorway, watching him.

"You want to ask me some more questions, Inspector?"

"No. Not now. We'll take a statement later, sir.” His mouth smiled again. “Normally I would ask you to keep yourself available, but I don't expect you'll be going anywhere for a day or two."

19

A BLEAK DAWN WAS BREAKING, BUT EVEN THE BEGGARS were still asleep, huddled in doorways and corners under their dusting of snow. Somewhere back in the temple precincts doomed cockerels screamed defiance at the coming day. The troupe had assembled as instructed, and they were the day's first business for the temple.

Inside the long hall, night had not yet ended. Even the many candles glittering upon the altar before Ois could not brighten that big, cold place. Off to the sides, in the shadows, a few fainter glows showed where lamps burned under some of the innumerable arches. Those few bright alcoves amid so much dark somehow reminded Eleal of Sister Ahn's scattered teeth.

Shivering with cold and apprehension, she knelt between Trong and Ambria, seeking comfort from their huge solidity—although even Ambria seemed cowed today. The floor was cold and hard on the knees. They knelt in a circle, all of them except the missing Gartol Costumer; twelve counting Eleal. She had been placed with her back to the door, facing almost straight at the goddess. She clutched a gold coin, the first real gold she had ever held. The cold of the floor was seeping into her bones.

In the center of the circle stood a silver bowl, containing a feather, two eggs, and a white pebble. The priests had placed them there with great ceremony to begin the ritual.

The image of the Lady was the largest Eleal had ever seen, but it was a picture, not a statue. It filled the end wall, the full height of the temple, crafted from shiny white tiles, but her nipples gleamed scarlet, like rubies. Darker tones shadowed her belly and the undersides of her great breasts; her face was barely visible in the high darkness. At her feet an old man warbled holy writ in continuous monotone. In time he would be relieved by another, and another, until the entire Red Scripture had been pronounced. Then they would begin at the beginning again. So it had always been. He was not always audible, but he never stopped.

A half dozen or so priests had chanted a service to the Lady. Now a drummer began a low, menacing rhythm while a new group executed a strange, posturing dance. They were all young, obviously, and their shaven heads showed that they were priests, despite their curious close-fitting garments, which left arms and shins bare. In the candlelight the cloth seemed almost black, but it was red, in honor of the Lady. Eleal was fascinated by their ritual, very measured and deliberate, more like stylized gymnastics than any dance she had ever seen.

One of the illuminated alcoves blinked in the corner of her eye. Then a second. She leaned back slightly to see. A man was walking along the wall, followed by a priestess. He obscured another lamp, and stopped. A woman rose beyond him, apparently from a seat inside the alcove. She opened her robe. He walked on and she sat down again—unwanted, rejected. Eleal shuddered, tasting a sourness rising in her throat. Ambria hissed angrily and she turned her face back to the ceremony.

In a moment, though, the man progressed to where she could see him without moving her head. Her eyes insisted on straying in his direction. She watched how he found a woman he fancied and paid the priestess. The priestess walked away, he entered the alcove and began to undress.

The acrobatics ended in a flurry of drum strokes. Again Eleal returned her attention to where it belonged. A priest approached and gestured; the actors scrambled to their feet. There was a pause. She felt even smaller now, standing between talk Ambria and taller Trong. She studied the goddess to keep her mind off what was happening in that alcove. The Lady was emerging from darkness as daylight began to seep in through the high windows. The stone face bore a curious expression eyes almost closed, scarlet lips parted, a hint of tongue showing. It was not a merciful face. It gave no clue why a mighty goddess should be so wroth at little Eleal Singer.

Drums thundered, making her jump. They sank into an irregular, disturbing beat.

"State your age first...."

A priest and a priestess had entered the circle and placed themselves in front of Golfren. The voice, however, came from outside, from an older man standing behind him, muttering instructions. Then Golfren spoke, his voice higher-pitched than usual:

"I am twenty-six years old, my name is Golfren Piper. I am married and childless. I revere the Lady and beseech her to have mercy upon me.” A coin clinked.

The priest behind the little priestess put a hand on her shoulder and guided her along to stand before the next supplicant.

"I am twenty years old, my name is K'linpor Actor. I am married and childless. I revere the Lady and beseech her to have mercy upon me.” Another clink.

Eleal caught a glimpse of the older priest, the one on the outside. His red robe was sumptuously embroidered and begemmed, it bulged over his belly. He carried a lit taper in a soft, plump hand, light gleaming like wax on his shaven head and doughy jowls, sparkling on his jeweled fingers.

The priestess was very young, little more than a child, yet her head, too, was shaven. A cord around her neck supported a golden vase, dangling between her small breasts. She was barefoot, seemingly wearing only her robe—and that was so thin that the bumps of her nipples showed through it. She must be frozen.

The priest behind her was a large youth, one of the gymnasts, still breathing hard from his exertions. His hairy shins and forearms contrasted oddly with the shiny smoothness of his head and face.

"I am forty-five years old, my name is Ambria Impresario.” Ambria's splendid voice was hoarse and uncertain this grim morning. “I am ... I have been married twice, Father..."

The outside priest muttered questions, directions. The little priestess turned and began to walk away. The young priest grabbed her arm and pulled her back. When he released her, she stayed where she had been put, like a chair, but her hands and head twitched oddly.

Eleal clenched her fists against her thighs to stop them shaking. She was next after Ambria. She felt the gold coin sticky on her palm.

"I am forty-five years old, my name is Ambria Impresario. I am widowed and remarried and have borne one child. I revere the Lady and beseech her to have mercy upon me."

Suddenly the priestess started to laugh. The young priest behind her grabbed her shoulders and shook her until she stopped. Then he pulled her along to stand in front of Eleal. Her eyes were vacant, her jaw slack. Drool shone on her chin and darkened the bodice of her robe.

The priest outside the circle had arrived also. Eleal sensed him at her back and caught a whiff of a scent like lilac.

An actor must not falter over such simple lines: “I am twelve years old,” she said clearly, “my name is Eleal Singer. I am unmar—"

"If you are a virgin, then you must specify."

Her teeth chattered briefly. She swallowed. “I am twelve years old, my name—"

A thunderstorm rumble from Trong drowned her out. “Her true name is not Singer but Impresario. She is my granddaughter."

Eleal cried, “What?” very shrilly. The sound seemed to soar like a bat up into the dark recesses of the roof. The drums rumbled.

The priest made an irritated sound. “Explain. Quickly!"

"I had a daughter,” Trong growled, staring fixedly up at the goddess. “She shamed herself, and then died. I have reared the bastard in obedience to holy scripture. Her name is Eleal Impresario."

His face was hidden from Eleal's vantage by his silver mane. She looked up at Ambria in disbelief. Ambria nodded, smiling sadly.

Again the idiot priestess started to laugh. Her husky keeper shook her, but she continued. He shook her harder—viciously, like a floor mat, her head lolling back and forth, the gold vase thumping to and fro on its cord. He finally managed to stop the fit, but he retained a hold on her after that.

The older priest was sounding annoyed at the interruptions to his ritual, but was obviously determined to proceed in proper form. “Name her by the father's trade."

"I don't know it!” Trong growled, sounding as if this disclosure was hurting him badly. He was so upright himself, it was hard to imagine him having raised a wanton child.

"Your daughter would not name the man?"

"She could not! She disappeared for a fortnight. When we found her, her wits had gone and the damage was done. She never spoke a rational word after."

The priest grunted. “Use the Impresario name."

Eleal was one of the family! But joy was debased by a surge of anger. Why had they never told her so? Why had Ambria once threatened to throw her out as a stray?

"Make your appeal!” the priest snapped.

Eleal pulled her wits together and spoke the words rapidly. “I am twelve years old, my name is Eleal Impresario. I am a virgin. I revere the Lady and beseech her to have mercy upon me.” She dropped her coin in the vase and was surprised to hear it plop into liquid.

The moronic priestess sniggered, her eyes moving vaguely and somehow wrongly. Her muscular attendant looked seriously worried now. She hung limp as a towel in his grip. He moved to dangle her in front of Trong. The drumbeat was growing faster, urgent.

Eleal Impresario? That did not sound right! She would continue to call herself Eleal Singer. After all, her singing brought her wages—token wages, perhaps, but real copper money. Trong Impresario's granddaughter! Why had he never told her? It wasn't her fault her mother had been wicked! What of her mother? What had she been called? Had she been an actor? Beautiful? Ugly? How old when she died? How had she died?

Eleal glanced around at the others, wondering if any of them had known this secret. Surely K'linpor must have! He was avoiding her eye, watching the priest and priestess working their way around the circle. Uncle K'linpor!

"I am sixty-five years old, my name is Piol Poet..."

The whole temple was emerging from night now as the high windows began to shine. Luridly tinted carvings covered every surface. Walls and pillars were mantled in gods and flowers of painted stone, the floor was bright mosaic, dominated by the Ø symbol of the Lady. Reds and greens, ivory and gold leaf ... Eleal had never guessed there could be so much riotous color in drab Narsh. Perhaps all the color in Narshvale had flowed into this holy place.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. The solitary male worshiper had emerged from the alcove and was heading for the door, his sacrifice completed. The woman appeared also, fastening her robe, hurrying after him. Was she heading home to husband and family, and had she been performing a penance or merely offering sacrifice to win the Lady's favor?

"I am thirty-three years old, my name is Dolm Actor...” The reaper contributed his coin, then flashed a triumphant smile across at Eleal. How many souls had he gathered to Zath since leaving her room?

Eleal looked away quickly, and watched a line of red-robed priestesses filing in from some unknown doorway. Each took up station in an alcove. Early-rising worshipers were appearing also, peering curiously at the ceremony in progress.

The drums thundered and stopped. At the Lady's feet, the hoarse recitation became audible again. Supporting the priestess's deadweight, the young priest lowered her until she was sitting on the floor. He knelt at her side. Steadying her with one brawny arm, he lifted the vase to her lips.

"Join hands!” commanded the fat man. Eleal's hands were grabbed by Ambria and Trong. The drums started again. The young priest forced the girl's head back and tilted the vase—enough for her to drink, not enough to spill the coins. Scarlet fluid dribbled over both of them, but she coughed and choked, apparently taking some of it in her mouth. Satisfied, he lifted the loop over her head and passed the vessel out to a waiting hand. Then he dragged her to the center of the circle and left her there, lying like a corpse alongside the silver bowl. He stood back and watched intently.

Many more priests and priestesses had surrounded the troupe. They began to chant—softly at first, rapidly growing louder. Blurred by their own echoes, the words were an archaic form of classic Joalian. Eleal gathered only that they praised the Lady and beseeched her to vouchsafe guidance. The beat was capricious, unsettling. Her heart thumped painfully.

The little priestess had begun to twitch. The singing surged higher. She screamed. She beat her fists on the floor. Louder and faster went the drums. She thrashed as if in pain, yet her face was flushed. The silver bowl went clattering across the floor, splashing eggs. She paused, lifted her head, and looked around the circle that confined her, madness in every move, every twist of her face. Her hands clawed at her robe and ripped it off, revealing a willowy, wasted body, flushed and sweating.

Without warning she was on her feet, lurching at Eleal, hands clawing for her, eyes burning with hatred. Eleal tried to leap back; Trong and Ambria staggered but did not release her. The priest caught the maniac just in time and tried to haul her back to the center, but she fought him in frenzy, screaming and frothing. Amazingly, it became a real fight. The priest was as tall as Trong, young and husky; she was a scrawny stripling half his size with limbs like spade handles, but in moments she had bitten and mauled him, shredded his robe and opened bloody tracks on his face with her nails. Twice she almost broke free altogether, heading for Eleal, twice he caught her in time. He was trying to restrain her without doing hurt; she had no such scruples. They fell to the floor and struggled more there. The drums and singing echoed deafeningly.

In another bewildering change, she cried out and went rigid, head back, limbs spread, sprawling over her opponent. The man threw her off and backed away on hands and knees, bleeding and gasping as if he had been wrestling bear cats.

Her eyes flicked open. “Athu!” she roared, in a voice as deep and resonant as Trong's—an impossible voice for that child-sized body. The drumming and singing stopped instantly. “Athu impo'el ignif!"

It was the voice of the oracle. Outside the circle, priests began scribbling on parchment as the words of the goddess reverberated through the temple. Again the dialect was too archaic for Eleal to follow. She thought she heard her name a few times, but then she thought she heard several names she knew, and probably none of them was intended. The priests seemed to make sense of the torrent, though, for their pens moved rapidly.

It died away into animal gurgles and stopped. A drum tapped. The singing resumed, a triumphant paean of thanks and praise.

Red-robed priestesses pushed in to attend the unconscious oracle. The circle fell apart. Wives and husbands embraced in relief at the end of the ordeal. Trong released Eleal's hand. Ambria hauled her close and hugged her fiercely. In a moment she felt wetness. Bewildered, she looked up and realized that the big woman was weeping.

20

IT WAS OBVIOUS WHY THE TEMPLE RARELY ASKED THE LADY for an oracle. The little priestess had been carried off, wrapped in a blanket. Her burly guardian had limped out, clutching a rag to his bleeding face and leaning on a friend. A young boy had brought a bucket and knelt to wash stains from the floor.

The richly adorned priest with the big belly was chuckling as he pawed over a group of parchments, discussing them with other elderly priests and priestesses. They all seemed pleased.

The troupe stood apart, huddled together, waiting to hear what the goddess had decreed. Eleal clung tight to Ambria's big hand and tried not to see Dolm Actor's patronizing sneer.

Then the fat priest waddled over to them, still clutching the records. “The Lady has been most generous!” he boomed. “I have never seen clearer, more explicit directions."

There was a worried pause. “Tell us!” Ambria said.

"Just the two of them, I think.” He checked one page against another. “Yes, just two. The one named Uthiam Piper?"

Uthiam whimpered. Golfren's arm tightened around her.

"Three fortnights’ service, it would seem,” said the fat man. He shrugged his pillowed shoulders. “Not as severe a penance as I would have expected, really."

Uthiam's cheeks were ashen. She raised her chin defiantly. “I have to whore here for forty-two days?"

Shocked, the priest raised his shaven brows. “Sacrifice!"

"For what?"

"For your sins and your friends’ sins, naturally. They are free to go—except one, of course. One remains. I am sure you made out that much. It is a small price to win so much favor and forgiveness, for yourself and your loved ones. Many women learn to enjoy it.” He leered slyly.

He had eyes like a pig's.

Little Piol Piper cleared his throat. “I thought—” He stopped. He was the scholar. If any of the laity had understood those ancient words, it would be Piol.

"You thought what?"

The old man clawed at his silvery, stubbly beard. “I thought an alternative was offered?"

The priest nodded, his dewlaps flapping. “But not a reasonable alternative for a band of wandering players, I am sure."

"How much?” Golfren yelped. His fair-skinned face was paler than any.

The fat man sighed. “One hundred Joalian stars."

"Ninety-four, you mean! You know we have that much!"

The priest pursed his thick lips sadly. “You cannot bargain with a goddess, actor."

"But I was to give that money to Tion that he might favor my wife in the festival."

"Your wife will not be attending the festival this year. She will be serving the goddess, here in the temple. The mammoth herders who risk their lives daily in the pass will certainly not be rash enough to offend Holy Ois.” His fat smirk left no doubt that the men would be advised of the danger.

Golfren looked close to tears. “That gold was my father's farm and his father's before him! And we only have ninety-four."

Everyone looked at Ambria, Uthiam's mother.

Her hand in Eleal's was sweating. Her voice was hoarse: “If we make up the difference, Holy One, it will leave us penniless. The fare to Suss is reputedly higher this year than it has ever been. We are poor artists, Father! Our expenses are heavy. The festival is our only hope of recouping our fortunes so that we may eat next winter. Will the Lady ruin us?"

The priest's eyes narrowed inside their bulwarks of lard, appraising her. “If you travel with the Lady's blessing,” he said reluctantly, “I believe the temple could arrange passage for you.” It was indeed possible to bargain.

"Today! The festival begins tomorrow. We must travel today!” Hints of the old Ambria were emerging.

"One hundred stars and you go today,” the priest agreed.

Ambria sighed her relief. “And the other one?"

"Mm?” He chuckled and consulted the parchments again, comparing them. “Oh, yes. Eleal Singer ... or Eleal Impresario ... the goddess called her something else ... No matter. She must remain. Must enter the service of Great Ois."

Somehow Eleal had expected this. She shivered. She felt Ambria's hand tighten on hers.

"There is no ransom for her?” Piol demanded.

The fat man scowled. “Ransom? Watch your tongue, actor!” He looked around suspiciously. “Are you offering one?"

"You have taken every copper mite we possess!” Ambria shouted.

"Ah!” He shook his head sadly and consulted the scripts again. “In any case, we are given no choice in her case.” He glanced at Trong, who was projecting utter despair. “The, er, misadventure occurred in Jurg?"

"Yes,” the big man muttered, showing no surprise.

"Of course!” The priest chuckled, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Mighty Ken'th again! But the Lady is a jealous goddess! She demands the child.” He glanced around the group. “Come, you are being let off lightly! A hundred stars and the girl."

Eleal also looked around. No one would meet her eye except Dolm Actor, who wore a distinctly I-told-you-so sneer.

"She will be well cared for,” the priest said. “Trained in the Lady's service. It will be an easier, more rewarding life than you can offer her.” He waited, and no one replied. “In a couple of years ... But you know that."

Getting no response, he beckoned with his fat soft fingers, summoning a woman almost as large as himself. “Take this one and guard her closely. Farewells would be inappropriate,” he added.

Ambria released Eleal's hand.

21

INSPECTOR LEATHERDALE HAD LEFT A MAN OUTSIDE THE door, as Edward soon realized. Conversations came along the hallway, stopped while they should have been going by, and then resumed again in the distance. Beds and carts slowed and squeaked as they were navigated around the obstacle. Perhaps the jailer had been there all the time, but he was one more indication that Edward was a murder suspect. As the guard could hardly be intended to prevent the criminal escaping, he must be hoping to eavesdrop on conversations. There was no other conceivable reason to waste a policeman's day, was there?

The room was depressingly square. The walls were brown up to about shoulder height, where there was a frieze of brown tiles; above that the plaster was beige. Having nothing better to do, Edward catalogued his assets. Item, one brass bed with bedclothes, pillow, and overhead frame. Item, one chair, wicker-backed, hard. Item, one bedside cupboard in red mahogany. Item, one small chest of drawers to match ... one bellpull just barely within reach ... one iron bed table on wheels, with a flip-up mirror ... one wicker wastepaper basket.... He had a jug of tepid water, a tumbler, an ashtray, and a kidney-shaped metal dish suitable for planting crocus bulbs. The cupboard contained a bedpan and a heavy glass bottle with a towel around it. Robinson Crusoe would have been ecstatic.

A distant church tower was the only thing visible outside. The window was open as wide as it would go, but no air seemed to be coming in—it couldn't be this hot outdoors, surely? What a summer this had been!

So he had left school at last and in little over a week become prime suspect in a friend's murder. He thought of Tiger, the school cat, and how he had liked to sit under the tree where the robins nested, waiting for the fledglings—two fledglings.

Poor old Bagpipe! He'd never had a fair shake with his wheezing. And now this. There'd have to be an inquest, of course. How would their classmates take the news? How many would believe Edward Exeter capable of such a crime? He decided they would judge by the evidence, just as he would. At least this was England and he would be tried by British Justice. It wasn't as if he must deal with Frenchies, who made you prove yourself innocent. British Justice was the best in the world, and it did not make mistakes.

At least, he did not think it did. Trouble was, he had no idea what the case against him might be. Could he possibly have gone insane, a sort of Doctor Exeter and Mr. Hyde? Was that why he couldn't remember? Lunatics were not hanged, they were shut up in Broadmoor and quite right, too! If he had a Hyde half who went around stabbing people, then his Exeter half would have to be locked up also.

The bobby had treated him with kid gloves, and that was a rum go. A mere witness would be quizzed much harder than that—especially a witness who couldn't remember anything. He was a minor and an invalid, and the policeman had been very careful and respectful so that he could not be accused of bullying. Edward could recall much worse wiggings from Flora-Dora Ferguson, the maths master. Leatherdale must be absolutely sure his case was watertight, so he was in no special hurry to hear what the suspect might testify.

At that point in his brooding, Edward heard a familiar voice raised in the corridor and thought, No! Please no! Visiting hours began at two o'clock and it couldn't possibly be even nine in the morning, and yet he knew that voice. He also knew its owner would not be blocked by any hospital rule in Greyfriars, nor by any matron, no matter how intimidating. Nor even by a uniformed constable from the sound of it.

"Gabriel Heyhoe, don't be absurd. You've known me all your life. I dried your eyes when you wet your pants at King Edward's coronation parade. If you want to prowl through this bouquet in search of hacksaws, then go ahead, but meanwhile stand aside."

Mrs. Bodgley swept into the room like Boadicea sacking Londinium. She was large and loud. She overawed, and yet normally she somehow combined a booming jollity with as much majesty as Queen Mary herself. She had been the star attraction at Speech Day for as long as Edward could remember and the boys of Fallow worshiped her.

Today she swung a familiar battered suitcase effortlessly in one hand, and she was dressed all in black from her shoes to her hat. A black glove threw back her veil.

"Edward, poor chap! How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Oh, Mrs. Bodgley, I am so sorry!"

Warning beacons flamed in her eyes, as a policeman loomed in the doorway behind her, his helmet almost touching the lintel. “What exactly do you mean by that statement, Edward?"

"I mean I'm sorry to hear the tragic news about Timothy, of course."

"That's what I thought you meant, but you must learn to guard your speech more carefully at present!” She towered above him, peering over her ample black bosom as Big Ben looks down on the Houses of Parliament. “The remark might have been construed as an apology. I brought your things. Your money I extracted and gave to Matron. I put the receipt for it in your wallet. And I brought this book for you. Here."

He stuttered thanks as she thrust the book at him. “But—"

"Timothy was enj ... said it was the best book he had ever read, and I thought you would need something to pass the time. No, don't bother thanking me. I'm sure he would have wanted you to have it. And apart from that I had better not stay and chatter or Constable Heyhoe here will suspect me of perverting the course of justice. I want you to know that we—I mean I—do not for one moment believe that you had anything whatsoever to do with what happened and nothing will ever convince me otherwise. I for one know that there was a woman's voice in that cacophony, even if the general ... but we must not discuss details of the case, Edward. Furthermore, I intend to see that you have the best legal advice available and if there is any need for money for your defense, should things come to that unhappy pass, then it will be forthcoming. I have already so instructed my solicitor, Mr. Babcock of Nutall, Nutall, & Shoe. So you are not to worry, and Doctor Stanford assures me that your leg can be expected to mend with no lasting ill effects."

He opened his mouth and she plunged ahead before he could say a word.

"Timothy always spoke very well of you, and the few times we have met I have been greatly impressed with you, Edward. I know that your housemaster and Dr. Gibbs rated you highly and I trust their judgment—most of the time and certainly in this. So do not fret. The whole terrible affair will be solved, I am quite sure. Now we must not say another word on the matter!"

With a grim smile, she swirled around and flowed out of the room, the policeman backing ahead of her. Edward looked down at the book he was holding, and it was a blur.

A nurse entered, bearing a vase of dahlias that had probably been growing in the grounds of Greyfriars Grange less than an hour ago. She lifted the suitcase from the floor onto the bed.

"If you want to go through this and take out whatever you need, sir, then I'll take it away. Matron does not approve of luggage lying around in rooms."

He muttered a response without looking. The book was The Lost World, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

He opened it at random and a bookmark fell out.

22

TWO FLIGHTS UP, THE PRIESTESS WAS PUFFING AND LEANing a sweaty hand on Eleal's shoulder. They turned along another corridor smelling of incense and soap and stale cooking. Eleal was too numb for fear or sorrow. Mostly she felt a sense of loss: loss of her friends, her newfound family, loss of liberty, loss of career, loss even of her pack, which had been refused her. The distant chanting had died away into silence as if she were sinking into the ground, away from the living world. She reached an open door and was pushed inside.

The room was poky and plain, seemingly clean enough despite its musty smell. Bare stone formed the walls, bare boards the floor and ceiling. It contained a fresh-looking pallet, a chair, a little table, a copy of the Red Scriptures, nothing more. A beam of sunlight angled in through a small window, seeming only to emphasize the shadows. No lamp, no fireplace.

The priestess released her captive then and sank down gladly on the chair, which creaked—the bulges of her sweat-patched robe suggested a large body. She wiped a sleeve across her forehead. Her hair was hidden under her scarlet headcloth; her face was saggy, padded with chins and rolls of fat, and yet Eleal thought it was the hardest face she had ever seen.

"My name is Ylla. You address me as ‘Mother.’”

Eleal said nothing.

Ylla's smile would have curdled milk. “Kneel down and kiss my shoe."

Eleal backed away. “No!"

"Good!” The smile broadened. “We shall make that the test, then, shall we? When you are ready to obey—when you cannot take any more—tell me you are ready to kiss my shoe. Then we shall know that we have broken your spirit. We shall both know. You are entering upon a life of unquestioning obedience."

She waited for a reply. Not getting one, she narrowed her eyes. “We can try a whipping now if you want."

"What about Ken'th?"

Ylla laughed loudly, as if she had been waiting for the question. “Boys and old men pray to Ken'th. Men perform his sacrament willingly enough, but few would be seen dead near his temple!"

Few women went near his temple either, for Ken'th was god of virility. “Is he my father?"

"Perhaps. The goddess hinted at it. And it would fit with what your grandfather said. Women taken by a god aren't much use afterward."

That much Eleal knew from the old tales—Ken'th and Ismathon, Karzon and Harrjora. When the god withdrew his interest, the woman died of unrequited love. How strange that Piol Poet had never used either of those two great romances as the basis of a play! (She would never see a Piol play again.)

How strange to hear Trong described as her grandfather!

There was no hint of sympathy in the priestess's stony face. “But don't think that makes you special. A mortal's child is a mortal, nothing more."

Usually less, according to common belief. To call a man godspawn was about the worst insult possible. It implied he was a liar, a wastrel, and a bastard, and his mother had been as bad.

Eleal thought of Karzon's shrine and that powerful, potent bronze figure. Ken'th also was the Man. What if she prayed to Karzon? She did not even know her mother's name.

"If you are thinking of appealing to him,” Ylla said contemptuously, “then save your breath. Gods sire bantlings like mortal men spit. I suggest you don't mention it. You are an acolyte in the service of Holy Ois, and older than most, so I must explain a few things."

She folded her plump hands in her lap. “We get many unwanted girls, usually much younger than you, but most of us are temple bred. My mother was a priestess here, and her mother before her. For eight generations we have served the Lady."

"And your father?"

"A worshiper.” Ylla showed her teeth. “A hundred worshipers. Don't try to lord it over me for that, godspawn. In a year or two the Lady will bless you. You will be consecrated by priests, then, and thereafter you will serve her that same way. You will regard it as a great honor."

"No I won't!"

The fat priestess laughed, flesh rippling under her robe. “Oh, but you will! When properly instructed, you will be eager to begin. I am forty-five years old. I have borne eight children to her honor and I think I am about to bear another. You also, in your time."

They would have to chain her to the bed, Eleal thought. She would rather starve in a gutter. She said nothing, just stared at the floor.

"Why do you limp?"

"My right leg is shorter than the other."

"I can see that. Why? Were you born like that?"

"I fell out a window when I was a baby."

"Stupid of you. But it won't matter. It won't show when you're on your back, will it?"

Eleal gritted her teeth.

"I asked you a question, slut!"

"No it won't."

"Mother."

"Mother."

Ylla sighed. “You will begin your service by plucking chickens. By this time next year, you will be able to pluck chickens in your sleep. Scrubbing floors, washing clothes ... good, honest labor to purify the soul. Normally we should start with your oath of obedience. However—"

She frowned. “However, in your case the Lady gave explicit instructions."

"What sort of instructions?"

"Mother."

"What sort of instructions, Mother?"

"That for the next fortnight you are to be kept under the strictest confinement. I don't know if we can even take you to the altar for the oath—I'll ask. And guards on the door!” The old hag looked both annoyed and puzzled by that.

"The Filoby Testament!"

Ylla stared. “What of it?"

Eleal had blurted out the name without thinking and wished she hadn't. “It mentions me."

The woman snorted disbelievingly. “And who told you that?"

"A reaper."

Ylla surged to her feet, astonishingly fast for her size. Her thick hand took Eleal in the face so hard she stumbled and fell prostrate on the pallet, her head ringing from the blow and a taste of blood in her mouth.

"For that you can fast a day,” Ylla said, stamping out, slamming the door. Bolts clicked.

The room faced east, offering a fine view of the slate roofs of Narsh. The wall beneath it was sheer, and although the stonework was rough and crumbly, Eleal had no hope of being able to climb down it. It was quite high enough to break her legs. Upward offered no hope either, for her cell was a full story below the cornice—they had thought of that.

Below her lay a paved courtyard, part of the temple complex, enclosed by a row of large houses in high-walled grounds. She could see through the gaps to the street beyond, where people went about their business, enjoying freedom. She could even see parts of the city wall, Narshwater, farms, grasslands. If she leaned out as far as she dared, she could just see the meadow with the mammoth pen.

To north and south Narshflat became Narshslope, rising to join the mountains of Narshwall. She had a fine view down the length of Narshvale. Indeed she thought she could see to the end of it, where sky and plain and mountains all converged. It was a small land and a barren one. She wondered why Joalia and Thargia would bother to quarrel over it.

Later she saw the mammoth train leave and even thought she heard faint trumpeting. She was too far away to make out the people. The mammoths themselves were small as ants, but she hung over the sill for a long time, watching them go.

Farewell Ambria! Farewell Grandfather Trong, you cold, proud man! Farewell Uthiam and Golfren—and good luck in the festival! May Tion keep you.

Remember me.

If she listened at the door, she could hear her guards muttering outside, but she could not make out the words. A choir of students practiced for a while in the courtyard below.

Not long after noon, Ylla returned, bringing some burly assistance in case it might be needed. She made Eleal strip, and gave her a red robe too large for her, a skimpy blanket, a jug of warm water, and a pungent bucket. She even confiscated Eleal's boots, leaving her a pair of sandals instead. Eleal stooped to pleading over that—walking was much harder for her without her special boots. The priestess seemed pleased by the pleading, but refused to change her mind.

Then she departed, taking everything Eleal had been wearing when she entered the temple, even her Tion locket, and leaving her a sack of chickens to pluck—eviscerated sacrifices, caked with blood and already stiff.

The rest of the day went by in boredom, fear, anger, and despair in various mixtures. The prisoner raged at her split lip, the goddess, the priestess, the fat priest, the chickens and all their feathers, Dolm the reaper, the Filoby Testament—whatever that was—her unknown father, her unknown mother, Trong and Ambria for deserting her and betraying her and lying to her. She refused to open the book of scripture. She seriously considered throwing it out the window, then decided that such an act of open defiance would merely provide an excuse to whip her. By late afternoon she knew that whippings would not be necessary. A few days of this confinement and she would be willing to kiss every shoe in the temple.

A year of it and she would be ready for the naked men in the alcoves.

23

THE DAHLIAS WERE MERELY THE LEADERS OF A PARADE OF flowers that staggered Edward. They came from his old housemaster Ginger Jones on his own behalf, with another on behalf of all the masters, from the president of the Old Boys’ Club, from Alice, and from a dozen separate friends. The word must have spread across all England, and he could not imagine how much money had been spent on trunk calls. The nurses teased him about all the sweethearts he must have. They set vases on the dresser and then ranked them along the wall he could see best, turning the drab brown room into a greenhouse. He could hardly bear to look at them. It was Bagpipe who needed the flowers, wasn't it?

Somewhere in that floral parade, someone smuggled in a copy of the Times. He suspected the plump nurse with the London accent, but he wasn't sure. It was just lying there on his bed when he looked.

Mr. Winston Churchill had ordered the fleet mobilized. Some holiday excursion trains had been canceled. France and Russia were preparing for war with Germany, and there had been shooting at border points. He found his own name, but there was nothing there that he did not already know. In normal times the yellow press would make a sensation out of such a story, a general's son murdered under his own roof by a house-guest, complete with nudge-nudge hints about public school pals. Just now the war news was sensation enough, but the press might be one more reason why there was a policeman outside his door.

The Times made his eyes swim, so he stopped reading for a while. He had just picked up The Lost World when he heard another voice he recognized, and all his muscles tensed. Had he not been tethered he might have rolled under the bed or jumped out the window. As it was, he tucked his book under the covers in case it might be snatched away from him, then waited for a second visitor who would not be restrained until formal visiting hours.

The Reverend Roland Exeter was a cadaverous man, invariably dressed in black ecclesiastical robes. His elongated form was reminiscent of something painted by El Greco in one of his darkest moods, or a tortured saint in some Medieval church carving—a resemblance aided by his natural tonsure of silver hair, a homegrown halo. His face was the face of a melancholy, self-righteous horse, with a raucous, braying voice to match. Celebrated preacher and lecturer, Holy Roly was probably better known than the Archbishop of Canterbury. Alice called him the Black Death.

He strode into the room clutching a Bible to his chest with both arms. He came to a halt and regarded his nephew dolefully.

"Good morning, sir,” Edward said. “Kind of you to come."

"I see it as my Christian duty to call sinners to repentance, however heinous their transgressions."

"Caught the early train from Paddington, did you?"

"Edward, Edward! Even now the Lord will not turn his face from you if you sincerely repent."

"Repent of what, sir, exactly?"

Holy Roly's eyes glittered. He was probably convinced of his ward's guilt, but he was not fool enough to prejudge the criminal matter with a policeman listening outside the door. “Of folly and pride and willful disbelief, of course."

There had been no need for him to come all the way to Greyfriars to deliver the sermon again. He could have written another of his interminable ranting letters.

"I don't feel up to discussing such solemn matters at the moment, sir.” Edward's fists were clenched so hard they hurt, but he had tucked them under the sheet. This was not going to work. The two Exeters had exchanged barely a dozen friendly words in the two years since his parents died. Fortunately, the guv'nor's will had stipulated that Edward be allowed to complete his education at Fallow, or Roly might well have pulled him out. Roly had had no choice there, but his idea of pocket money for a public school senior had been five shillings per term, probably less than any junior in the place received.

Also fortunately, Mr. Oldcastle had provided generously and regularly. Edward was resolved to have his affairs audited as soon as he reached his majority, for he strongly suspected that his parents’ money had long ago vanished into the bottomless pit of the Lighthouse Missionary Society. Meanwhile he must endure his minority for almost another three years.

Holy Roly's wrinkles had twisted into an expression of mawkish pity. “You see that you have thrown it all away, don't you?"

"Thrown all what away, sir?"

"All the advantages you were given. You don't imagine Cambridge will accept you now, do you?"

"I understood that every Englishman was innocent until proven guilty."

"Then you are a fool. Even if you do not get your neck snapped on the scaffold, all doors are closed to you now."

There might be a hint of truth in what the old bigot was saying, but he was obviously enjoying himself, preparing to heap hellfire on an immobilized sinner. His voice descended to an even more melancholy range. “Edward, will you pray with me?"

"No, sir. I have told you before that I will not add hypocrisy to my shortcomings."

His uncle came closer, opening the Bible. “Will you at least hear the Word of God?"

"I should prefer not, sir, if you don't mind.” Edward began to sweat. Normally at this point he excused himself as politely as possible and left the room, but now he was trapped and the bounder knew it. That might be the main reason he had come.

"Consider your sins, Edward! Consider the sad fate of the young friend you led into evil—"

"Sir?” That was too much!

"The First Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians,” Roly announced, opening the Bible, “beginning at the thirteenth chapter.” His voice began to drone like an organ.

Blackened sepulchre! He had not come to ask after his nephew's health, or to ask what really happened, or what he could do to help, or to display faith in his innocence. He had come to gloat. He had been predicting Edward's perdition since the day they met and now believed it had happened even sooner than expected. He had to come and drool over it.

How could two brothers have been so unalike?

Edward closed his eyes and thought about Africa.

He thought of Nyagatha, high in the foothills of Mount Kenya, amid forest and gorges, glowing with eternal sunshine, as if in retrospect the rainy seasons had been suspended for the duration of his childhood. He savored again the huge dry vistas of Africa under the empty sky, the velvet tropical nights when the stars roamed just above the treetops like clouds of diamond dust. He saw the dusty compound with the Union Jack hanging limp in the baking heat, scavenging chickens, listless dogs, laughing native children in the village. He recalled the guv'nor handing out medicines in the sanitarium; the mater teaching school in the shade of the veranda to a score of wriggling black youngsters and three or four whites; tribal elders arriving after treks of days or weeks to conclave in the black shadow of the euphorbia trees and listen solemnly to Bwana's advice or judgment; visiting Englishmen passing through the district, drinking gin and tonic at sundown and amusing themselves by talking to the boy, the future builder of Empire. It had all seemed quite natural—was not this how all white people grew up?

Above all he remembered the leggy, bony girl in pigtails, who bossed him and all the other children of every color—who chose the games they would play and the places they would visit and the things they must do and the things they must not do, and with whom he never argued. He remembered again his horror when she had to go Home, to England, to the mystical ancestral homeland her parents had left before her birth.

"Edward?"

Hospital and pain returned. “I beg your pardon, sir. What did you say?"

Holy Roly closed his eyes in sorrow. “Why can you not see that prayer and repentance are your only hope of salvation, Edward? He will make allowance for your doubts. Lord I believe; help thou mine unbelief!"

His sepulchral, ivy-coated bleating was probably comforting the ward next door. It was giving his nephew prickly heat.

"I appreciate your kindness in coming all this way to see me, sir."

Hints were wasted on Uncle Roland.

"Edward, Edward! Your father was a misguided apostate and look where it got him!"

Edward tried to sit up and his leg exploded in flame. He sank back on the pillow, streaming sweat.

"Good-bye, sir!” he said through clenched teeth. The pain was making him nauseated. “Thank you for coming."

A flush of anger showed in the sallow cheeks. Roly slammed the bible shut. “Do you still not see? Exodus, chapter twenty-one, the fifth verse: Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me."

"I never quite saw that as fair play, somehow,” Edward said, wondering what insanity was boiling inside the old maniac now. “Bowing down to what?"

"Idols! False gods! The Father of Evil! Your father was a disgrace to his country and his calling and his race! Read what the board of inquiry wrote about him, how he betrayed the innocent savages placed in his care—"

"Innocent savages? They were innocent until you Bible-bangers got to work on them! My parents would be alive today if a bunch of meddling missionaries—"

"Your father turned away the Word of God and frustrated the laws of his own people and sold his soul to the Devil!"

That did it. "Out!" Edward screamed, hauling on the bell-pull. “Go away or I shall throw things at you."

"I warned him that the Lord would not be mocked!"

"Nurse! Constable! Matron!"

"Wherefore, seeing we are encompassed about ... “ declaimed his uncle, rolling his eyes up to inspect the electric lighting.

The lanky policeman appeared in the doorway. Footsteps were hurrying along the corridor.

"Get this maniac out of here!” Edward yelled.

" ... sin which does so easily beset..."

"Nurse! Matron! He's driving me as mad as he is. He's insulting my parents."

"And it is also written—"

"He's preaching sedition. Remove him!” To emphasize the point, Edward grabbed up the kidney-shaped dish and hurled it, aimed to bounce off the book his uncle was again clutching to his breast. It was unfortunate that at that moment the old man started to turn. The dish, in cricket parlance, broke to leg. As Matron steamed into the room, a loud shattering announced that Edward had bowled a vase.

She impaled him with a glance of steel. “What is the meaning of this?"

"He insulted my father...."

Too late the expression on Holy Roly's cadaverous face registered. Edward could not call back the words, nor the act itself.

He had resorted to violence!

Matron spoke again and he did not hear her; he did not see an ample, whaleboned lady in a stiff white cap and starched uniform. He saw instead the crown prosecutor in black silk and wig. He heard himself being forced to admit to the jury the damning answer he had just given, and he heard the question that would follow as surely as night must follow day:

"Do you remember discussing your father with Timothy Bodgley?"

24

THE SUSPECT HAD TRAVELED TO PARIS AND BACK WITH Julian Smedley, who was therefore an obvious witness. The Smedleys resided at “Nanjipor,” Raglan Crescent, Chichester, and Leatherdale could justify another drive in that spiffy motorcar General Bodgley had placed at his disposal.

"Nanjipor” was a terrace house. It had an imposing facade fronted by a garden of roses, begonias, and boxwood topiary hedges. From the outside, therefore, it was identical to all the other houses in its row. The interior was suffocatingly hot and resembled a museum of Oriental art—wicker chairs, gaudy rugs, brass tables, lacquer screens in front of the fireplaces, idols with innumerable arms, hideously garish china vases, ebony elephants. The English had always been great collectors.

A chambermaid ushered Leatherdale into a parlor whose heavy curtains had been drawn, leaving the room so dark that the furnishings were barely visible. There he met Julian Smedley.

For Bank Holiday, young Smedley wore flannel trousers with a knife-edge crease, a brass-buttoned blazer, and what must obviously be an Old Fallovian tie—he was too young to lay claim to be an Old-Anything-Else. His shoes shone like black mirrors. He sat very stiffly on the edge of a hard chair, his hands folded in his lap, staring owlishly at his visitor. He added, “sir,” to every statement he uttered. He gave his age as seventeen; he did not look it.

A certain amount of reticence could be expected in anyone who found himself involved in a very nasty murder case and Smedley was probably shy at the best of times. He might have been more forthcoming had Leatherdale been able to speak with him alone.

His father was present and had a right to be, as the boy was a minor. Sir Thomas Smedley was ex-India, a large, loud, and domineering man. He apologized for not being at his best: “Just recovering from a touch of the old malaria, you know.” He certainly did not look well—he was sweating profusely and his hands trembled. Tropical diseases were something else the English collected while bringing enlightenment to the backward races of the world.

Sir Thomas had offered sherry and biscuits, which were declined. He had thereupon opened the interview with a ten-minute diatribe against the Germans: “Blustering bullies, you know. Always have been. Stand up to them and they crawl, try to be reasonable and they brag and threaten. Absolutely no idea how to handle natives, none at all. Made a botch of their colonies, all of them. Thoroughly hated, everywhere. Southwest Africa, Cameroons, East Africa—it's always the same with the Boche. The Hottentots taught them a thing or two, back in ‘06, you know. Never did get the whole story diere. Now they think they can make a botch of Europe. Might is Right, they say. Well, they've got a surprise coming. Russians'll be in Berlin by Christmas, if the French don't beat them to it."

And so on.

When Leatherdale forced the conversation around to his case, Sir Thomas glowered and shivered, listening as his son confirmed the story. Then the father came in again, explaining why he had sent the telegram to Paris ordering Julian home, stressing his vision and common sense in doing so.

With his companion recalled and the Continent bursting into flames, with the strong possibility that he might be unable to join up with the rest of the party, young Exeter had chosen to return to England also. Any other decision would have demonstrated very bad judgment. Sir Thomas gave no hint, however, that he had offered hospitality to his son's friend, suddenly at a loose end. Had young Julian thought to do so? If not, why not? If he had, why had Exeter chosen the embarrassing alternative of an appeal to the Bodgleys’ charity? While Leatherdale was considering how to ask those questions, he put another:

"What was Exeter's state of mind?"

"State of mind, sir?” The boy blinked like an idiot.

"Was he disappointed?"

"At first, sir. But eager to get his own back, of course—sir."

Leatherdale felt the thrill of a hound scenting its prey. “His own back on who?"

"On the Germans, sir. We're going to enlist together, sir."

Red herring.

Sir Thomas uttered a snort of potent scorn.

"Exeter has broken his leg,” Leatherdale said. “It will be some time..."

The scorn registered. The lack of invitation clicked into place also. He confirmed some times and dates while he shaped his questions, then turned to the father. “You know Exeter, Sir Thomas?"

"Believe Julian introduced him last Speech Day."

There was strong disapproval there. That was the first indication Leatherdale had found that the entire world did not approve wholeheartedly of Edward Exeter. Another quarry had broken cover.

"How would you judge him, sir?"

Smedley Senior drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Suddenly he was being cautious. “Can't say I know the boy well enough to pass an opinion, Inspector."

That might well be true, but it did not mean that Sir Thomas did not have an opinion, and it would be based on something, however inadmissible it might be as evidence.

"His housemaster speaks very highly of him,” Leatherdale said.

Sir Thomas made a Hrumph! noise.

"You thought enough of him to approve him as your son's companion on a trip across Europe."

Hrumph! again. “Well, they were chums.” Father eyed son with a See-How-Wrong-You-Were? expression. “It was only for a few days, till they joined Dr. Gibbs and the others..."

Leatherdale waited.

Again Sir Thomas cleared his throat. “Must admit I have nothing against the boy himself. Deucedly good bowler. He may be straight enough. Guilty until proved innocent, what? I've seen Fallow work wonders. There was a young Jew boy there in my time ... Well, that's another story."

Another silence. Leatherdale knew the road now.

"Do you know his family at all, Sir Thomas?"

"Only by reputation."

"And that is?"

"Well the Nyagatha affair, of course."

"Tragic?"

"Damned scandal! Read the board of inquiry report, Inspector!"

"I intend to. Can you give me the main points, though?"

That was all the encouragement Sir Thomas required. “Shocking! If Exeter had survived, he'd have been drummed out of the Service. Lucky not to be thrown in the clink. A band of malcontents wanders out of the jungle and burns a Government Station? White women raped and murdered! Children! Not a single survivor. Shameful! If Exeter had maintained a proper force of guards as he should, damned business would never have happened. Disgraceful! And there was all sorts of other dirt came out, too."

"Such as?"

"His overall performance. Aims and motivations. The man had absolutely gone native, Inspector! Tribal barbarities that had been stamped out in other districts had been allowed to persist. Witch doctors and such abominations. Roads that should have been built had not been. Missionaries and developers had been discouraged—virtually thrown out, in some cases. The commissioners were extremely critical. Gave his superiors a very stiff wigging for not having kept a better eye on him."

In the shadowed room, Sir Thomas's glare was as ferocious as any of the sinister idols'. His son was staring at the floor, fists clenched, saying nothing. His back was still ramrod-stiff.

So young Exeter had perhaps spent his childhood in unusually primitive surroundings, even by Colonial standards. That was not evidence. But it did help explain a certain curious document that Leatherdale had found in the suspect's luggage.

"Mr. Smedley?” Leatherdale said gently.

Julian looked up nervously. “Sir?"

"Did Edward Exeter ever express any ambition to follow in his father's footsteps? In the Colonial Office, I mean?"

Sir Thomas snorted. “They wouldn't touch another Exeter with a forty-foot pole."

"Hardly fair to the boy, sir?"

The invalid shivered and produced a linen handkerchief to dab his beaded forehead. “There are some names you don't want around on files to remind people, Inspector! Have you any further questions to put to my son?"

"Just one, I think. What do you think of Edward Exeter, Mr. Smedley?"

Julian glanced briefly at his father and seemed to make an effort to sit up even straighter, which was not physically possible.

"He's white!” he said defiantly. “A regular brick!"

25

SLOWER THAN A PLAGUE OF SNAILS CRAWLED THE HOSPItal minutes. Lunch lay in Edward's stomach like a battleship's anchor: pea soup, mutton stew, suet pudding, lumpy custard. He was trying, with very little success, to write a sympathy letter to the Bodgleys.

Amid his foggy memories of his visit to the Grange, he had a clear vision of old Bagpipe cursing the asthma that would keep him out of the war—and now here he was himself, flat on his back with his bloody leg in pieces. Three months! It would be all over by then, and even if it wasn't, then all his chums would be three months ahead of him. What bloody awful luck!

Not quite as bloody as Bagpipe's of course.... His birthday present from Alice had been a handsome leather writing case, which fortunately had not been pilfered in Paris. It bore his initials in gold and had pockets for envelopes and stamps and unanswered correspondence. Abandoning the Bodgley letter, he pulled out two well-thumbed sheets that he had stored away in one of those pockets. He knew the text by heart now, but he read it all over again. Then he set to work copying it out, word for word.

It was dated the day of the Nyagatha massacre, and the writing was his father's.

My dear Jumbo,

It was with both surprise and of course delight that Mrs. Exeter and I welcomed Maclean to our abode last night. Although conditions have improved vastly over the last few years, his journey from the Valley of the Kings was as arduous as might be expected. Had he been delayed only another three days at Mombasa, I fear he would have missed us here altogether. Indeed, delivery of this letter cannot precede by more than a week our personal arrival Home. Needless to say, the tidings he brought concerning your own crossing were equally agreeable to us. Without implying that any incentive beyond that of being reunited with our son and adopted daughter is necessary to motivate us to visit the Old Country, your presence there and the resulting prospects of riotous revelry in your company are a joyous prospect!

Who was Jumbo? Who was Maclean? The casualties of the massacre had included a “Soames Maclean, Esq., of Surrey,” but the board of inquiry report had given no explanation of who he was, or what he had been doing at Nyagatha, except to describe him as a visitor. Just an old friend? Nothing odd about that. But then the letter turned strange.

Your new interpretation, of which Maclean has advised me, I find very convincing and in no small measure disturbing! You are to be congratulated on perceiving something that should have been perfectly obvious to all of us and me in particular, but of course was not. (He was named after Mrs. Exeter's father!) Unfortunately, in this case insight, which should promote increase in understanding and alleviation of apprehension, has tended rather to promote proliferation of enigmas!

The only person Edward knew who had been named after his grandfather was himself, but why should that matter to Jumbo, whoever Jumbo was? The letter then mentioned him directly.

While friendship, gratitude, and personal respect all incline me to acquiesce, dear Jumbo, the awesome responsibilities of fatherhood dissuade me from permitting a personal interview. The boy is not yet old enough to understand the implications. Rest assured that he will be fully informed before the critical date, and while he will still be very young even then, the decision will be his alone. We have given the Kent group strict instructions not to reveal his whereabouts to anyone at all. You will understand that no personal slight is intended.

His mother agrees with me wholeheartedly in this. Perhaps we are being overcautious, but we both feel “better safe than sorry"!

You will be relieved to hear that I am still strongly in favor of breaking the chain. Soapy has been trying to convert me with all his customary eloquence, but so far without success.

Five days ago, in the middle of the Champs Élysées, Edward had realized that a man named Soames Maclean might very likely be known as “Soapy” behind his back, especially if he were noted for his eloquence.

I still disapprove of turning a world upside down. The effects of good intentions are well-known and my work here has merely hardened my conviction that paving with better intentions only makes the road descend more slowly. One cannot take away half of a culture and expect the remainder to thrive. I have at least kept out the worst of the busybodies and preserved as many of the indigenous customs as I dare.

For example, I have not prohibited warfare among the young men of Nyagatha, although all the other districts banned it at once. It is not war as the Europeans understand war, nor is it done for slavery or conquest. It is a ritual combat with shields and clubs that rarely results in serious injury to the men themselves and never harms women and children. It is very little rougher than a county rugby match, and it is the basis of their whole concept of manhood. In neighboring districts, the culture has virtually collapsed without it.

I doubt that information concerning my irregular activities can much longer be kept from the local powers in London. I shall be severely criticized, but that is of no consequence. I hope and believe that we have softened the inevitable blow.

As for religion, I need not tell you of the dangers of tampering there! Even a bad faith, if it provides stability, may be better than the turmoil...

There it stopped, in mid-sentence. His last words.

Criticized? Oh, guv'nor, how they criticized you! They tore you corpse to shreds in their elegant Whitehall meeting rooms. They hung your parts on bridges for the world to mock.

Three days after those words had been written, a white-faced boy had been hastily summoned to the Head's study at Fallow, but not before he had seen the morning papers. The telegram from London had arrived a couple of hours later. That had been bad enough. Much worse had been the letters from the dead that had trickled in over the next two months, full of cheerful plans for the journey Home and the family reunion. Every week another ship would dock and the wound would be reopened before it had even had a chance to scab. A year later, when a thin crust had begun to form so that his heart was not always a stone and he could even smile again without feeling guilty—then that awful board of inquiry report had started him bleeding all over again.

And a couple of months after that, even, some idiot, well-meaning, thoughtless lawyer had forwarded a box of his parents’ possessions that had somehow survived the fire. Fortunately, Holy Roly had forgotten to mention them. They had lain in his attic until a week ago. Edward had stopped a night in Kensington on his way to Paris, dropping off all the gear he had accumulated at Fallow. Only then had he discovered that box, and in it that extraordinary letter.

What did it all mean? Who was Jumbo? What was the Valley of the Kings? Mr. Oldcastle of the Colonial Office lived in Kent—was he somehow related to the Kent group mentioned? The only person who might be able to answer any of those questions was Mr. Oldcastle himself. Now he had time on his hands, Edward was going to send him a copy of the letter. The original he would keep forever, his father's last words.

A patter of feet and rush of voices in the corridor announced the start of visiting hours. Alice would be prompt, she always was. Edward put away his writing and crossed his fingers. How exactly did one bait breath?...

Alice had been the first good thing he had seen in England, come to Southampton to meet him, a poised young lady of fifteen standing on the docks with her aunt Griselda—Roland had been too busy to leave town. Edward had met him that evening and they had disliked each other on sight. Dislike had flowered rapidly to mutual contempt. Alice and Griselda had probably kept the frightened twelve-year-old from madness or suicide in his first few weeks of that strangely green, soggy, solid England, full of mists and pale faces.

He had gone up to Fallow in the autumn, and what had been a nightmare of alienation and homesickness for all the other new boys had been a blessed release for him. That winter Griselda had faded away altogether, a mousy, kindly woman unable to withstand her famous, fanatical, power-crazy husband. Roland had grown steadily worse ever since, shriller, more eccentric, more bigoted.

Alice had been an absent relation, rarely seen, but her letters and Edward's had flashed across England in a single day, not to be compared to the twelve-week round trip to Kenya, and he had been grateful for her and to her. Whenever the loneliness had overflowed, he had written to Alice, and two days later her replies had arrived, full of stern comfort and practical advice.

The years had crept by. In retrospect, he should have informed his parents how things stood between him and the Reverend Roland, but it would have seemed like tattling, so he never had. He had given no thought to words like tragedy, probate, executor.... Plans for the family reunion had been seeded, nourished, cultivated—and ultimately blasted by that inexplicable massacre just days before the Exeters were due to leave Nyagatha. The ship that should have brought them Home had brought details of their deaths.

Even before the disaster, Roland Exeter had displayed a driving ambition to convert his niece and nephew to his own brand of religious fervor. His brother's will had named him guardian of the orphaned boy and the twice-orphaned girl, and he had reacted like a missionary given a personal gift of two cannibals to win from the darkness.

Alice had left school by then. Her uncle had expected her to remain and keep house in the dread Kensington mausoleum which was home to both him and his Lighthouse Missionary Society. When she had moved out and set up her own establishment, he had denounced her as a scarlet woman, damned to hellfire for eternity. That was Roly's standard way of expressing disapproval.

Edward had remained at Fallow, but there he had raised the banner of liberty and manned the barricades, a staunch upholder of his father's skepticism, fighting his guerrilla war at long distance. He had not set foot in a church since the Nyagatha memorial service.

The corridors had gone quiet again. Was she not coming? Had she been forced to return to London, or had he merely dreamed her presence yesterday?

Were I a praying man, I should pray now.

Most girls made him squirm and shuffle and stutter. With Alice he could just stand and smile for hours. His face ached after being with her, just from smiling.

He had not seen her since her birthday. He had obtained a somewhat irregular exeat to attend the celebration—irregular in that his guardian had neither requested it nor known of it. Ginger Jones had stuck his neck out there, but the shrewd old housemaster had known for years how the wind blew.

The three years’ age difference had dwindled now. In Africa it had represented the gulf between big child and small child. In England between boy and young woman. Now she was twenty-one, but he was a man in all but legal status. He was five feet, eleven and three-quarters inches tall.

In the spring he had even grown a mustache. It had not been wholly satisfactory, and Alice had obviously not thought much of it, so he had shaved it off when he got back to Fallow. The principle was what mattered.

Feminine heels clicked in the now-silent corridor. He held his breath.

Alice walked in. The sun came out and birds sang. She could always do that to rooms now, even drab brown hospital rooms.

She walked straight to the bed and for an intoxicating moment he wondered if she would kiss him, but she raised her eyebrows archly and handed him a string shopping bag full of books. He laid them on the bed.

She dressed very well, considering her limited means. She was wearing dove gray, to match her eyes—masses of striped cotton, from wrists to ankles, with a broad sash around her waist. Heaven knew what else ladies wore underneath. She must be cooked on a day like this, and yet she did not seem so. She removed her rose-bedecked hat, laying it and her parasol on the foot of the bed. Then she pulled up the chair. Her eyes were assessing him.

He realized that he had been staring at her like a stuffed stag. “Thank you for coming."

"I had to promise we will not discuss the case.” She flicked a thumb at the open door and mimed someone writing. “You are much better!” She smiled. “I'm glad."

"Actually the treatment of choice in such cases is a kiss."

"No, that's a discredited superstition. Kisses overexcite the patient."

"They are good for the heart and stimulate the circulation."

"I'm sure they do. Seriously, how are you feeling?"

"Bored."

"Doesn't your leg hurt?"

"Throbs a bit once in a while. No, I'm in tip-top shape."

"You shaved off your mustache!"

"Actually that gale in early June did for it."

Alice glanced over the floral display with appreciation. “Impressive! Are all of them from barristers and solicitors or are some of them personal?"

She was not conventionally beautiful. Her hair was a nondescript brown, although bright and shiny. Her teeth were possibly on the large side, her nose might have been better had it been a thirty-second of an inch shorter. Overall, her face could almost be described as horsey—although not safely in Edward's hearing—but she had poise and humor and he would rather gaze at her than any woman in the world.

"Has Uncle been to see you?"

"He has. Have you got your money out of him yet?"

"These things take time,” she said confidently.

"Till the Nile freezes? He's spent it all on his lousy cannibals! He's brought light to the heathen by burning your five-pound notes!"

"I think it's just his very muddled accounting."

She shrugged and glanced at the watch on her slim wrist—his present for her twenty-first, bought with money saved out of Mr. Oldcastle's regular donations. “We'll see. Let's not waste time talking about the Black Death. Mrs. Peters has been a love, but I absolutely must catch the 3.40. Tell me what happened the weekend before Whitsun."

"Before Whitsun? By Jove, that was when I took the most gorgeous girl in the world out to the park and explained—"

"Not in London. At Fallow.” Again she glanced warningly at the door, where the copper must be writing all this down. “I was tracked down at the hotel by your Ginger Jones. He gave me those books for you. He wants them back. I gather they're all racy French novels he didn't dare let you read when you were a pupil."

"They don't sound like my cup of tea."

She grinned momentarily—that intimate, secretive grin that had meant mischief in their childhood and now hinted at vastly more magnificent possibilities. Or at least he hoped it would, one day soon.

"You're a big boy now. You're going to be even taller if that leg stretches much, you know. Do you suppose the other one will reach the ground? The weekend before Whitsun you got an exeat and while you were gone there was a burglary at Tudor."

Why was this important, when they had only an hour to be together and the entire future threatened to crumble in ruins?—his personal future, the Empire, Europe.... Why talk about a nonsensical schoolboy prank? But her expression said it was important, and he would not argue with her.

"Ginger knows more about it than I do. He never really convinced anyone else that it was a burglary. The bobbies listened politely and yawned. The front door was still bolted on the inside. Some chaps in Big School were in on the wheeze, whatever it was, but their door was bolted, too. A couple of juniors claimed they saw a woman wandering through the dorms, but they couldn't have been very convinced at the time, because they just went back to sleep. It was dodgy, all right, but no one ever did work it out.” He stared at her doubt and then said, “We are discussing a community of three hundred juvenile males. Do you expect sanity?"

Alice reached for the Times on the bed and began using it as a fan. “He said something about a spear."

"Oh?” Ginger had mentioned that, had he? “A Zulu assegai from the Matabele display in Big School was left in my room in Tudor. That seems to have been the whole point, if you'll pardon an obscure pun. Possibly there had been scandalous rumors about what I was doing in town that night. Prefects sometimes make enemies, if they wallop a little too hard or too often, although I had been remarkably self-controlled for weeks before that, in anticipation of seeing you. Apart from that, nothing was missing or ... What's wrong?"

"Where exactly was this spear when you found it?"

"Ginger found it. He made a complete search. He has keys to all the rooms, of course."

"Thrust right through your mattress?"

"So he said. Why is he riding this hobbyhorse again?"

Alice glanced at the door, giving him a view of her profile. She looked best in profile, rather like Good Queen Bess in her prime.

"Mr. Jones is wondering now if you were supposed to be present when the spear was rammed through your bed. Your name was on your door, right? Whoever it was broke into Big School and located your house in the files—someone had been rummaging there, too, he said. Then the intruder pulled two steel brackets off the wall to get the assegai, went across to Tudor and found your room. You were missing, and in a fit of frust—"

Edward started to laugh and jarred his leg. “Bolting and unbolting doors from the wrong side? A lock is one thing, but a bolt is another! The old coot's off his rocker!"

Alice did not seem to have noticed his wince. She smiled. “He did admit he reads the penny dreadfuls he confiscates.” Then she sobered. “He now assumes that there has been a second attempt, and this time the wrong man...” She raised an eyebrow archly, waiting for Edward to complete the thought.

"Strewth! I always thought the old leek was one of the sanest men there. Why should anyone try to kill me, of all people? I have no money. Even if Holy Roly's left anything of the family fortune for me to inherit, it will be only a few hundred quid. I have no enemies that I can think of."

Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead.... Why had he thought of those lines? Oh yes, that weird dream of a Dickensian apparition claiming to be Mr. Oldcastle. Two nights ago, and yet it still stuck in his memory. Dear friends?

"Anyone can have enemies,” Alice said emphatically.

He thought of the letter, but he would not worry her with that until Mr. Oldcastle had commented on it.

"You refer to my brains, good looks, and personal magnetism, of course. Admittedly they arouse enormous envy wherever I go, but that's only to be expected. Rival suitors are the real threat. Seeing the burning love you bear me in every bashful glance, consumed with jealousy, some dastard seeks to clear me from the field. Who can it be, this wielder of spears who opens bolts from the wrong side of..."

Alice raised both eyebrows and he stopped, feeling stupid. She did not speak, but her eyes said a lot. Ginger must have his reasons. Explain one impossible intruder and you might be able to claim another? Did a bolted door in the Grange case make Edward Exeter the only possible suspect in the killing of Timothy Bodgley?

"It's an interesting problem,” she said, toying with her gloves. “What about the woman the boys thought they'd seen? Did they mention her before or after the unbolted door was found?"

"I have no idea! I can't believe you'd swallow any of this. You are usually so levelheaded!"

"Reliable boys?"

"Good kids,” he admitted.

"Mr. Jones said that perhaps you, as prefect, uncovered some hints that the masters didn't. Often happens, he said."

"Not in this case. Most of the chaps tried to blame the suffragettes. The Head was pretty steamed. He canceled a half holiday because no one would own up."

"Is that usual?"

"Communal punishment, or no one having the spunk to own up?"

"Both."

"Neither,” he admitted. And even rarer was the absence of any retaliation on the culprits by those who had suffered unjustly, but there had been none of that at all, or he'd have heard of it.

Into his mind popped a sudden image of solemn little Codger Carlisle, nervousness making all his freckles show like sand, babbling of a woman with long dangling curls and a very white face. He could have been describing that half memory from the Grange that still haunted Edward! Codger would never be capable of telling a convincing lie if he lived to be a hundred. It must be coincidence! Or else in his drugged stupor in the hospital Edward had remembered that testimony and converted one fiction into another.

He returned Alice's stare for a moment before he realized that she was genuinely worried. “Forget the silly prank, darling! It was months ago. It has nothing whatsoever to do with what happened at the Grange, the thing we mustn't talk about. Let's talk about us!"

"What about us?"

"I love you."

She shook her head. “I love you dearly, but not that way. There is nothing to discuss, Edward. Please don't let's go through all that again! We're first cousins and I'm three years older—"

"That matters less and less as time goes by."

"Nonsense! In 1993 I shall be a hundred years old and you will only be ninety-seven and still pursuing wenches when I need you to wheel me around in my Bath chair. I hope we shall always remain the best of friends, Eddie, but never more than that."

He heaved himself into a more comfortable position, although he had tried them all and none of them was really comfortable now.

"My darling Alice! I am not asking you for a commitment—"

"But you are, Edward."

"Nothing final!” he said desperately. “We're both too young to go that far. All I'm asking is that you consider me as an eligible suitor like any other young man. I just want you to think of me as—"

"That was your final offer. You asked a lot more than that when you started!"

Her fanning had grown more vigorous. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. Ladies’ garments were even less suitable than gentlemen's for this unusually hot summer. In a way he was fortunate to be wearing only a cotton nightgown, but how could man woo maid when he was flat on his back with one leg in the air? “Then I'm sorry I was so precipitate. Put it down to transitory youthful impatience. You said you had no intention of making any final—"

"Edward, stop!” Alice slapped the newspaper noisily on her knee. “Listen carefully. Our ages don't matter very much, I'll agree with you on that. That is not the problem. First, I will never marry a cousin! Our family is odd enough already without starting to inbreed. Secondly, I do not think of you as a cousin."

"That's promising!"

"I think of you as a brother. We grew up together. I love you very much, but not in the way you want. Girls do not marry their brothers! They do not want to marry their brothers. And thirdly, you are not the sort of man I should ever want to marry."

He winced. “What's wrong with me?"

She smiled sadly. “I'm looking for an elderly rich industrialist with no children and a very dickey heart. You're a starry-eyed romantic idealist student and strong as a horse."

Edward sighed. “Then may I be your second husband and help you spend the loot?"

Eventually they found their way to happier ground, talking about their childhood in Africa. The whites they had known had all died in the massacre, of course, but their native friends had survived. They speculated on who would now be married to whom. They talked of all sorts of other things, but not what he wanted to talk about, which was their future together. He discovered several times that he was lying there like a dead sheep, smiling witlessly at her, just happy to be in her presence. And at last Alice glanced at her watch and gave a little shriek and jumped to her feet.

She clutched his hand. “I must run! Take care of yourself! Look out for Zulu spears."

He felt a heavenly touch of lips on his cheek and smelled roses. Then she was gone.

Later he looked through the books Ginger had sent and decided that they were definitely not the sort of thing he wanted to read in a hospital bed, and probably not ever. That came of being a romantic, starry-eyed idealist, he supposed. Most of them were suspiciously tatty, as if the old chap had read them many times, or they been passed around a lot. Then he chanced upon a flyleaf bearing an inscription in green ink:

Noël, 1897

Vous Inculper,

Avant de savoir ce lui qui est arrivée,

Gardez-vous Bien.

Every book contained a similar inscription, each in a different ink and handwriting. It was a reasonable assumption that Constable Heyhoe knew no French. Arranging the volumes in alphabetical order by title and reading the fragments as a single message, Edward translated:

"The back door was bolted on the inside; the door from the kitchen premises to the house was locked, but the key is missing. They cannot charge you until they discover where it has gone. Beware of admitting anything that may be used against you."

Two men in a locked room, one dead, one injured—from which side had the door been locked? Yes, that was just mildly critical, wasn't it?

Three cheers for the devious Welsh!

26

ELEAL AWOKE SHIVERING, LYING ON HER PALLET IN darkness. She could not remember going to sleep. Cold and hunger had wakened her—distant sounds of evensong from the temple told her that the hour was not late. The troupe would be in Sussvale now, very likely still performing The Fall of Trastos for the kindly folk of Filoby. Curse Filoby and its cryptic testament!

Her fingers were sore from plucking chickens. She had left the casement open—never a wise move in Narshland. She scrambled up stiffly and limped across to close it.

Below her, lights showed in windows, here and there. In the crystal mountain air the skies were bright with a myriad of sparkling diamond stars, and two moons. Narshians bragged about their stars. Eltiana was a baleful red spot, high in the east, gloating over her prisoner, perhaps. Below her, just rising at the far end of the valley, Ysh's tiny half disk cast an eerie blue glow on the peaks of Narshwall. Of green Trumb there was no sign at all. Eleal leaned out and scanned the sky to make sure—and Kirb'l appeared right before her eyes!

She had never actually seen him do that before. Always she had just realized that the night had become brighter or darker, that she had just gained or lost a shadow, and looked up to see that Kirb'l had come or gone, as the case might be. This time she had been watching! One minute there had been only stars at the crest of the sky, and the next moment there was Kirb'l's brilliant golden point, putting them to shame. She even thought she could make out a disk. Usually Kirb'l, like Eltiana, was merely a starlike point, although no star was ever so bright, or such a clear gold.

All the moons went in and out of eclipse, but none so abruptly as he. Sometimes Kirb'l even went the wrong way, and a few minutes’ watching were enough to show her now that his light was indeed moving against the stars, sinking in the east. He was also heading southward, to avoid Eltiana and Ysh. Kirb'l, the moon that did not behave like the others—wandering north and south, moving the wrong way, sometimes bright, sometimes faint—Kirb'l was also the Joker, Kirb'l the god, avatar of Tion in Narsh. Was that a sign to her that she must not give up hope? Or was the Joker laughing at her plight? Kirb'l the frog had given her a sign! Good sign or bad?

She decided to treat it as a good sign. She closed the casement, wrapped herself in her blanket, and knelt down to say some prayers. She prayed, of course, to Tion. She would not pray to the goddess of lust, nor to the god of death, not to the Maiden who withheld her justice. Chiol the Father had taken her coins and thrown a very cruel destiny upon her. But Tion was god of art and beauty and in Narsh he was Kirb'l and he had given her a sign.

27

"YOUR FULL NAME, IF YOU PLEASE."

Edward supplied his name and date of birth. He felt as he did when he faced an unfamiliar bowler. The opening balls would be simple and straightforward while the opponents summed each other up. Then the googlies would start.

It was Tuesday afternoon, a full day since Alice had departed. The most exciting thing that had happened in those twenty-four hours was the bandage around his head being replaced with a sticking plaster, half of which was on scalp and sure to hurt like Billy-o when it came off.

He was half-insane from boredom, and a battle of wits with the law was a most welcome prospect. Being not guilty, he had nothing to fear if the game was played fair; if the deck was stacked, then devil take him if he could not outwit this country bumpkin copper. Anything he said might be used in evidence. He had never expected to hear the dread words of the official caution directed at himself.

"You feel well enough to answer questions now, Mr. Exeter?"

"Yes, sir. I'll do anything I can to help you catch the killer."

"What do you recall of the events of Sunday last, August first?..."

Leatherdale looked weary. The man was suffering from his weight and the heat. His face was more florid than ever, gleaming with perspiration, his neck bulged over his collar, and the points of his waxed mustache were drooping instead of standing up proudly. Edward had considered inviting him to remove his jacket and even his waistcoat and had then decided that fair play could be carried too far. Leatherdale for his part was not being at all sporting—he had set chair back almost against the wall, so Edward must keep his head turned hard over on the pillow to see him. The uniformed sergeant was on the other side of the bed, evidenced only by an occasional scratch from his pen.

However absurd his apparel, Edward was much more comfortable than either of his visitors, except for the strain on his neck. His leg had stopped hurting much except when he moved it. Let the game begin!

Next question: “You are familiar with the kitchen premises at Greyfriars Grange?"

"Yes. I've stayed there before. Timothy and I always raided the larder after everyone else went to bed. It was a tradition we started when we were kids. We used to feel frightfully depraved, but I expect Mrs. Bodgley knew what we were up to and didn't care."

"Would she have cared on Sunday?"

"What?” Edward almost laughed. “Timothy could have treated me to the best Napoleon brandy and his parents wouldn't have minded. I expect we'd have felt a pair of real mugs if anyone had walked in on us sitting there by candlelight..."

"You would have been embarrassed if anyone had found the two of you in the kitchen at that hour of the night?"

"Mildly embarrassed,” Edward conceded, realizing that the conversation was coming around to—

"Was that why you locked the door?"

"We didn't.” He must not reveal what Ginger Jones had told him about missing keys. He must not show any interest in keys.

"You say your memories of the night's events are foggy, and yet you recall a detail like that? You would testify under oath that neither you nor your companion locked the kitchen door?"

"I would testify that I do not recall locking it or seeing Bagpipe lock it—neither that night nor any of the half dozen or so times we had been there under similar circumstances before. I do remember people beating on the door later, trying to get in, so somebody must have locked it.” It was hard not to smile at that point.

"Or bolted it."

"There's no bolt on that door ... is there?"

Leatherdale smiled placidly. “I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind."

He continued to send down simple balls and Edward continued to stonewall them. He had recalled quite a lot in the past two days, but it was patchy—Bagpipe showing him to his room, the talk of war over the port, Bagpipe coming to chat, Bagpipe raving about The Lost World.

The inspector reached out and took the book off the bed table and eyed the title. “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Good man. Liked what he wrote about the war and those Boers. Well, it would be his Mr. Sherlock Holmes we would be needing now, wouldn't you say, sir?” With his homely, West Country voice he might have been discussing the prospects for the harvest, but he was not fooling Edward.

"Run through the clues for me, Inspector, and I shall solve the case lying here in my bed."

"I hope you do.” Leatherdale twirled his mustache and somehow made that commonplace gesture seem sinister.

Edward resolved to make no more jokes.

If what Ginger Jones had reported was correct, then there was no chance of Edward Exeter being kept under unofficial arrest much longer. At the end of this interview he would ask to be moved out of solitary. A ward full of other men would be infinitely preferable, even if they were all farmers and tradesmen. At least there would be the crisis to talk about. The order mobilizing the army was going to be signed today. Belgium had rejected the German ultimatum. If the Prussian jackboot came across that border, then Britain would be in the war. Meanwhile he must be nice to the rozzer....

"Had the rest of the household retired to bed?"

"I don't remember, sir."

"What exactly did you do in the kitchen?"

"All I recall of the kitchen is what I already..."

The sensation was oddly like being called to walk the carpet, but he had not been in serious trouble at Fallow since his wild youth in the Upper Fourth, and he knew the stakes now were considerably higher than a breeching or a few hours’ detention. His neck was growing devilish stiff. He addressed his next few answers to the ceiling, aware that the foe was still watching him and he could not see the foe.

Of course the most likely explanation of the tragedy was that the two of them had blundered into a gang of burglars and tried to be heroes. In the resulting fracas the intruders had stabbed Bagpipe, thrown Edward down the stairs, and departed. But if Ginger's information was correct, they had not escaped out the back door, which had been bolted, but had gone through into the main house, locking the door and taking the key. Although Ginger had not mentioned the front door and other means of escape, there must be a possibility that the killer or killers had not been intruders at all, but someone in General Bodgley's household. As Bodgley was practically lord of the manor around Greyfriars, this investigation must be much more than a routine for Inspector Leatherdale. He would be under terrific pressure; he would play every trick he knew. Even a romantic, starry-eyed idealist knew the googlies must start soon.

The voices droned, the constable's pen squeaked, and faint sounds of carts and motors drifted in through the open window. Visitors’ voices wandered up and down the corridor, and Leatherdale continued to use up Edward's visiting hours. Quite possibly Ginger Jones or others might be cooling their heels outside there somewhere, waiting to be admitted.

"But you had never seen this woman before?"

"I'm not sure I even saw her then, Inspector. I have only a few very vague images. She may have been a delusion.” Should he have admitted that?

"You threw something at your uncle yesterday?"

Googly!

Edward turned to look at Leatherdale quizzically, and then reached up to the bedside table.

"No. I did heave this dish, or one just like it."

"Why?"

He resisted the temptation to say, “I didn't know what else it was for.” Instead he explained calmly, “I threw it at the book he was holding. Had I wanted to hit him instead, I would have hit him. I can hit a sixpence at the far end of a cricket pitch.” He raised the dish. “Choose any flower in the room and I'll hit it for you, even lying flat like this."

"That won't be necessary. Why did you throw the dish at Dr. Exeter?"

"I didn't."

"Why did you throw the dish at the Bible, then?"

"Because my uncle is a religious fanatic. I'd say a religious maniac, but I'm not qualified to judge that. For years he has been trying to convert me to his beliefs, and he is absolutely unstoppable when he gets going. I could not leave, and the only way I could think of to get rid of his ranting was to make a scene. So I made a scene."

"You did not just ask him to leave?"

"I did try, sir."

"You could have rung for a nurse and asked her to show him out."

"He is my legal guardian and a well-known divine. He would have resisted and probably won."

"Trying to convert you from what?” Leatherdale changed topics like a juggler moved balls.

"From believing what my parents believed."

"And what is that?"

"My father told me, ‘Don't talk about your faith, show it.’”

"You refuse to answer the question?"

"I did answer the question.” What on earth did this have to do with Bagpipe's death? “I was taught that deeds count and words don't. The guv'nor was convinced that rabid, bigoted missionaries like my uncle Roland did incalculable harm to innumerable people by thrusting an alien set of beliefs and values on them. They finish up confused and adrift, with their tribal ways in a shambles and no real understanding of what they are expected to put in their place. He used to quote..."

May be used as evidence ... Even if Leatherdale himself was broad-minded and tolerant—and there was no evidence of that—the average English jury would certainly contain some dogmatic, literal-minded Christians. Edward took a long breath, cursing his folly at letting his tongue run away with him. “He believed a man should advertise his beliefs by making his life an example to others and to himself and to whatever god or gods he believed in. You don't really want a sermon, do you, Inspector?"

"And this provoked you to throw the dish?"

Another curved one! “He insulted my father.” As Leatherdale was about to speak, Edward decided to get the words on the record. “He accused him of worshiping Satan.” Try putting that before twelve honest men and true!

"Those exact words, ‘worshiping Satan'?"

"Close enough. How would you react if someone—"

"It is your reactions we are investigating, sir. Do you normally become violent when someone makes an insulting remark about your father?"

"I don't recall anyone else ever being such a boor."

As the interrogation continued, Leatherdale's West Country growl seemed to be growing broader and broader. Edward wondered if his own public school drawl was also becoming more marked. He ought to try and curb it, but he had no spare brain cells to put in charge of the attempt. He had also realized that the policeman disliked him for some reason, and was enjoying this.

"Why would your uncle have made such an accusation?"

Edward rubbed his stiffening neck. “Ask him. I do not understand my uncle's thinking."

"In his youth he was a missionary himself."

"I know that much."

"Where were you born, Mr. Exeter?"

What did this have to do with Bagpipe's murder? “In British East Africa. Kenya."

The questions jumped like frogs—Kenya, Fallow, the Grange. Any time Edward questioned a question for relevancy, Leatherdale would change the subject and then work his way back again. The ceiling could do with a coat of paint.

"And how did your father treat missionaries in Nyagatha?"

"I have no idea. I was only twelve when I left there. I was only twelve when I last spoke to my father. Boys of that age barely regard their parents as mortals, let alone question them on such topics."

"That was not what you said earlier."

"That's true,” Edward admitted, angry with himself. “I know what he said to me about missionaries, but I don't know what he did about them in practice. I remember missionaries visiting the station and being made welcome."

"Can you name any of them?"

"No. It was a long time—"

"And the Reverend Dr. Exeter is your father's brother?"

"Was my father's brother. My father died when I was sixteen."

Leatherdale twirled his mustache. “Your father's younger brother?"

"Hardly! Much older."

"Have you any evidence of that, Mr. Exeter?"

"I knew them both very well."

"Any documentary evidence?"

Edward stared. “Sir, what does this have to do with what happened at Greyfriars Grange?"

"Answer the question, please."

"I expect the guv'nor's age is recorded on my birth certificate. I don't remember. I don't read my birth certificate very often."

Manners! He was growing snippy. Was that a glint in Leatherdale's eye? He was against the light, so it was hard to tell.

"When a British subject is born in the colonies, who issues the birth certificate?"

"The nearest district officer, I expect."

"So your father made out your birth certificate?"

"Perhaps he did. I'll look and see when I get out of hospital."

"I was asking about your father's age. Have you any evidence handy at the moment—a photograph, for instance?"

Impudence! Unmitigated gall! The bounder had gone through Edward's wallet when he was unconscious! The urge to try and take him down was becoming dangerously close to irresistible.

"I have a photograph."

"Will you show me that photograph, please?"

Glowering, Edward opened the drawer and took out his wallet. “Be careful of it, please. It is fragile and it is the only picture of my parents I have."

Leatherdale hardly glanced at it.

"This shows you and your parents in Africa?"

"Yes. It was taken by a visitor who had a portable camera. He sent it to us just before I left."

"So it was taken around when?"

What the devil was all this leading to?

"In 1908. I would be eleven, almost twelve."

"And how old would you say the man in this picture is, sir?"

Without releasing it, Leatherdale held the photograph out for Edward to see.

"Around forty, I suppose. Not fifty. More than thirty.” It was hard to tell. The image had always been blurred, and six years in his wallet had worn it almost blank, as if a heavy fog had settled on that little group on the veranda. His mother's face was in shadow. He was standing in front of his parents, his father's hand on his shoulder, and he was grinning shyly.

"Your father was Cameron Exeter, son of Horace Exeter and the former Marian Cameron, of Wold Hall, Wearthing, Surrey?"

Edward was completely at sea now. He had a strange sensation that the bed was rocking. This was worse than a geometry exam. Prove that angle ADC equals angle DCK....

"I think so. I don't know where they lived, except it was somewhere in Surrey. I'm not even certain of their names."

Leatherdale nodded as if a trap had just clicked. “Their eldest child, Cameron, was born in 1841, Mr. Exeter. That would make him sixty-seven in 1908. How old did you say this man seems to you?"

Edward desperately wanted a drink of water, but he dared not reach for one in case his hands shook. “Forty?"

"His mother, your grandmother, died in 1855, almost sixty years ago."

"You've made a mistake somewhere. Tricky stuff, maths."

"Has your uncle seen this picture?"

"I have no idea. I may have shown it to him when I first came Home. I don't recall."

"Try."

"It was a long time ago. I really don't remember, sir. What are you suggesting?"

"I am suggesting that the man in the picture is either not your father or else your father was not who he said he was."

This conversation made no sense at all! It must be a ruse to rattle him. Bemused, Edward ran a hand through his hair and realized that it was soaked—he was soaked. He turned his head to ease his neck, and watched the sergeant finish writing a sentence, then look up, waiting for more.

He turned back to Leatherdale, who was impassively twirling his mustache again. That, apparently, was a bad sign. But the man could not possibly be as confident as he was pretending.

"You've been busy, Inspector!” He was ashamed to hear a quaver in his voice. “Unfortunately, you've been misinformed. Yesterday was Bank Holiday. I suppose you telegraphed to Somerset House first thing this morning, or the Colonial Office, perhaps? Whitehall must be in turmoil just now with war about to break out. Someone has blundered."

"I obtained the information from your uncle."

Oh, Lord! Edward reined in his tongue before it ran away with him. “I suggest you obtain confirmation of anything he says. Check with the Colonial Office."

"Ah, yes. Can you give me the name of someone to get in touch with there, sir?"

With a rush of relief, Edward said, “Yes! Mr. Oldcastle. I'm sorry I don't know his title. I always wrote to him at his home."

"His full name?"

"Jonathan Oldcastle, Esquire."

"And do you remember his address?"

"I should do! I've written to him every week or two for the last couple of years. The Oaks, Druids Close, Kent."

Leatherdale nodded and eased himself on the chair. “That was the address in the school records, Sergeant?"

Pages rustled. “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant.

"And this Mr. Oldcastle replied to your letters, sir?"

"Religiously. He was very kind—and generous."

Again the thick fingers caressed that gray mustache. “Exeter, there is nowhere in Kent called Druids Close. There is nowhere in Great Britain by that name."

"That's impossible!"

"Sergeant, will you confirm what I just told the witness?"

"Yes, sir."

After a moment Edward said, “I think I need a glass of water."

From then on it got worse, much worse. Having succeeded in rattling him, Leatherdale gave him no chance to recover. Suddenly they were back in Greyfriars Grange—

"Did you stab Timothy Bodgley?"

"No!"

"You're sure of that? You remember?"

"No, sir, I don't remember, but—"

And back in Africa—

"Who is ‘Jumbo'?"

"Who?” Edward said furiously. Bounder! The letter!

"Is there anyone in England now who knew your father?"

"I don't know."

And back in the Grange—

"Had you ever been down in the cellar before?"

"No, sir. Not that I remember."

"Would a schoolboy forget visiting a fourteenth century crypt?"

"Probably not. So I suppose I never—"

"You heard people banging on the door while the woman was still screaming? How long did she scream at you? How long did you hold her off with the chair?..."

Eventually, inevitably, Edward blundered.

"Do you recognize this, Mr. Exeter?"

"Oh, you found it!” Oh, you muggins!

Leatherdale pounced like a cat. “You knew it was lost?"

"That's a key. I don't know what it's the key to, though ... No, I don't recognize it.... Lots of keys look like that, big and rusty...” Avoid, evade, distract ... “I assumed that since you asked earlier about the door...” It was hopeless. In ignominious defeat, the suspect told of the message Ginger had sent him. Traitor! Snitch! Nark!

Leatherdale followed up his victory, slashing questions like saber blows.

"Why did you kill him?” “Why did you argue with him?” “Why were you shouting?” “What were you shouting?” “What secret had he discovered about you?” “Describe the kitchen."

"Big. High. Very old. Why?"

"How high? How high is the ceiling?"

Edward wiped his wet forehead. “How should I know? Fifteen feet?"

"Twenty-one. Do you remember the shelves on the wall under the bells?"

"I remember shelves, and dressers, I think bells...” A long row of bells, one for every room in the house.

Leatherdale smiled grimly. “Yes, this is the key to the kitchen quarters at Greyfriars Grange. We found it, Mr. Exeter, in a pot on the topmost shelf."

"Oh."

"Twenty feet up in a poor light. There were no marks in the dust on the lower shelves, Mr. Exeter. What do you say about that?"

"What do you say about it, sir?"

"I say that the only way it could have been put in that pot was to throw it up there and bounce it off the wall just under the ceiling. Whoever managed to do that first try in a poor light must be a very expert thrower indeed. A bowler, perhaps?"

When at last the ordeal ended, Edward watched in misery as Ginger's books were impounded as evidence, along with his cherished photograph, the most precious thing he possessed in the world. The policemen departed.

He had not confessed. He had not been charged, either, but obviously that was only a matter of time now.

28

ELEAL HAD ENDURED A SECOND DAY IN HER LONELY prison, plucking chickens. Her fingers were worn raw. She had done the work conscientiously because anything else would have just brought her more hunger and perhaps a beating. She had been given boiled chicken and chicken soup to eat. She never wanted to see another chicken ever again.

Tomorrow the festival began and she would not be there. She would never see another festival, never sing for a real audience again, never be an actor. Worst of all was the certainty that she could not stand many more days of this torment without breaking. Soon she would kneel and kiss Ylla's shoe, just to beg for some company, someone to talk to.

She hadn't done so yet, though.

She had cried herself to sleep.

She awoke in darkness. It was not like the time the reaper had wakened her. She swam up from sleep slowly, reluctantly, annoyed by an exasperating noise. She tried to pull the skimpy blanket up over her ear and succeeded only in exposing her toes to the cold.

There it came again! Something tapping.

Angrily she lifted her head.

Tapping at the window!...

She scrambled to her knees. She could barely make out the squares of the casement. There was something out there, though! Tap, tap! Not just wind in a tree.

A momentary fear was followed by a rush of excitement. Still clutching her blanket around her, she stumbled to her feet and stepped over. The end of a rope was swinging against the glass: tap! tap!

She struggled with the hasp in frantic impatience and hauled the little casement open. She leaned over the sill and peered up, but she could see nothing. Clouds scudded over the sky, their edges tinted with blood by Eltiana's ominous red. No other moons were in sight, and that was ominous—only the Lady!

A wicked breeze blew through Eleal's hair and chilled her skin. The rope slithered up a few feet and then dropped down in her face. She grabbed it and pulled it inside the room with her. Fumbling in the dark, she established that there was a loop tied in the end of it. It was not a noose, but the association of ideas made her uneasy. She pulled in the slack while she tried to work out what she was supposed to do with it. Light faded as Eltiana vanished behind a cloud. Was that an omen?

Then the rope reversed direction as the unknown prankster on the roof hauled it in. She hung on, thinking, Wait! Wait! I need some time! She was dragged to the window. She hung tight, refusing to let this opportunity escape her. The rope slackened.

Obviously someone was signaling intentions. She pulled the noose over her shoulders and scrambled up on the sill. The gap was small, even for her, but she was agile. She twisted around and wriggled, until she was sitting on the hard ledge, with most of her outside and only her legs inside. She clung very tightly to the sides of the opening. The wind tugged at her robe, which was no warmer than a nightgown would have been and definitely not a garment she would have chosen for midnight acrobatics two stories above a very hard-looking courtyard. Better not to think about that! Her face was against the stone above the lintel. She waited for the pull, feeling all knotted up inside as she did on a mammoth, crossing Rilepass.

The noose tightened on her, and then stopped before it had taken her weight. Teeth chattering, she peered anxiously up at the dark clouds. The cornice was barely visible, but then a faint glimmer showed over it—a face? Checking that she was doing what he wanted? She dared not shout, and neither did he. She hoped he had big, strong hands and arms. She thought he waved. She assumed it was a man. No woman would be mad enough to try this. She waved back. He disappeared.

She was going to freeze to death if he didn't do something soon. The cold and the discomfort of her perch were making her eyes water. The rope tightened under her arms, cutting into her back. She pulled herself up on the line and pushed herself out with one foot, prepared to walk up to the roof. She did not look down. For a moment a pinkish glow heralded Eltiana's reappearance, but then it faded behind the clouds again. Hurry! she thought. Before the goddess sees!

The rope slackened. Taken by surprise, she tipped backward with a squeal of alarm. She swung free and banged her knees into the wall below the window. Now she realized she was expected to walk down the wall, not up. It was cold and rough against her bare toes. She tried to forget that awful drop below her.

Her rescuer must be immensely powerful, for he was letting the rope out very evenly and smoothly. She saw the next window coming and avoided it—lucky the openings were so small. Then there would be another window on the ground floor. There was, and it was larger, but at last she felt cold, cold cobbles under her feet. With a gasp of relief, she leaned against the wall and muttered a prayer of thanks to every deity she could think of. Except the Lady Eltiana in all her aspects, of course.

Several rooms away to the right, a single window at ground level showed light. The rest of the temple slept. If the goddess knew of this violation of her sacred precincts, she had not yet roused her guardians.

Eleal slipped free of the rope, which continued to descend and collect at her feet. Shivering violently, she began to gather it up in coils. Good rope was expensive. She should have thought to bring her sandals. A scratching noise made her look up—and jump back in disbelief as small fragments of stone rattled down on her. A huge shape showed against the sky, dark against dark, and two eyes glowed faintly. The dragon began to descend the sheer face of the wall. The noises became dangerously loud as its claws struggled for purchase. She moved farther out of the way, having no desire to be struck by a falling dragon and no chance of being able to catch one effectively. She had always known that dragons were skilled climbers, but she had not known they could scale a sheer masonry wall.

A dark forked tail came into view, swinging vigorously from side to side. It felt the ground and then swung up out of harm's way as the hindquarters followed. A very dark tail! Of course this could only be Starlight, and her rescuer must be T'lin himself—what other dragon owners did she know? She resisted a desire to call out to him. Clawed feet reached the cobbles. Starlight balanced on them for a moment, his frills extended and flapping for balance like small wings. He tipped around and down and settled on all fours, puffing. His eyes glowed faintly green, and blinked.

Eleal ran to him and looked up. “T'lin Dragontrader!"

"No,” said a whisper. “But his dragon. It won't hurt you.” The rider had twisted around to untie the rope attached to the baggage plate at his back. It had been Starlight who had lowered her down the wall.

"Of course he won't. He's Starlight."

"Oh. Well, up with you!” He reached down.

She hesitated only a fraction of a second. Whoever he was, she had already trusted her life to him. She accepted the hand and waited for the heave. It came in the form of an ineffective tug. She realized that the hand she was holding was far too small and smooth to be T'lin's.

"Mmph!” said the whisperer angrily. “You're too heavy. Choopoo!” The dragon twisted its neck around and blinked at him. “Choopoo!” he repeated. “Oh, Wosok! I mean."

Starlight sighed and obediently folded his legs, sinking into a crouch.

"Now!” said the rider. “Step on my foot. Squeeze in here, in front."

He was hardly more than a boy, not nearly large enough to be T'lin Dragontrader, but Eleal was not about to look gift dragons in the mouth now. She scrambled into the saddle in front of him. It was a very uncomfortable position, for her robe pulled up to expose her legs and she was squeezed between the rider and the bony pommel plate. Two leather-clothed arms closed around her.

A light came on in the nearest window.

"Oops!” said that young voice in her ear. “Hang on for all you're worth! Wondo! Zomph!"

Telling Starlight to zomph turned out to be a miscalculation. Varch would have been more prudent. He was up and off across the courtyard like an arrow in flight. He sprang to the top of the wall and over, and an instant later was racing through shrubbery and trees. Branches cracked and whipped. Eleal choked down a scream and doubled over, clinging for her life to the pommel plate. Fortunately Starlight had folded his frills back tightly out of harm's way, and she managed to tuck her head underneath one. Leaning on her back, her companion cursed shrilly.

A tooth-jarring leap almost unseated her as the dragon bounded to the top of another wall. Coping stones fell loose and they all descended into the road beyond with a crash in the night. Having been given no further instructions, the dragon might well have crossed the road and proceeded to scramble up the house opposite, but fortunately he wheeled to the right and began to gather speed.

"Five gods!” yelled the youth. “What's the word for slow down?"

"Varch!” Eleal shouted, straightening up.

Starlight reluctantly slowed to a breathtaking run. The night streamed past in a rush of cold air and a clattering of claws. Luckily the street was deserted.

"Phew! Thanks. I'm Gim Sculptor."

"Eleal Singer."

"Glad to hear it. Would be bad manners to rescue the wrong damsel. Which is left and which is right? I've forgotten already."

"Whilth and chaiz. You mean you don't know how to do this?"

"Chaiz!” Gim ordered. “No. I've never been on a dragon in my life before. The god will preserve us! He sent me."

29

ESWARD SPENT THE HOURS AFTER INSPECTOR LEATHERdale's departure stewing in misery, going over and over the ghastly interrogation and wishing he could call back a lot of his answers. His bragging about the accuracy of his bowling had been the worst sort of side—it might not justify a hanging, but it seemed likely to provoke one now. From what he recalled of the Grange kitchen, the feat the bobbies were suggesting was absolutely impossible. Far more likely, that key was an unneeded duplicate that had been lying in the pot for years, but if there was no other explanation for the locked room, then a jury would accept the police version. The only alternative was magic, and English juries were notoriously disinclined to believe in magic.

So was he.

The mystery of his father's age was maddening, although it seemed completely irrelevant to the murder. His knowledge of his family was the knowledge of a twelve-year-old, for he had never discussed such things with Holy Roly. He knew that the brothers had not met since Cameron had emigrated to New Zealand; he thought he could recall the guv'nor saying once that Roland had been in divinity college then. The old bigot had probably been ordained sometime in the late sixties, judging by his present age. Edward's parents had been married in New Zealand and had then returned to England, briefly, before going out to Africa. There had been no family reunion, because by then the Prescotts had been in India and Roland still in Fiji or Tonga or somewhere. That was as much as Edward knew.

On the face of it, though, Leatherdale had a case. If Cameron Exeter had been a clerk in government service in New Zealand in the sixties, how could he have been forty years old in Kenya, forty years later?

But if District Officer Exeter had been an impostor, then why had that fact not emerged at the board of inquiry? Edward had read the hateful report a hundred times and there was no hint of any such mystery in it. It did not mention his father's background at all. In his present state of dejection that curious omission suddenly seemed ominous, like a potential embarrassment swept under a rug.

Obviously Holy Roly must know more than he had ever revealed, and Edward might yet have to grovel to him for enlightenment. Had he shown his uncle that photograph when he arrived in England? He could not remember, but it would have been odd if he had not. Assume he had. The old bigot must have seen right away that the fortyish man in it could not be his brother. So why had he not said so at once? Why had he not said so four years later, after the massacre, when he was landed with custody of the impostor's son?

In order to lay his hands on the rest of the family money?

The Crown proposes that when Grandfather Exeter died and left the remains of the ill-gotten family fortune to his three children, the genuine Cameron Exeter was already dead and buried at the far side of the world. Somehow a much younger man assumed his identity, was accepted in his stead, pocketed the loot, and promptly left New Zealand, where he was known by his real name. Thereafter he could never be unmasked as long as he stayed away from the dead man's brother and sister. My Lud, the prosecution rests its case.

Learned counsel for the defense expresses disbelief. Why would such a rogue then go and bury himself in the African bush?

Because, counters the prosecution, the Reverend Roland Exeter had retired from active missionary service and was on his way Home. The impostor would be exposed.

But why Africa? Why not Paris, or Vienna, or even America?

Edward tried to consider the question as judge and ended as a hung jury. He could not deny the evidence of the photograph; he could not believe that the father whose memory he cherished had been such a villain. When Mildred Prescott died, the guv'nor had become Alice's guardian and therefore custodian of her share of the dwindling family fortune. He had taken the child in and treated her as his own daughter; he had not rushed off to Europe to spend her money. He had remained to serve the people of Nyagatha until his death.

What if, four years before that death, Roland Exeter had seen the photograph? That made nonsense of the hypothesis! Holy Roly would have blown the gaff, denounced the impostor, reclaimed the money, and thrown Edward out in the gutter. Wouldn't he?

So Edward could not have shown the guv'nor's picture to Roland. He would certainly give odds that it was presently on its way to London so the reverend gentleman might view it now. The mystery could have nothing to do with the murder at Greyfriars Grange, but surely no copper would resist a chance to solve a twenty-year-old fraud case so easily.

Edward barely touched the leathery slab of haddock that came at teatime.

By nine o'clock the nurses were making their rounds—giving the patients back rubs, bedding them down for the night, removing the flowers because it was not healthy to sleep with flowers in the room. Germany had invaded Belgium, Britain had declared war. Men were enlisting by the thousands. Even that stirring news failed to penetrate Edward's black mood. He was out of it for at least three months, until his leg mended, and death on the gallows now seemed much more likely than glory in battle.

He noticed a change in the nurses’ attitude. They passed on the latest news, but they did not seem to want to talk with him. Even when he roused himself to be cheerful and chatty, they failed to respond. Now they knew he was a murderer.

He tried to read the last chapter of The Lost World, and the words were a blur. All he could take in was the awful relevance of the title.

The lights were turned off. The hospital fell quiet and gradually the clamor of hooves and engines outside faded into night. Greyfriars would never be a riotous place in the evening, and tonight most men would be at home with family and friends, coming to grips with the catastrophe that had so suddenly befallen the world. If there was a patriotic rally in progress somewhere, it was being held out of earshot of Albert Memorial.

Completely unable to sleep, he squirmed and fretted in his sweat-soaked bed. Tomorrow he must ask to see the solicitor Mrs. Bodgley had mentioned. Or would that be an admission of guilt? Should he wait until Leatherdale arrived with the warrant? Who could possibly have killed old Bagpipe, and how, and why? Nothing made any sense anymore.

The only certainty was that he had no choice but to stay and face the music. Even if he were able to run, he had no one to run to—except Alice, and he would never impose on her like that. He could never impose on anyone like that. As it was, he could not walk, he had no money or clothes; he would not even be able to pull his trousers on over his splints. If he even had a proper cast on his leg...

Suppose he had shown the photograph to Holy Roly? Suppose Roly had recognized his brother, but his brother thirty years younger than he should be? That would explain his references to devil worship. He had been implying that Cameron, like Dr. Faustus, had sold his soul to the devil in return for eternal youth.

Oh, Lord! That was even madder than keys jumping into pots or murderers going out through locked doors.

He might have been asleep, he was not sure. Sudden light startled him as the door swung wider and a nurse entered, making her rounds. He saw her only as a dark shape. He raised a hand in greeting.

"Not sleeping?” she asked. “Pain?"

"No. Bad news."

"Oh, they'll hold the Germans off until you get there.” She laid an appraising hand on his forehead.

"Not that. Personal bad news."

"I'm sorry. Anything I can do to help?"

"Find me a good solicitor."

She said, “Oh!” as if she had just remembered who he was. “Want me to ask the doctor for a sleeping draft for you?"

He thought about it.

He very nearly said yes.

"No. I'll manage."

"I'll look back later.” She floated away and the room filled again with darkness, except for one thin strip of light along the doorjamb.

He went back to his worries. Eventually a new thought penetrated—the nurse's belated reaction suggested that Leatherdale had removed his watchdog. Perhaps he had been needed for more urgent duties tonight. Marvelous! Now the suspect could tiptoe out of the hospital and run off to Brazil or somewhere. When the nurse came back he'd ask her for a set of crutches.

Again a sudden flowering of light startled him out of semiconsciousness. He blinked at the same dark shape against the brightness. He wondered why she'd removed her cap at the same moment as he registered her long braids and realized that this was no nurse.

"Dvard Kisster?” The voice was husky and heavily accented. It jarred loose an avalanche of memory.

He flailed like a landed fish, half-trying to sit up, half-trying to reach for the bell rope, and the result was that he jolted his leg. It hurled a thunderbolt of pain at him. He yelled.

Then he saw a glint of metal in her hand and screamed at the top of his lungs.

She left the door, coming around on his right. Danger!

He began to yell for help, using the first words that came into his head. “Once more into the breach, dear friends!” Grabbing the nearest weapon, which happened to be the kidney-shaped dish, he continued to shout. “ ... once more; or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace..."

He hurled the dish with all his strength. “ ... so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility ... ” She had not expected his attack and the missile took her full in the face. She stumbled back with a cry; the dish clanged and clattered on the linoleum. “ ... imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews..."

He started to reach for the bell again, but it meant extending himself and would leave him open. He needed that hand for throwing. “ ... hard-favored rage ... ” She flashed toward him, cursing in some foreign tongue and raising her blade. “ ... then lend the eye a terrible aspect ... ” He hurled the water carafe, she flailed it aside; glass crashed. Where was everybody? “ ... like the brass cannon; let the brow ... ” He followed with the tumbler and scored a hit. “ ... galléd rock o'erhang ... ” He was o'erhanging the side of the bed now, earthquakes of agony running through his leg.

She was holding back, watching him, a sinister dark shape. He continued to scream out his speech as loudly as he could: “Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide ... ” He had Bagpipe's book ready. Why, why, was no one coming? “ ... on, you noble English, whose blood ... ” She lunged forward and he hurled Conan Doyle. He thought it hit her, but she laughed, and spoke again in her guttural accent. “What next, Dvard?"

She was right; he was running out of missiles. Why could no one hear him? He had never been louder in his life. “Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war.” She came, fast as an adder. He swung farther to the right as she slashed down at him, flailing his pillow around with his left hand, parrying the blow. But he had almost fallen off the bed, and the jolt on his leg brought a howl to his throat. That was the worst ever—he thought he would faint, and thrust the possibility away. Feathers swirled like smoke. He scrabbled with his right hand and found the empty urinal bottle. “ ... none of you so mean and base ... ” He swung it as a club against her arm as she struck again, wishing it had been weighted with contents. She cried out and dropped the knife on the floor. He tried to grab her dress with his left hand, thinking he might be able to strangle her if he could pull her close, but she slipped away. Oh—his leg again!

His throat was sore with shouting, “I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips ... ” She made a dive to snatch up the knife. He swung the bottle at her head and missed. She came at him again and this time he thought it was all over “ ... straining upon the start. THE GAME'S AFOOT!"

"Desist!” said a new voice in the corner.

The woman spun around with a shriek.

Edward had not seen him come in, but without question this was the same Mr. Oldcastle he had imagined before. Even in his fur-collared overcoat, with his ancient beaver hat set square on his head, he was a small and unimpressive ally. Yet, with one hand pointing his cane at the armed madwoman and the other tucked in his pocket, he was certainly the calmest person present.

"Begone, strumpet! Go lick thy scurvy masters’ boots in penance lest they feed thy carrion carcass to the hounds."

The woman hesitated, then fled out the door without a word. Her footsteps seemed to fade away almost instantly.

The crisis was over.

"Hey!” Edward gasped. “Stop her!"

"Nay, nay, bully lad, it were no profit to deed her to the watch.” Mr. Oldcastle removed his hat and brushed it absently with his sleeve. “That wight has been accorded arts to rook their locks and manacles. Wouldst sooner close a cockatrice in a cockboat than jail yon jade."

"You mean,” Edward said, easing himself back onto the bed, “she can get out through a bolted door?” He was soaked and shaking, his heart seemed to be running the Grand National, jumps and all, but he was alive. He was almost sobbing with the pain, but he was alive.

"Aye, or in withal. Had they who seek thy soon demise invested her with deeper skills, thou hadst not fared so well.” The little man chuckled. “The recitation was most gamely done! It wanted something in smoothness of phrasing, methinks, but ‘twas furnished well in vehemence. Hal himself could not have seasoned the lines with greater spice."

He stepped over to the bed and peered down at Edward with an intent expression on his puckish, wrinkled face. He brought a strange odor of mothballs with him. “The pain in thy leg is not beyond thy strength to bear."

"Er. No, it's not too bad.” Edward panted a few times. “Amazingly good, considering.” It was not what he would describe as comfortable. He did not need a bullet to bite on, but he was making his teeth work hard.

"It needs suffice for the nonce. Compose thyself a moment. I shall return betimes."

With that Mr. Oldcastle laid his hat and cane carefully on the bed and bustled over to the door. Edward caught a brief glimpse of his tiny, stooped shape against the light, and he had gone.

"Angels and ministers of grace defend me!” he muttered, as this seemed to be Shakespeare night. “What in the name of glory is going on here?” His heartbeat was gradually returning to normal. He was definitely awake and not dreaming. Feathers and water and sparkles of glass on the lino—and splatters of blood also, so he must have scored a hit, perhaps with the tumbler.

And certainly an antique hat and stick lay on the bed, so Mr. Jonathan Oldcastle had really been present and did intend to return. Perhaps he had popped over to Druids Close, the town that received mail and did not exist? Steady, old chap! We'll have no hysterics here.

Strangest of all—why was the hospital not in chaotic uproar? The racket should have wakened every patient on the floor and brought every nurse for miles. Edward thought about trying the bell and then decided to wait for his mysterious guardian to come back.

That did not take long. The little man minced in with a pale garment over his shoulder, carrying a pair of crutches almost as long as himself. His stoop and the forward thrust of his head made him seem to be hurrying even when he was not.

"Thy baggage waits without, Master Exeter.” He uttered the little cackling chuckle that was now starting to sound very familiar. “And thy breakage must wait within! Do don this Oxford.” He handed Edward a recognizable left shoe and threw down a dressing gown across his chest.

"Hold a minute, sir! I can't walk on this leg!"

"Indeed you will have to make like the wounded plover, dangling a limb to lure the plunderer from the nest. Be speedy, my brave, for worse monsters than the harlot may soon snuff thy scent, such as may overtop my wilted powers.” Mr. Oldcastle proceeded to fumble with the tackle that held Edward's leg in traction.

"But running away is an admission of guilt!"

"Staying will be a demonstration of mortality."

Edward's response was stifled by a searing jolt of pain as the leg settled on the bed. He glared up at the old man until he had caught his breath and wiped the sweat out of his eyes.

The puckish face frowned. “Ah, my young butty, dost not know that dragons of war are now full awakened? Beacon fires shall become funeral pyres and flames will consume a generation. Horror soon bestrides the world."

"Yes, but what has that to do—"

"Master Edward, those same elements that spawned this evil dissonance can now turn satisfied from that labor and address their intent to destroying thee. Until now they minded more those weightier matters particular to their desires. Thee they gave but little thought, for you are a mere favor they perform for other parties—who shall shortly be discovered to you. Thus thy foes dispatched to your dispatch only that demented trollop who has thrice ineptly sought to undo thee. Now at greater leisure they will loose such grievous raptors to contrive thy demise that thou surely will not see another dawn unless you now take urgent flight."

In other words: Beat it!

Absurd as it sounded, his convoluted speech carried conviction. There was no arguing with his obvious sincerity—after all, he had undoubtedly saved Edward's life a few moments ago. Edward pulled up his left leg and struggled into the shoe.

The next few minutes were a stroll on the cobbles of Hell. He made the distance, but only because he chose to regard it as a test of manhood. He sat up and donned the dressing gown. His right foot was lowered to the floor with much help from Mr. Oldcastle, and he pushed himself up to stand on the left. Then he was on his crutches, heading across the litter of feathers to the door. To hold his right leg up was agony; to let it touch the ground was infinitely worse.

It wasn't going to work, of course. The nurses would see him and take him back. They would telephone the police. But he had no breath to argue, and he sweated every step in silence along the wide, dim corridor, wobbling on his crutches with Mr. Oldcastle at his side. The little man had recovered his hat and silver-topped walking stick, and seemed to be fighting back a case of fidgets at the cripple's tortoise pace.

The duty desk was deserted. His old battered suitcase stood beside it, his boater resting on top. Mr. Oldcastle placed this on his head for him at a jaunty angle and took charge of the case. Then he went ahead and opened the door to the stairs.

Edward tried to say, “There's a lift,” but he had his teeth so tightly clenched that the words would not come out. Mr. Oldcastle might think that the rackety old cage would bring nurses and orderlies running, or perhaps he did not understand modern machinery. Edward went down three flights of stairs on one foot, one crutch, and a white hand gripping the rail. Mr. Oldcastle carried the other crutch. From the way he managed the suitcase, he must be much stronger than he looked.

There was no one about, no one even tending the admittance desk by the front door. Edward reeled out of the hospital into the cool night air, wondering if he had left a trail of sweat all the way from his bed.

30

"WOSOK!” GIM COMMANDED FIRMLY, BUT NOTHING happened. Starlight had his head down, buried in T'lin Dragontrader's loving embrace, and was purring so hard he could not hear the order.

"Wosok!” T'lin murmured. The dragon sank down on his belly, still nuzzling his owner and purring loud enough to waken the neighborhood.

There could be few places in cramped Narsh where a dragon might be hidden, but a sculptor's yard was one of them. Even so, Starlight was squeezed in between blocks of stone and half-completed monuments, and the space was hardly enough. A man with a lantern had just closed the gates.

Eleal swung a leg hastily over the pommel plate and slid to the ground in an undignified rush, wincing as her bare feet struck gravel. She had barely rearranged her robe when Gim landed beside her, stumbled, and pitched over with a shrill oath. That was not a very dignified descent for a noble hero on what must surely be his first chivalrous exploit. He scrambled up, muttering and sucking an injured palm.

Eleal had taken two unsteady steps toward T'lin when a portly woman came rushing out of the house with another lantern.

"My dear! You must be frozen! Come inside quickly.” She propelled Eleal bodily over the sharp gravel and into a cozy, fragrant kitchen, brightened by no less than four candles. Swathed in llama wool blankets, Eleal was tucked into a chair close to the big iron range. The woman swung the door open and clattered a poker in among the glowing coals. Then she began stoking it with big lumps of coal from a shiny brass scuttle, using brass tongs. Shiny copper pans hung on one wall. There was a tasseled rug on the floor; painted china plates stood along a shelf so the pictures on them were visible. Gim's family might not live in a palace like the king of Jurg, but they were wealthy compared with a troupe of actors.

Eleal began to shiver uncontrollably. She could not tell whether that was from the change of temperature or from nervous reaction, but she felt in danger of falling apart.

"Hot soup!” the woman proclaimed as if invoking a major god. Granting the range fire a few moments’ mercy, she knelt to bundle her visitor's feet in her own still-warm fleece coat.

Eleal forced her reply through chattering teeth. “That would be wonderful, thank you."

"Vegetable or chicken broth?"

"No chicken please!"

"I'm Gim's mother, Embiliina Sculptor, and you must be Eleal Singer."

"Yes, but how—"

"Explanations later!” Embiliina insisted. She was much less bulky without her coat and hood. In fact, she was slim and surprisingly youthful to be mother of a boy as old as Gim. Her features were fine-drawn, her complexion pale and speckled with millions of tiny fair freckles. Her hair was a spun red-gold, hanging in big loose curls to her shoulders. She wore a quality dress of the same blue shade as her eyes. She wore a smile.

T'lin Dragontrader strode in, filling the room, black turban almost touching the ceiling. His weather-beaten face and coppery beard seemed vulgar and barbaric alongside Embiliina's more delicate red-gold coloring. He began to peel off outer garments, scowling at nothing with a taut, grim expression. When he stepped closer to warm his fingers at the range, he was still avoiding Eleal's eye.

And the door closed behind the man who must be Gim's father. He was of middle height and husky, although he looked small alongside the dragon trader. He clasped Eleal's icy hand in one twice as large and rough as a rasp, studying her with solemn coal black eyes. He was as swarthy as his wife was fair.

"I am Kollwin Sculptor."

"Eleal Singer."

He nodded. “You are younger than I imagined. If you did what I think you did, then you're a brave lass.” He spoke with great deliberation, as if reading his words.

"I d-d-didn't have time to think! The honor is G-g-gim's."

The dark man shook his head. “The honor is the god's. Gim has gone to thank him for a safe return. When you are ready, you will wish to visit him also?"

"Of course! At once.” Eleal stood up shakily.

"Later!” Embiliina said, clattering pots. “The child's half-froze to death and the soup—"

Eleal had almost resumed her seat when the sculptor said, “First things first.” His voice was slow, but not to be argued with. “You will promise not to discuss or reveal the place I am about to take you?"

That settled Eleal's indecision—her curiosity reared like a startled dragon. “Of course! I swear I never shall,” she said eagerly.

The sculptor nodded and turned to T'lin. “Dragontrader?"

But T'lin had found himself a chair and spread out his long legs. He was a startling, many-colored sight in variegated leggings and a doublet of embroidered quilting. He was also a figure of menace. His long sword in its green scabbard lay by his feet, he still wore his black turban. He shook his head. “Secrets make me nervous. They are more often evil than good."

Kollwin's ruddy face seemed to bunch up with shock at the refusal. “It is no great secret, a shrine to Tion. Just ... private."

T'lin's green eyes stared back coldly. “Then why require oaths of secrecy?"

"Because there are valuables there and I do not want them talked around. Not everyone is above stealing from a god."

"Gods can afford the loss better than us poor workers. No, I shall give thanks in my own fashion later."

Kollwin scratched a dark-stubbled cheek in contemplation. “Has that ring in your ear some special significance, Dragontrader?"

T'lin drooped his red eyebrows menacingly. “If it has, then it did not deter your god when he needed my assistance."

The sculptor thought for a moment and seemed to accept the reasoning, although he was not pleased. “Come then, Eleal Singer."

"Just a moment!” Embiliina barred the way like an enraged deity. “You are not to drag that poor child outside again on a night like this in her bare feet."

There was a minor delay while Eleal donned her hostess's boots and fleece coat, all much too large for her. There was another minor delay when Kollwin tried to go out and came face-to-face with a dragon. Starlight, being as nosy as any of his kind, had wriggled forward to see what was going on and his head filled the doorway.

"Try opening the drape,” T'lin said drily from his chair. “And close the door before he tries to come in."

That worked. The great head swung over to peer in the window, and then the sculptor was able to squeeze out past the scaly shoulder, followed by Eleal, stepping over claws like sickles.

Ysh's tiny disk shed her cold blue light through a gap in the clouds, sparkling like frost on the dragon's scales. Carrying a lantern, Kollwin Sculptor led Eleal all around the dragon to reach a small shed against the wall of the yard. The door was open, but she noticed that the timber was thick and it bore at least three locks. If that was merely “private,” then what was “secret” like? The inside was cluttered with all the litter she might have expected: tools and balks of wood and oddly shaped scraps of stone or metal. More interesting than those was the trapdoor in the floor, and a staircase descending.

The sculptor went first, lighting the way. “This is very old.” His voice echoed up eerily. “There was probably a temple here, once upon a time."

And now there was a shrine. The room was small and low, more like an oddly shaped volume of shadow than a chamber, a bricked-off portion of an ancient cellar. Where the walls were visible, some parts were of very rough, crude masonry, others had been cut out of living rock. The only light came from a pair of braziers standing on a rug, thick and richly colored and oddly out of place. Those were the only furniture. The air was chill and yet headily scented with incense.

Beyond the rug was an alcove, and in the alcove stood the god.

Gim knelt on stone in the center of the chamber, but he must have concluded his devotions, because he scrambled to his feet and turned to smile a welcome as the newcomers approached. It was the first time Eleal had really seen him. He was still bulky as a bear in his coat, but he had removed his hat, revealing a floppy tangle of gold curls, and his eyes were as blue as his mother's. His lip bore a faint pink fuzz, which he probably thought of as a mustache. Politely disregarding that, she concluded that her rescuer could be considered a very handsome young man—how appropriate! She returned his smile. Only then did she look at the god.

The image had not been set in the alcove. Rather, the mottled yellow stone of the cave had been dug out to leave Tion in high relief, exquisitely carved. He was life-size, identifiable by a beardless face and by the pipes he held. The Youth was most often depicted nude, but here he wore a narrow scarf around his loins—an impractical garment that would rapidly fall off any mortal. He was striding forward out of the rock, one foot on the floor and the other still buried in the wall. He held his head slightly bent and turned, as if he were about to put the pipes to his lips or had just finished playing, while his eyes looked out at the visitors with a curiously enigmatic smile. As the creeping flames of the braziers danced, reflections moved on his limbs, his shadow fidgeted on the back of the hollow. He almost seemed to breathe.

"He's gorgeous!” Eleal whispered. “You made him yourself, Sculptor? Oh, he is beautiful!” Then she took a longer look at that perfect face and swung around to stare down at Gim, who bent his head quickly.

"I'm sorry,” she muttered. “I didn't mean ... Well, I did, but—"

"I did not bring you here to admire art, Singer,” Kollwin growled, but he was fighting back a smile.

"Oh, but ... Gim? Look at me."

Gim looked up, redder than a bloodfruit in the dim light. He smiled a little...

The likeness was exact! Or would be. He was not quite old enough, but the faces were already the same. Gim seemed taller only because he was wearing boots; otherwise he would be the same height as the god stepping out of the wall.

"An older brother, Kollwin Sculptor? Or did you imagine him as he will be in another couple of years?"

"My son was not the model. I never use models."

She could only stare from the god's inscrutable smile to Gim's scarlet embarrassment and back again.

"Tell her, Father. Please?"

"I carved the blessed likeness long ago,” Kollwin said in his ponderous way. “The night I completed it I thanked the god and went up to the house and was told my wife was in labor."

She dared another glance at Gim, and he was redder yet, but wearing an idiotic grin now.

"Then the god?...” The god had fashioned the boy to the statue!

"The carving is the older,” the sculptor said. “Gim takes after his mother and I was very much in love with her—and still am, of course. That may explain any resemblance you see, but we came here to give thanks, not to discuss art."

Eleal was about to kneel, then saw that Kollwin had more dissertations to intone.

"I think you are old enough to keep a secret, Eleal Singer. I will risk a word of explanation, if you will swear never to carry it outside this holy place."

She swore, anxious to learn the purpose of a covert shrine. This was almost as exciting as escaping down a wall in the middle of the night and much less nightmarish.

He rubbed his chin with a raspy noise. “I am not sure how much I may say, though."

Gim was staying very quiet.

"The Tion Fellowship?” she prompted.

Kollwin's eyes glinted; his swarthy face seemed to darken.

Error? “All I know,” she said hastily, “is that Trong Impresario and his son came, er, went to a meeting two nights ago. A mutual friend said they belonged to some club he called the Tion Fellowship. They did not mention it themselves.” But now she knew where they had come.

The sculptor sniffed grudgingly. “The Tion Mystery is not a club! But, yes, they asked their brethren of the Narsh Lodge for aid. Of course we offered prayer and sacrifice on their behalf, both here and in the Lady's temple. Our pleas seemed to be heard.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, looking up at the god. “We know what happened, because we had one of our local brothers in the temple anyway."

Doing what, she wondered? But of course special dedication to one god would not reduce anyone's obligations to worship all the others also. The ceremony had been public.

Kollwin smiled—a slow process like sunshine moving on mountains. “We sent along someone who would understand the ancient speech, just to be on the safe side. The priests did not reveal everything the oracle had said, but they did not distort the holy words unduly. The goddess specifically directed that you were to be taken into her clergy. She insisted you be kept locked up and guarded for a fortnight. She said the rest of the troupe must contribute a hundred stars to her temple treasury, either by donation or service, and then should be run out of town as soon as possible.

"So it seemed that the Lady had turned aside her anger and all but one of the troupe was free to leave.” The sculptor cleared his throat harshly. “Frankly, that one seemed of very little importance to us. The youngest, dispensable.... One cracked egg in a dozen is not a disaster. We thought the problem had been solved.

"But Holy Tion did not think so! He looks after those who serve him, as we should have remembered. It so happened—and this is what I ask you not to repeat—that my son had begun his initiation into the Tion Mystery.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “The ceremony includes a period of prayer and fasting, which concludes when Kirb'l next appears. That night the skies were clear and Kirb'l appeared."

"I saw him.” Eleal stole a glance at Gim. He smiled down at her shyly.

"At the conclusion of the ceremony,” his father continued, “the initiate sleeps before the figure of the god. Here, on the floor, Gim was vouchsafed a remarkable dream, indeed a vision. Tell her, lad."

Gim rubbed his upper lip with a knuckle. His blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “I saw myself on a black dragon, riding to the temple.” His voice rose in excitement. “Just as it happened! I knew which window, and exactly what to do with the rope. It all came true! And I knew it wasn't just an ordinary dream! I mean, I've never even touched a dragon before! So I told Father and—"

The older Sculptor chuckled. “He hauled my bedcovers off at dawn! Understand: Gim was not present when the actors came! He had not been told of the oracle, or of Eleal Singer. Yet here he was babbling about rescuing a girl held against her will in the Lady's temple! I knew then that the god had heard our prayers and issued instructions. We inquired and learned that there was a dragon trader in town, so we went to talk with him. And he did have a black dragon in his herd. And he knew you personally."

This was something out of one of Piol Poet's dramas! “And?” Eleal demanded.

Kollwin Sculptor chuckled. “And I think he should be in on the rest of the telling. Your soup must be ready. My wife will skin me. You know enough now to know who to thank."

"It was the god who rescued you, Eleal,” Gim said modestly.

Yes. But why why why?

And which aspect of Tion had answered the prayers? Dropping to her knees, Eleal took a harder look at the image that so much resembled the young man now kneeling beside her. The enigma in the smile, she decided, came from the turn of the head and eyes—lips smiling in one direction, eyes in another. He held Tion's pipes, but a god who would steal a girl away from a goddess's temple by sending a dragon and a boy who had never ridden one before might well be the same god who was causing that boy to grow up as an exact replica of his father's masterpiece—Kirb'l, the Joker.

Kollwin had somehow contrived to put her in the center. It was his shrine, so she waited for him to begin. One of the nice things about the Youth was that he spurned written texts. There were red, green, white, and blue scriptures, but no yellow.

While she was preparing words in her head, Kollwin addressed the god. Even in conversation with mortals he sounded as if he were reading a text; his prayer was a monumental inscription. “Lord of art and youth and beauty, I thank you for the safe return of my son this night, for the trust you have shown in us, and for the chance to be of service. As always, I am grateful for the blessings of the day passed and the opportunities of the day ahead. Amen."

Gim said, “Amen,” so Eleal did also. This intimate sharing of religion was unfamiliar to her, but obviously it was her turn now. She looked up at the god; his eyes smiled back with infinite patience and the same mysterious amusement as before.

"Thank you, Holy Tion, for rescuing me from the most disgusting, degr—"

The sculptor barked, “Careful! You must not blaspheme against the Lady!"

Eleal took a deep breath and began again. “Then I'll just say that I am very grateful for being rescued.... Thank you, Lord.” She paused, the others waited. “And I promise to serve, er, the lord of art and beauty as well as I can.” She thought of the festival, and tried to imagine Uthiam mounting the steps in the great temple to receive a scarlet rose from the hand of the god. “And I ask you to look after my friends, because they have suffered because of me, and, well, I'd like them to do well in your festival. To your honor, of course. Amen."

Gim said, “Amen."

His father coughed. “I am no priest, Eleal Singer—but may I make a suggestion?"

"Please do."

"If your trouble was caused by some offense you committed against Holy Ois, or against Holy Eltiana herself, then you might perhaps ask Lord Tion to intercede for you."

"I didn't do anything.... I don't think it was anything I did,” Eleal said. “But yes. Please, Holy One, keep me safe from the other gods’ anger and whatever is prophesied. Amen."

That had not come out quite as she had intended. Again Gim echoed her amen, but there was a distinct pause before his father did—Kollwin had noted the cryptic reference in her prayer. Gim was still too stirred up by his adventure to be concerned with anything else.

"I already spoke my thanks to Holy Tion, Father, but I will do so again if you want to hear."

The sculptor chuckled. “You are not a child that I need supervise your prayers, but I can understand if your heart is still full, and anything I can understand must be very obvious to a god."

Gim needed no more encouragement than that. He raised his hands in supplication to the image. “Lord of art, I thank you again for the opportunity to serve you and for giving me such an adventure and bringing me back safely. All I ever want is to serve you, Lord, and I especially hope to serve you by bringing more beauty into the world in art or music, but I dedicate my whole life to pleasing you in any way I can. Amen."

"Amen,” Eleal said.

The sculptor bowed his head to the floor and said, “Amen” loudly as he straightened again. Then he clambered to his feet to indicate that the ceremony was over.

Ambria Impresario had been known to complain more than once that the gods had given Eleal Singer exceptionally sharp ears. She knew that Kollwin Sculptor had whispered a few other words—quickly, softly—in that sudden genuflection. “Lord, remember he is very young!” She had heard. Gim almost certainly had not. Had the god?