Past Imperative

31

"SO I HAD VISITORS,” T'LIN DRAGONTRADER SAID. “A very lovely lady named Uthiam Piper came to see me, with a distraught young man named Something Trumpeter. They both seemed to know my business better than I did. How was I ever going to get any work done in Narsh if people kept cornering me to pour out tragic sagas of young women adopted by a goddess?"

His tone was amused. His expression was not. There was tension in that cozy kitchen. Dragontrader had refused to visit the family shrine. That was a very unusual act, which might be taken as a serious insult. The fact that the sanctuary was more than that—was the center of a mystery—might help a little, or perhaps it made things even worse, for he had probably declined a very rare honor.

Eleal was no stranger to late hours and odd sleep patterns, but this was the middle of the night. The soup had been hot and delicious. Embiliina had insisted on tucking her into her chair with loads of blankets. She was feeling woozy.

"What did they think I could do against a goddess?” T'lin said, rolling his green eyes. “Did they think I was crazy?” He was very large. Although he sprawled at ease, legs and arms spread, his size and beard and black turban were daunting in that kitchen. His sword lay within reach. “They did not even know where missy was. I threw them out, and they went away on the mammoths."

Kollwin Sculptor had stripped down to a threadbare, well-washed yellow cotton smock and battered old leather leggings. He sat hunched forward on his chair, leaning meaty forearms on his knees, mostly scowling at the range but sometimes at the dragon trader. His arms and his feet were bare. Such informality was surprising and perhaps deliberate. Although he could not match T'lin for sheer bulk, he was a broad, thick man, and he was showing he was not intimidated by his visitor.

Two enormous green eyes kept watch through the window. Dragons looked ferocious, but they were pretty harmless usually.

Gim was still so jittery with excitement that he could barely sit still. His mother kept telling him to stop fidgeting. He, too, had stripped off his fleeces, losing half of himself in the process. In cotton smock and woolen leggings, he was all long limbs and grin. His resemblance to the god in the crypt was astonishing, but his bare arms showed that he needed to fill out yet; the divine artist needed a few more years to produce a perfect replica of the model.

Eleal wondered sleepily what his trade was. His hand had been smooth and he lacked his father's brawn, so he was probably not a sculptor, and yet he retained the family name. He was certainly old enough to be apprenticed to something, though.

"The next morning I had two more visitors,” T'lin said, “and those two they told me a god wanted me to get involved! How, I asked them, is a man ever going to earn a living in this city?"

Gim grinned and ran a hand through his golden curls. Yes, he was even more handsome than Golfren Piper and he would make Klip Trumpeter look like a gargoyle. Eleal wondered sleepily if he had any talent for acting. Even now he would be a natural as the Youth in the tragedies! She must offer to give him lessons. That idea was amusing, except he seemed to have forgotten her altogether. He would be regarding her as a mere child, of course. She would have to demonstrate her maturity.

What more could she do to impress him than climb down a wall in the dark on a rope?

"Madness!” T'lin grumbled. “They wanted to borrow my favorite dragon for a kid who didn't know Whilth from Chaiz!"

"What persuaded you?” Embiliina Sculptor asked quietly. She was the only one of the group who seemed at ease, playing the role of hostess beautifully, passing around homemade biscuits. There was no hint of worry in her eyes.

Had Eleal's mother been as pretty as she? She had never had a chance to be motherly.

T'lin grunted. “I needed peace and quiet to earn a living. Besides, I was sure the brat would break his neck and I could trust Starlight to come home to me."

Gim grinned again.

"Why didn't you ride him yourself?” Eleal asked.

T'lin's green eyes registered horror. “Me? I'm much too heavy for escapades like that. Obviously Holy Tion had chosen a racing jockey for the task. To be honest,” he admitted ruefully, “and you know I am always honest, Jewel of the Arts, I did not expect such success. I thought it was suicide."

Gim chuckled with delight.

"What if the temple guards had caught him, though?"

T'lin stroked his copper beard complacently. “Then I would have denounced him as a thief to get my dragon back."

Gim's jaw dropped.

A sour smile crossed his father's face. “You hadn't thought of that? You'd have been hanged!"

"But it worked,” T'lin said in disgust. He fixed his cold green gaze on Eleal, and she started at his frown. “I came here to trade dragons and I have earned the enmity of the senior divinity of the city! I must leave quickly and never return.” He gripped the arms of his chair with his big hands. “The priests and guards will be scouring the streets already. Well, you have her, Sculptor. I have done my part. I must go!"

For a moment Eleal toyed with the idea of staying in this cozy family kitchen forever—forsaking drama and travel ... becoming one of this kindly family.... It did have a certain appeal in her present condition, but she knew that it was not going to happen.

"Not so fast,” Kollwin growled, eyeing her. “Now we need to know why! Why did Eltiana want this girl so badly? Why has Kirb'l Tion snatched her away? And what on earth are we supposed to do with her now she is here? Explain, Singer!"

"My part is done,” T'lin repeated, but he settled back in his chair to listen.

Four sets of eyes were waiting, five counting the dragon's, although he was having trouble because he kept steaming up the window. Two sets of blue, two green, one black...

Eleal swallowed a yawn. She decided she must tell the tale with the majesty it deserved, although it needed Piol Poet to do it justice. She would have to stick to prose. She threw off the blankets and sat up like the Mother on the Rainbow Throne in The Judgment of Apharos.

"Are you feeling all right, dear?” Embiliina asked anxiously.

"Quite all right, thank you. Dost any of you mort ... do any of you know what the Filoby Testament is?"

T'lin and Kollwin said, “Yes,” as Gim shook his head.

"Book of prophecies,” his father explained. “About eighty years ago some priestess over in Suss went out of her mind and began spouting prophecies. The others wrote them down. Her family had it printed up as memorial. What about it?"

T'lin uttered his dragon snort. Eleal knew she could never guess what he was thinking, and yet somehow she felt sure that he was surprised by this mention of the Testament. He seemed displeased, and certainly wary.

"Most prophecy is so thin you could drink it,” he growled. “Quite a lot of the Filoby stuff turned out to be hard fact—so I've heard. What about it?"

"It is prophesied therein,” Eleal declared mysteriously, “that should I happenstance attend the festival of Tion in Suss this year, then the world may be changed."

There was a thoughtful silence. The range crackled. Starlight's green eyes blinked at the window.

"Does she often behave like this?” Gim asked.

"No,” T'lin said, staring hard. “She's putting on airs, but she's telling the truth as she knows it. Carry on, Avatar of Astina."

"The oracle proclaimed me a child of Ken'th."

"Yecch!” T'lin's red beard twisted in an expression of disgust.

"It's not my fault!” Eleal protested,

"No. Nor your mother's either. Can you confirm that, Kollwin Sculptor?"

"I was told that the oracle implied it. The Lady is always enraged when her lord philanders with mortals."

Embiliina said, “Oh dear!” and patted Eleal's hand. “It doesn't matter, dear."

Eleal recalled Ambria in The Judgment of Apharos again. “Peradventure, it may. Both the Lady and the Man decreed that I must not be allowed to fulfill the prophecy."

"Eltiana yes,” T'lin said. “How do you know about Karzon?"

Eleal drew a deep breath.

"A reaper told me."

Gim sniggered. He looked at his father ... at the dragon trader ... at his mother. His eyes widened.

"Go on,” T'lin said, his eyes cold marble.

Eleal told the story carefully, leaving out Dolm's name. She described him only as “a man I know."

It was a very satisfying performance. When she had finished, Embiliina seemed ready to weep, Gim's eyes were as big as Starlight's, and the two men were staring hard at each other. Dragontrader chewed at his copper mustache. Sculptor had clasped his great hands and was cracking knuckles.

"By the four moons!” T'lin growled. “Your god is the Joker!"

"He is,” Kollwin said stubbornly, “but he is my god. We are supposed to get her to the festival, I think."

"That would be my interpretation."

Eleal protested. “I'm not sure I want—"

"You have no choice, girl!"

"Apparently not,” the dragon trader agreed.

"Is it possible?"

T'lin did not answer that. He clawed at his beard with one hand, staring morosely at the range. “We seem to have been sucked into a serious squabble in the Pentatheon! I did not tell you of my first visitor—a doddering old crone trailing an unsheathed sword."

The others waited in silence. Embiliina moved her lips in prayer.

"A blue nun, of course,” T'lin continued. “Of all the lunatic regiments of fanatics that harass honest workingmen ... It was barely dawn and I had a hangover. I listened with a patience and politeness that will assuredly let my soul twinkle in the heavens for all Eternity. Then I sent her away!” He clenched a red-hairy fist. “I thought she was senile. I should have known better, I suppose."

Kollwin raised heavy black brows, pondering in his deliberate fashion. “She came before the oracle spoke?"

"Before the holy hag could have scampered down there from the temple, at any rate. She babbled about Eleal Singer being in trouble. I pretended I did not know who she was talking about. She smiled as if I was an idiot child, then tottered away, saying she would return. I told my men I would flatten every one of them if she ever got near me again."

"Who are these blue nuns?” Gim asked, worried.

"Followers of the goddess of repentance,” said his father. “A strange order, rarely seen in these parts. Harmless pests."

T'lin shook his head. “But the stories ... When Padsdon Dictator ruled in Lappin—him they called the Cruel—one day he was haranguing the citizens from a balcony and a sister in the crowd pointed her sword up at him and began calling on him to repent. Padsdon's guards could not reach her, and he either could not or would not depart. Before she had finished, he leaped from the balcony and died!"

Kollwin shrugged dismissively. “You believe that?"

"I do,” T'lin said with a scowl. “My father was there."

In the ensuing silence, the range uttered a few thoughtful clicking sounds.

"So the Maiden is on Eleal's side—the Youth's side,” Embiliina Sculptor said softly, blue eyes filled with concern now. “What of the Source? Have we any word of the All-Knowing?"

Her husband shook his head. “If the Light has judged, the others would not be still at odds."

"That is obvious!” Eleal declared. “Tragedies always end with the Parent deciding the issue. It's not time for Visek yet."

Gim grinned, but no one argued.

"You must take the girl to Sussland, T'lin Dragontrader,” the sculptor said heavily.

The big man groaned. “Why me?"

"Who else? The priests will be scouring the city already. The Lady...” Kollwin shrugged, looking thoughtfully at his son. “It is possible?"

"Normally I would say it was,” T'lin growled. “Normally I would say I could run over to Filoby and be back before dark. But Susswall is treacherous at the best of times. How will it be now, with the Lady of Snows enraged and bent to stop us? May colic rot my guts! And when I arrive I may find armies of reapers waiting for me!"

Eleal had already thought of that complication—how could she return to the troupe when Dolm was there?

Gim was wilting under his father's stare.

The sculptor cracked his knuckles again. “I shouldn't ask this. Don't answer if you don't want—"

Gim relaxed and smirked. “No I didn't."

"Didn't do what?” his mother demanded.

Kollwin laughed and clapped his son's knee. “When he took his vows last night ... the night before last I suppose it is now ... When he prayed to Tion, he was going to ask to go to the festival. Right, lad?"

Gim nodded wistfully, looking much more like a child than a romantic hero of damsel-rescuing prowess. “I thought about it, but you asked me not to. So I didn't."

Now approval shone in his father's smile. “I noticed you didn't actually promise! I was sure you wouldn't be able to resist the opportunity. I'm proud that you did. But the holy one knew how much you want to go. He has overruled us."

Gim's grin returned instantly. “You mean I get to go?"

"You have to go, son! You were the one who profaned the Lady's temple. Her priests will blunt their knives on your hide if they catch you. It is your reward, I suppose. You will do this for us, Dragontrader?"

"It won't take much more avalanche to bury three of us than two,” T'lin agreed morosely.

Kollwin uttered a snort that would not have shamed the dragon trader. “Four! You think the blue sister has gone back to her nunnery?"

T'lin threw back his head and howled, but whether from rage or merriment Eleal could not tell. Starlight's answering belch rattled the casement.

"Oh that does it!” the big man said, heaving to his feet. “That'll waken half the city. That'll fetch every priest in the Lady's temple!"

Eleal stood up, but he frowned at her.

"I can't take you! Every lizard in the streets is going to be stopped and questioned. Can you dress this troublesome wench to look like a boy, Embiliina Sculptor?"

Gim's mother looked Eleal over and pursed her lips. “I think we have some old castoffs that will fit."

"Excellent!” T'lin turned a thoughtful gaze on Gim. “Never knew a city without a lovers’ gate."

"I know a way over the wall, sir,” the boy said.

T'lin nodded. “Have you a trade yet, stripling?"

Gim smiled nervously. “I am apprenticed to my uncle, Golthog Painter. I play the lyre, but..."

"As of now you're Gim Wrangler!” Dragontrader pulled a face. “Remember I hired you in Lappin last Neckday and I pay you one crescent a fortnight.” He grinned. “But I may make it two. I don't usually pay that for greenies, understand, but you made a good start on impressing me tonight. Bring the girl down to my outfit as soon as she's ready. You'll impress me a lot more if you make it."

"Very generous of you, sir!” Gim straightened his shoulders. “The god will guard us."

"He'll have to.” T'lin on his feet could not have dominated the kitchen more effectively had he been one of his dragons. He swung around to the sculptor. “What of you and your lovely wife? The priests will be after you also."

Husband and wife exchanged glances. “Us and our other fledglings?” Kollwin said. “What sort of a family picnic are you planning to conduct over Narshwall, T'lin Dragontrader?” He shook his head. “We have friends who will help us offer penance to assuage the Lady's wrath."

T'lin did not argue—he had scowled at the mention of children. “Probably cost you a whole new temple.” He stooped to cup Eleal's chin in his raspy hand. He tilted her face up and frowned at her menacingly. “Most women wait until they have tits. You have set the world on its ears already, minx!"

Eleal had been thinking the same, but she knew Ambria would not tolerate such vulgarity. She assumed her most disapproving expression. “Wait ‘till you see what I'm going to do in Suss, Dragontrader,” she said.

32

A DOGCART STOOD UNDER THE GASLIGHTS. THE DRIVER jumped down and came trotting up the steps. He wore a sporty suit and a bowler hat, but no overcoat. He was scowling under a bristly hedge of eyebrows. He had a clipped, military-style mustache, and a clipped, military-style bark: “You brought him!"

"Aye!” Mr. Oldcastle chortled. All Edward could see of him was the crown of his hat and his Astrakhan collar. “I bring thee a doughty cockerel for thy flock—truly a recruit of sinew."

"The devil you do! But I'm not at all sure I want him, don't you know?"

"Well, thou hast him now. Present thyself by whatever name thou deemest most fitting."

The man eyed Edward disapprovingly. “Name's Creighton I knew your father.” He began to offer a hand, then realized that both of Edward's were engaged. He was obviously an army man, very likely Army of India, for there was a faint lilt to his speech that such men sometimes picked up after years of commanding native troops.

"Pleased to meet you, sir,” Edward said. Balanced precariously on one foot and his crutches, he was shaking so violently that he was frightened he might fall, and the thought was terrifying.

"By Jove!” Creighton said. “The man looks all in. Couldn't you have made things easier for him, sir?"

Mr. Oldcastle thumped the ferrule of his walking stick on the granite step with a sharp crack. “I have already expended resources I would fain husband!"

Creighton's reaction was surprising. As a class, Anglo-Indian officers were self-assured in the extreme, yet he recoiled from the little old civilian's testiness. “Of course, sir! I meant no criticism. You know we are extremely grateful for your assistance."

"I know it not, sirrah, when you presume so.” Then came the familiar dry chuckle. “Besides, I let him demonstrate his mettle. He tests an admirable temper in the forge."

"I expect he does,” Creighton said offhandedly. “But he cannot cross over with that leg."

"It shall be attended to, Colonel."

"Ah!” Creighton brightened. “Very generous of you, sir. Well, lean on me, lad. We'd best get you out of here, since you obviously can't go back."

Edward could tell he was not welcome, but that was hardly surprising. War or not, there was going to be a hue and cry after him very shortly. “I have no desire to cause trouble, sir."

"You already have. Not your fault. And my esteemed friend here has made a good point. I know spunk when I see it. Just what I would expect of your father's son. Come."

After that remark, Edward had no choice but to descend the steps and install himself in the dogcart without screaming even once.

Creighton took the reins, with Mr. Oldcastle sitting beside him. Edward sprawled along the backward-facing bench behind them. The pony's hooves clattered along the deserted road. Soon the gaslights of Greyfriars were left behind, and they were clopping along a country lane under a bright moon. He had been rescued from both the law and the knife-wielding woman, but he was now a fugitive from justice, utterly dependent on Mr. Oldcastle and this Colonel Creighton. He did not know who they were or what their interest in him was.

He was wearing a shift and a dressing gown, one shoe and a straw hat—hardly the sort of inconspicuous garb he would have chosen for a jailbreak, and certainly not enough for small hours travel in England, even in August. He shivered as the cool air dried his sweat. His leg throbbed maliciously with every bounce and lurch. He suspected it was swelling inside the bandages; he wondered what more damage he had done to the shattered bones. He felt utterly beat.

"Gentlemen?” he said after a while. “Can you tell me what's going on?"

Creighton snorted. “Not easily. Ask."

"I didn't kill Timothy Bodgley—did I?"

"No. The objective was to kill you. He got in the way, I presume. Damned shame, but lucky for you."

"Why, sir? Why should anyone want to kill me?"

"That I am not prepared to reveal at this time,” Creighton said brusquely. “But the culprits are the same people who killed your parents."

After a moment, Edward said, “With all due respect, sir, that is not possible. The Nyagatha killers were all caught and hanged."

Creighton did not turn his head, concentrating on the dark road ahead. His rapid-fire speech was quite loud enough to be heard, though.

"I don't mean that bunch of blood-crazed nigs. They were dupes. I mean the ones who incited them to go berserk."

"The missionaries who threw down their idols? But they were the first—"

"The Chamber was behind that Nyagatha incident, and even then the purpose was to kill you."

"Me?” Edward said incredulously. “What chamber?"

"You. Or prevent you from being born, actually. There was a misunderstanding. It's a very long story and you couldn't possibly believe it if I told you now. Wait a while."

That ended the conversation. He was right—Edward could not even believe what he had already seen and heard. To be suspected of killing Bagpipe was bad enough. To be held responsible for his parents’ death and the whole Nyagatha bloodbath would be infinitely worse.

And yet that cryptic Jumbo letter had hinted at unknown dangers and secrets his parents had not lived to tell him. Whoever Jumbo was, he had never received that letter.

Damnation! He had forgotten to bring the Jumbo letter! It was back at the hospital.

Obviously there was not going to be any logical, mundane explanation. Mr. Oldcastle had said that those behind this whole horrible mystery were involved in the outbreak of a worldwide war, and he had claimed that the ringlets woman had occult abilities to bypass locks—implying that she had both entered Fallow and exited Greyfriars Abbey through bolted doors. The little man himself had sent her away without any visible use or threat of force. One or the other of them had most certainly arranged for the patients and staff of the hospital to be smitten with inexplicable deafness, at the very least. Where had all the nurses gone? Had they met the same fate as Bagpipe? How had Mr. Oldcastle himself arrived in answer to Edward's Shakespearean summons?

None of it made real-world sense, nor ever would. You could not expect Sherlock Holmes if you already had Merlin.

The only brightness in the murky affair was the thought of Inspector Leatherdale's face when he learned of his suspect's disappearance.

A halt and sudden stillness jerked Edward out of a shivery daze. Creighton jumped down at the same moment. He went to open a gate and lead the pony through it. After it was shut again, he scrambled back to the bench and the dogcart went lurching slowly across a meadow, climbing gently. The sky was starting to brighten in the east, and the moon was just setting.

Edward was not sure how long they had been traveling—an hour, perhaps—and he had no idea where he was, but then his familiarity with the country around Fallow did not extend as far as Greyfriars. Lately Mr. Oldcastle had been giving directions, so Colonel Creighton did not know either.

He was stiff and cold. His leg throbbed abominably. But he was alive, and at the moment he was free. Both conditions might be transitory.

Beyond another gate the track was thickly overgrown, winding into the patch of woodland that crowned the little hill. The pony picked its way cautiously, brush crackled under the wheels, and overhead the sky was almost hidden by foliage. The air smelled heavily of wet leaves. After about ten minutes of that, the trail ended completely, ferns and high grass giving way to bracken and broom. No farmer's cattle grazed here. A faint predawn light was evident, but not enough to show colors, only shades of gray.

Creighton reined in. “We get out here, Exeter. I'll give you a hand down."

Getting out of the dogcart was even worse than getting in. The accursed leg felt ready to burst the bandages and the splints as well. The grass was cold and wet.

"Leave one crutch and lean on me,” Creighton said. “Just a few steps. And leave your hat, too."

In that undergrowth, a few steps were plenty. Eventually Edward reeled and almost fell.

"Two more yards'll do it,” Creighton said. “Other side of this stone. Good man. Now, you'd best sit down. No—on the grass. I expect it'll be chilly on your you-know-what, but this shouldn't take long."

Edward was already aware that the long grass was soaked with dew, and he did not see why he should not try to make himself comfortable on the wall instead, but he was hugely relieved just to sit, leaning back with his hands in the dewy leaves, his legs stretched out before him. He took a moment to catch his breath and then looked around. Creighton was kneeling at his side, bareheaded. It was highly unusual to see an Englishman out of doors without a hat.

"Where's Mr. Oldcastle?"

"He's around somewhere,” Creighton said softly. “He can undoubtedly hear what you say. Any guesses as to what this place is?"

Puzzled, Edward took another look. The trees were mostly oaks, but very thickly grown together, mixed with a few high beeches. The stillness was absolute—not a bird, nothing. Eerie! He was tempted to start cracking jokes, and knew that was merely a sign of funk. Funk would also explain his teeth's strong desire to chatter, however much he might prefer to blame the cold.

The low wall at his side was not a wall at all, but a long boulder, mossy and buried in the undergrowth. Eventually he made out a tall shape within the bracken at the far side of the glade. Then another, and he realized that he was within a circle of standing stones. Scores of them dotted the countryside of southwestern England, relics of a long-forgotten past. Sometimes the stones were still upright, sometimes they had fallen or been pushed down by followers of newer gods. The great boulder beside him had been part of the circle.

Feeling very uneasy, he said, “It makes me think of The Oaks, Druids Close, Kent."

"You're on the right track. It's very old. And what we are about to do is very old, also—there's a price to pay. You're going to have to trust me in this."

Creighton had produced a large clasp knife. He unfastened his right cuff and pulled back his sleeve to uncover his wrist. He drew the blade across the back of it, holding it to the side, well clear of his pants. He stretched out his arm and let the blood dribble on the mossy boulder. In the gloom it seemed black.

He passed the knife to Edward.

It was exam time.

Edward wondered what Uncle Roland would say if he were present, and thought he could guess the exact words.

The cutting hurt more than he expected, like cold fire, and his first attempt was a craven scratch that hardly bled at all. He gritted his teeth and slashed harder. Blood poured out, and he adorned the stone with it—like a dog peeing on a post, he thought.

"Good man,” Creighton muttered. He accepted the knife back, closed it one-handed, and dropped it in his pocket.

"Now what, sir?"

The reply was a whisper. “Wait until it stops dripping. Don't speak—and it may be best if you keep your eyes down and don't look too directly at, er, anything you may notice."

Edward himself could refrain from speech, but his teeth were going to chatter. His fingers and toes were icy. Even his leg seemed to have gone numb; it hardly throbbed at all now.

Something moved at the far side of the circle, a shadow in the undergrowth. He tried not to stare, but that was not easy. Whatever or whoever was moving might have been very hard to see clearly in any case.

The shape flitted from stone to stone, peering around this one, over that one, darting to and fro, pausing to study the visitors like a squirrel or a bird inspecting a tempting crust. A man? A boy, perhaps? He made no sound. He was a darkness in the shrubbery, as if shadow went with him, or was deeper where he was. He would grow brave and approach with a mincing, dancing step, then suddenly scamper back as if he had taken fright or had decided that the other way around the circle would be a safer approach.

Gradually Edward built a picture in his mind: no clothes, thin, terribly thin, and no larger than a child. His head seemed clouded with silver hair, but without taking a direct look, Edward could not decide if it was a juvenile ash-blond or white with age. He was too small and much too young to be Mr. Oldcastle, and yet there was something familiar about him—the way he held his head forward, perhaps? Or perhaps he was much too old to be Mr. Oldcastle. He was not an illusion.

He was not human, either, and the grove was silent as a grave.

Advance, retreat, advance ... At last the numen was only ten or twelve feet away, behind the closest of the standing pillars. He peeked round one side, then the other. There was a pause. Then he repeated the process. Suddenly the decision was made. With a silent rush, he scampered through the undergrowth and took refuge on the far side of the fallen boulder, out of sight but more or less within reach.

Edward discovered that he was growing faint from holding his breath too long. What was now on the other side of this rock? Out of the corner of his eye he watched the streaks of blood, half-expecting them to disappear, but they didn't.

The voice when it came was very soft, like a single stirring of wind in the grass. “Take off the splints, Edward."

There was no doubt about the words, though, nor the meaning, and no Shakespearean mumbo jumbo either. Exam time. Finals.

Edward looked down at the white cocoon of bandage that extended from his toes to the top of his thigh. Then he looked at Creighton, who was staring back at him expectantly.

A cripple on the run could hardly be any worse off. Edward began to fumble with pins and bandages. In a moment, Creighton handed him the knife again. Then it went faster. No use wondering how he was going to wrap the whole thing up again.

He wasn't. He knew that. He ripped and tugged until his leg was uncovered—damned good leg, not a thing wrong with it.

Creighton doubled forward until his face was on his knees, and stayed there, arms outstretched.

Oh, Uncle Roland, what do you say now?

Edward pulled his legs in under him—no trace of stiffness, even—and adopted the same position, kneeling with head down and arms extended.

God or devil, it was only right to thank the numen for mercy received, wasn't it?

A few moments later, the pony jingled harness and began to munch grass. A bird chirruped, then others joined in, and soon the glade exploded into song. The sky was light, leaves rustled in a breeze that had not been there a minute before. The world had awakened from an ancient dream.

Creighton straightened up. Edward copied him. Then they scrambled to their feet, not looking at each other. There was no one else present, of course.

Edward closed the knife and offered it.

"Leave it,” Creighton said gruffly. “And the bandages also.” He strode over to turn the pony.

Feeling very thoughtful, Edward gathered up the bandages, the splints, the crutch. He laid them tidily alongside the bloodstains. He limped after Creighton in one shoe and one bare foot, but when he reached the dogcart, Creighton silently handed him the second crutch.

He hobbled all the way back to the circle again. The grass was trampled where he and Creighton had knelt. On the other side of the stone, where the numen had been, there was no sign that it had ever been disturbed. What else would you expect?

He stooped to lay his burden with the other offerings. Then he changed his mind and deliberately knelt down first. He bowed his head again and softly said, “Thank you, sir!"

He thought he heard a faint chuckle and an even softer voice saying, “Give my love to Ruat."

It was only the wind, of course.

33

WHEN PLAYING CHILLY NARSH, THE TROUPE WAS forced to compromise on classical costuming. In her herald role, Eleal had worn long Joalian stockings under her tunic and still shivered; she had never experimented with real Narshian menswear. It was even more fiendishly uncomfortable than she had suspected—and difficult! In warmer lands the deception would not have been possible at all, for although she had not matured in the way T'lin had so crudely mentioned, she had progressed to the point where she would not be mistaken for a boy if she paraded around in just a loincloth. So there were advantages to the Narshland climate after all, but she would never have managed to dress without Embiliina's motherly assistance.

The breechclout was a band with a tuck-over flap. Then came well-darned wool socks and the diabolical fleece leggings, cross-gartered all the way up, the tops held by a web strap that looped around the back of her neck. How fortunate that she had little bosom yet to worry about! On top went a wool shirt for the mountains, so often washed that it was thick as felt, and a smock that reached halfway down her thighs; then boots. She pinned up her hair under a pointed hat that tickled her ears. She eyed herself disapprovingly in the looking glass. As she had been warned, the garments were all shabby castoffs. One of her leggings had a hole in the knee and the other was patched.

"How does it feel?” Embiliina Sculptor said, smiling.

"Drafty!"

"Mmm.” Gim's mother chuckled mischievously. “Men seem to like the freedom. If you need to, er ... well, pick a good thick bush to go behind, won't you, dear?"

Her smile was so inviting that for a moment Eleal wanted to throw herself into this so-kindly lady's arms. Her eyes prickled and she turned away quickly. She was no longer a mere waif supported by a troupe of actors and given odd jobs to make her feel useful. In some way she did not understand in the slightest she was important—a Personage of Historic Significance! She must behave appropriately. Perhaps in a hundred years poets like Piol would be writing great plays about her.

She headed for the bedroom door. Without her specially made boot, her walk was very awkward. Not just Clip, clop, but rather Step, lurch ... “Fortunately,” she said brightly, “my dramatic training has taught me how to portray boys."

"Er ... yes. This way, dear."

Gim was waiting in the kitchen, bareheaded, but otherwise already wrapped in outdoor wear. He had a lyre case slung on his shoulder. He smirked bravely when he saw Eleal, but the smirk faded quickly. His eyelids were pink, as if he was fighting back tears. It was all very well to trust a god, but she wished Tion had provided a more convincing, experienced champion to escort her.

His father looked even more worried, trying to act proud.

"Oh, dear!” Embiliina said. “Have you said good-bye to your sisters?"

"They're asleep, Mother!"

"Yes, but did you go in and see them so I can tell them you did?"

"Yes, Mother,” Gim said with exaggerated patience. He turned to his father. “I don't suppose I can go and say goodbye to Inka, can I?"

Kollwin shook his head. “I don't think Dilthin Builder would be very happy to have you hammering on his door at this hour. Your mother will tell Inka in the morning and give her your love."

"And tell her I'll write?"

"And tell her that you'll write. Now you must hurry. The entire watch must be searching for Eleal Singer by now. The priests will have half the city roused. Keep your eyes open. Hurry, but don't be rash. And especially look out for pickets around the trader's camp—they must know she escaped on a dragon."

Gim's fair face seemed to turn even paler. “What'll I do then?"

"You're the hero, son. I think you leave the girl by the wall and go on alone to investigate—but you'll have to make your own judgment."

Gim nodded unhappily. “The guards may just arrest Dragontrader and seize his stock!"

"No. That'd need a hearing before the magistrates—but I suppose they may even drag them out of bed for something this big. Off with you, my boy, and trust in the god."

The ensuing farewells became openly tearful. Eleal turned her back and tried not to listen. She could not help but think that no one had ever said good-bye to her like that.

She had no baggage except a few odd clothes Embiliina had insisted on giving her, and they were easily tucked into the top of Gim's pack. He was already burdened with the lyre, but he made indignant noises when Eleal offered to carry either. He strode off along the dark, windy street, long legs going like swallows’ wings. Suddenly he slowed down and peered at her.

"Why're you limping?"

"I'm not. It's just your imagination."

"Good!” Gim said, and speeded up again. He seemed to have forgotten that she was the heroine and he only her guardian, but she would never ask him to go more slowly, not ever! Soon she was panting in the heavy fleece coat that had been added to all her other ridiculous garments. She grew hot, except where the night wind reached. Perhaps men would be better behaved if they dressed more comfortably.

At the first corner Gim stopped and peered around cautiously. Then he strode off again into the wind.

"Who's Inka?” she asked.

"My girlfriend, of course."

"Pretty?"

"Gorgeous!"

"You love her?"

"Course!"

"Does she love you?"

"Very much! You scared?"

"Yes. You?"

"Horribly."

He was supposed to be a strong, comforting supporter! He had not studied his role very well. “You weren't scared on the dragon, were you?"

Gim turned into a narrow alley. “Yes I was—and Holy Tion had shown me that bit! He didn't show me this at all. Along here. Besides, all I had to do was shout Choopoo! and close my eyes and hang on. I'm a painter, not a hero!"

Of course he was brave! Of course he must be a hero if the god had chosen him. She decided Gim Sculptor's modesty was more admirable than Klip Trumpeter's pretenses.

"And I'm an actor, not a Historic Personage."

He chuckled. “I wouldn't believe you were either if the gods didn't keep saying so. What you need instead of me, Eleal Singer, is someone like Darthon Warrior."

"You came?” she exclaimed.

"Dad took me. Just the Varilian. Couldn't follow half of it. Wish you'd done a masque."

"So do I. I get to sing three songs in the masque."

He did not ask for details, so she prompted, “Was I a convincing herald?"

"You were all right,” Gim conceded, “if heralds were ever girls."

Eleal did not say another word to him for quite some time.

He led her along narrow lanes, down smelly alleys, across cramped, sinister courtyards. Soon she was hopelessly lost, but he insisted this was a shortcut. She kept thinking of Kollwin Sculptor's warnings about the guard, but the streets seemed to hold no people, only windy darkness. Bats flittered overhead and a couple of times she noted small eyes glinting in garbage-strewn corners.

Ysh shone bright blue in the east and that should be a good omen if the Maiden was supporting Tion's rescue efforts. But Eltiana dominated the sky, glaring red, and that was bad. There was no sign of Trumb, who must be due to eclipse one night soon. That was always a bad omen, and it would be especially scary now.

When the green moon turns to black,

Then the reaper fills his sack.

"What's a lovers’ gate?” Eleal asked.

"A way over a city wall. You'll understand when you're older.” Gim stopped at a dark archway.

"I understand now."

He hissed. “Sh! Watch your step in here."

"Here” was a black tunnel. He felt his way, leading her by the hand.

They emerged into a well enclosed by sheer walls stretching up to a tiny patch of sky where two bright stars were visible. There was no visible exit except the tunnel arch and one stout wooden door that looked very determinedly shut. The smell was nauseating.

"Made a mistake?” Eleal inquired in a whisper.

"Not if you can climb like my sisters. Hold this a moment. And be careful with it.” He handed her his lyre case while he removed his pack. Then he showed her the handholds and footholds in the walls, leading up to a patch of not-quite-so-dark darkness. She had missed it because it was higher than even his head and a long way above hers.

"I'll pass the pack up,” he said, taking his lyre back for safer keeping.

"What's on the other side?"

"Kitchen yard. Private house. Don't expect they're hanging out washing at this time of night."

"Can you fit through there?"

"Could last fortnight. Up with you."

Leggings did have some advantages over long skirts when it came to climbing. Eleal scrambled up, feeling the stones icy cold in her hands, but it was an easy climb, as he had said. The opening had once been a barred window, although which side had been “inside” and which “outside” she could not tell. Now it was a gap between two yards, only one bar remained, and there was room for a child or a slim adult to squeeze through—the sort of illegal shortcut every child in the city would know about and love to use. She wriggled her head and shoulders through and then stopped.

The yard was small, not large enough to hang very much washing, just house on one side and sheds on the other. No lights showed, but moonlight revealed that the way was definitely not clear. She looked back down at Gim, his face a barely visible blur.

"There's a small problem,” she whispered.

Gim said, “What?” impatiently.

"A dragon."

"What?” He sounded as if he did not trust her to know a dragon from a woodpile. She was blocking the preferred route, but he stepped on his pack, leaped up with long arms and legs and a scrabbling of boots on stone, catching a grip on the bar and hauling himself up beside her, dangling by one hand and one elbow.

"I'm so sorry,” Eleal said in his ear. “I see it's only a watchcat after all."

It was Starlight. He was crouched directly below her, and he knew she was there, for he was snuffling inquiringly. With his neck almost straight up, the soft glow of his eyes seemed close enough to touch. Any minute now he might decide to recognize her and issue an earsplitting belch of welcome. He would probably dislike having people drop packs and lyres and themselves on him.

Gim grunted. “Better take the long way round.” He let go and dropped. He had forgotten his pack. The sounds of body parts thumping stone seemed to go on rather a long time.

Eleal clambered down cautiously. By then he had stopped using bad words and was sitting up, trying to rub his head and an elbow at the same time.

"You didn't dirty your coat, I hope?” she inquired solicitously.

"Shuddup!"

"Whose house is that?"

Gim clambered painfully to his feet, rubbing his hip. “Gaspak Ironmonger's."

"Do you suppose he has a private shrine, too? Do you think T'lin Dragontrader belongs to another mystery?"

"Probably. Most men do."

Interesting! She'd suspected that. “Not Tion's, though? Then whose?"

"Why do girls talk so much? Keep quiet.” Gim hoisted his pack again, but he made no objection when Eleal slung the lyre strap over her shoulder.

They crept back to the tunnel. This time the way was easier, for Ysh's eerie beams shone in from the street entrance.

Now Eleal had a whole new problem to consider. T'lin had said he would give thanks to the gods in his own way. That suggested that he had gone to seek out the Narshian lodge of whatever god bore his particular allegiance.

Would he be giving thanks or seeking instructions? And what god would he favor? Obviously not Tion, or he would have prayed at Sculptor's shrine, nor Eltiana, or he would not have aided in Eleal's rescue. She could not imagine T'lin dedicating himself to the Maiden. Astina was the patron goddess of warriors, true, and athletes, oddly enough, but her attributes included justice and duty and purity. None of those sounded like T'lin Dragontrader's preference. Visek was the All-knowing, of course, but he was rather an aloof god, and not easily swayed, god of destiny and the eternal sun. T'lin ought to be more concerned with commerce and domesticated animals, and the gods for those were avatars of Karzon, the Man.

Who was also Zath, who had told his reaper not to let her reach Sussland alive.

Who was also Ken'th.

Daddy.

Gim grabbed Eleal's arm and pulled her back into a doorway.

She waited, but he did not explain what he had seen, or thought he had seen. Of course the guard would not necessarily parade around on dragonback with bands playing. It might be skulking in alleyways just as she and Gim were.

Gim did not move for some time. Shivering at his side, Eleal realized that T'lin might have more mundane concerns than gods. She had told him about the Thargians, and she had specifically mentioned the Narshian she had recognized in their company—Gaspak Ironmonger. The dragon trader had laughed then, and made a joke about farmers buying leopards to guard chickens.

Perhaps T'lin Dragontrader was a Thargian spy himself.

The lyre was becoming unpleasantly heavy on her shoulders when Gim reached his objective.

"We scramble up this trunk,” he said, “along that branch, and across the roof to the wall. Think you can manage that?"

"No. You'll have to carry me."

"Stay here then.” He reached for the first branch. “There's quite a drop on the other side, so don't break any ankles."

A couple of minutes later, they were outside the city. Neither of them had broken an ankle, although Eleal's hip was hurting now, missing her special boot. Gim yanked her back into shadow while he scanned the moonlit meadow. Light shone on a bend of Narshwater in the distance, and the mammoth steps stood like a monument to a forgotten battle. The pen was invisible. Although this was spring, the grass seemed covered with a shimmer of silver frost. Perhaps it was only dew. T'lin's camp was an isolated patch of darkness, from which the wind brought faint belching noises.

"See anyone?” Gim asked nervously.

"No."

"This is ridiculous! There's gotta be soldiers out there waiting for us! Dad said so. T'lin did too, more or less."

Eleal yawned. She knew she ought to be excited and keyed-up, and she very definitely did not want to be captured and dragged back to Mother Ylla, but ... she yawned again. The night had gone on too long.

She understood what was worrying Gim, though. There were few dragons in Narsh and those mostly belonging to the watch. Ranchers owned dragons, but the guard would very soon have accounted for all the dragons in the city itself and learned that none of them had been involved in her escape. The next move would have been to investigate the trader's camp outside the wall. It was absolutely certain that there would be soldiers there still.

Furthermore, the camp was visible from the city gate, which was closed and guarded until dawn. Two people walking away from the wall would be as visible as a bear in a bed.

"Why're they making all that noise?” Gim muttered.

"Dragons always make that noise. If there were strangers around, they'd be making a lot more."

"Really?"

"Really,” Eleal said with a confidence she did not feel at all. She yawned again.

"Come on, then!” Gim said. “It's trust the god or freeze to death!” He marched off across the meadow, leaning into the wind. Eleal followed by the light of the moons.

As they reached the huddle of sleeping dragons, a tall shape stepped forward to meet them.

"Name?” The voice was low, and not T'lin's.

"Gim, er, Wrangler and, ah—my cousin, Kollburt Painter."

"Goober Dragonherder. Follow me, Wrangler.” He led them to a tent, dark and heavily scented by the leather it was made of. It thumped rhythmically in the wind, but the inside seemed almost warm after the meadow. “Sit,” said the man.

There was a pause while he laced up the flap, and another while he flashed sparks from a flint. Eventually a very small lantern glowed dimly, showing a few packs and a rumpled bedroll, no furniture, three people kneeling on the blankets, and beyond them the dark walls and roof swallowed the light, so that there was nothing more in the world.

Goober was a thin-faced man with a dark beard, solemn as if he never smiled. Gold glinted faintly in the lobe of his left ear. He was garbed in the inevitable Ilama skin garments, plus a black turban. He pointed to it. “Can you tie one of these?"

"No,” said the fugitives together.

He produced two strips of black cloth and wrapped their heads up. Then he made them practice. To Eleal's fury, Gim caught the knack much faster than she did. She was too sleepy.

"You'll do, Wrangler,” Dragonherder said. “You keep trying, Small'un. You look like a boiled pudding. Don't uncover the lantern until you've laced up the door again. Wrangler, you come with me."

"To do what?"

"To learn how to saddle a dragon and stop asking questions. I'm told you know the commands."

By the look on Gim's face, he had already forgotten them, but he did not say so. The two departed. Left on her own, Eleal struggled with the infernal turban until it felt as if she had it right. Then she had nothing else left to do except wait.

She inspected the mysterious packs—not opening them, in case she was interrupted, but feeling them carefully. She decided they contained little else but spare clothes.

Sudden weariness fell on her like ... like an avalanche. Why did she keep thinking about avalanches? She leaned back against a pack. There had been no guards around the dragons, so the god was still helping her, right? Right.

Goober Dragonherder had known she was coming, so T'lin had returned here from Kollwin Sculptor's and then gone back into the city again to visit Gaspak Ironmonger. Right?

That must be right, too, but it seemed very odd. What had that meeting been about, and what had T'lin learned that evening that had made it necessary?

34

EDWARD JUMPED DOWN TO OPEN THE FIRST GATE. HE DEliberately closed it from the wrong side so he could vault over it, dressing gown and all. He felt a whirling sense of wonder as he swung back up to the bench, agile as a child. Being a cripple had been a pretty stinky experience. The dogcart set off across the meadow.

"Is his name really Oldcastle, sir?"

Creighton shot him a frown, as if warning that they were not out of earshot yet.

"No it isn't. There is no Mr. Oldcastle. Oldcastle is a sort of committee, or a nom de plume. Our friend back there is ... He's just that, a friend. He's been there a long, long time. I don't know his name. Probably nobody does anymore."

The dogcart rattled down the slope toward the next gate. In daylight the land was bright with goldenrod and purple thistles.

"Robin Goodfellow?"

"That was the name of the firm. He would have been the local representative."

No wonder his face had seemed Puckish. “Why blood? I thought a bowl of milk and a cake was his offering?"

Creighton's tone had not encouraged further questions, but he must appreciate a chap's normal curiosity when he had just received a miracle.

He cleared his throat with a Hrrnph! noise. “Depends what you're asking him to do, of course—or not to do, in his case. The value of a sacrifice is in what it costs. Blood's pretty high on the list.” He stared ahead in silence for a while, then said, “He would have lost on the exchange, though. You heard him say he husbands his resources. The mana he used to cure your leg he has probably been hoarding for centuries, and he can't replace it now—I don't suppose he gets any worshipers at all these days. We wouldn't have given him much, even with the blood. He's one of the Old Ones, but he does not belong to any of the parties involved in this. My associates here were desperately shorthanded and asked him to help, as he lives in the neighborhood. He agreed, much to everyone's surprise. For that you should be very, very grateful."

Edward licked the cut on the back of his wrist. “I am, of course. Anything else I can do, sir?"

"Yes. As soon as you've opened this gate, you go behind the hedge and get dressed. You look like a bloody whirling dervish in that rig-out."

As he stripped, Edward discovered that his assorted scrapes and bruises had not been cured, only his leg. The flannel bags and blazer he wanted were badly crumpled, but he found a presentable shirt. His cuff links seemed to have disappeared altogether, his collars were all limp. He detested tying a tie without a looking glass, so he left that to be attended to on the road. In record time, he tossed his case into the dogcart and scrambled up beside Colonel Creighton, once more a presentable young gentleman.

Except that he had only one shoe.

As the pony ambled forward, he adjusted his boater at a debonair angle to cover the sticking plaster, and began fighting with his tie. Beautiful morning. Health and freedom! Breakfast now?

In the light of day, Creighton was revealed as a man of middle years, spare and trim and indelibly tanned by a tropic sun. His close-cropped mustache was ginger, his eyebrows were red-brown and thick as hedges. His nose was an arrogant ax blade. He was staring straight ahead as he drove the pony, with his face shadowed by the brim of his bowler. As he seemed in no hurry to make conversation, Edward remained silent also, content to wait and see what the day would offer to top the night's marvels.

Pony and cart clattered along the hedge-walled lanes, already growing warm. As they passed a farm gate, a dog barked. The damp patches on Creighton's trouser legs were drying. Somewhere a lie-abed cock was still crowing.

Suddenly the colonel cleared his throat and then spoke, addressing his remarks to the pony's back.

"You have seen a wonder, you have been granted a miracle cure. I trust that you will now be receptive to explanations that you might have rejected earlier?"

"I think I can believe anything after that, sir."

"Hrrnph!” Creighton shot him a glance, hazel eyes glinting under the hedge of red-brown eyebrow. “Did you feel anything unusual up there, by the way, even before our friend appeared?"

Edward hesitated, reluctant to admit to romantic fancies. “It did seem a ‘spooky’ sort of place."

Creighton did not scoff as a hard-bitten army man might be expected to. “Ever felt that sort of ‘spookiness’ before?"

"Yes, sir."

"For example?"

"Well, Tinkers’ Wood, near the school. Or Winchester Cathedral on a school outing. I didn't tell anyone, though!"

"Wise of you, I'm sure. Probably several of your classmates would have felt the same and kept equally quiet about it, but there's really nothing to be ashamed of. Sensitivity's usually a sign of artistic talent of one sort or another. Celtic blood helps, for some reason. It doesn't matter either way. When you get to ... Well, never mind that yet. There are certain places that are peculiarly suited to supernatural activities. We call them ‘nodes.’ They have what we call ‘virtuality.’ Some people can sense it, others can't. They seem to be distributed at random, some more marked than others, but here in England you'll almost always find evidence that they've been used, or are still being used, for worship of one kind or another—standing stones, old ruins, churches, graveyards."

"That was why Mr. Old ... er, Mr. Goodfellow ... why he didn't cure my leg in the hospital?” Edward had wondered why he had been made to endure that journey.

"Of course. It would have been much harder for him to do it there than at home in his grove, on his node. Perhaps even impossible for him nowadays."

Creighton turned out of one lane into another, apparently confident that he knew where he was heading. For a while he said no more. Edward began to consider his options. To go to any local enlistment center might be dangerous. Of course the police would be much more inclined to look for him in a nursing home than at a recruiting office, but near Greyfriars he might be recognized by someone. His best plan was probably to head up to town and join all the thousands enlisting at Great Scotland Yard.

Then the colonel began addressing the pony's arse again. “Officially I am Home on leave. Unofficially, I intended to observe the developments in Europe, do a bit of recruiting, and keep an eye on you."

Edward said, “Yes, sir,” respectfully.

"Things went—Hrrnph!—a little askew. The European thing sort of ran away with us. You see, the nature of prophecy is that it usually comes in a frightful muddle, with most incidents undated. Nevertheless, it describes a single future, so it must relate to a unitary stream of events, right?"

"Er. I suppose so.” What had prophecy to do with anything?

"Some foretellings you'd think you can do nothing about—storms or earthquakes. Others you obviously can. If a man is prophesied to die in battle and you poison him first at his dinner table, then you have invalidated the entire prophecy, you see? Prophecy is by nature a chain, so that breaking one link breaks the whole thing. If any one statement is clearly discredited, then the future described is no longer valid and none of the rest of the prophecy applies anymore. If the prophecy foretelling a man dying in battle also foretells a city being wrecked by an earthquake, then by poisoning the man, you can prevent the earthquake."

Edward muttered, “Good Lord!” and nothing more. He seemed to have stumbled into a mystical world that was definitely going to take some getting used to.

"It's all or nothing,” Creighton said. “Like a balloon. Poke one hole in it and the entire thing fails. And you were mentioned in a prophecy."

"I see.” The Jumbo letter had mentioned a chain! Why had Edward been such a fool as to leave it behind?

"About twenty years ago,” Creighton continued, “someone tried to kill your father, Cameron Exeter. The attempt did not succeed, but an investigation revealed that he was mentioned in a certain well-substantiated prophecy, the Vurogty Migafilo. Vurogty is a formal, legal statement. Miga means a village, like the English ham or by, in the genitive case. So in English Vurogty Migafilo would be something like Filoby Testament. It has been around for many years, and many events foretold in it have already come to pass. Many more remain. You see that to be mentioned in such a document is virtually a death sentence?"

He paused, as if to let Edward make an intelligent comment, which seemed an unlikely possibility.

"Because anyone who does not like anything else in the prophecy will try to block its fulfillment?” That felt reasonably intelligent, considering the hour.

"Right on! Good man! In this case, the specific prophecy about your father was particularly unwelcome to the Chamber, and of course that increased his danger considerably."

The trap jingled and joggled along the lane. A thrush sang in the hedgerow. The dawn clouds glowed in decorous pinks. It was all very normal—no genies going by on magic carpets, no knights in armor tilting at dragons.

"What was that specific prophecy, sir?"

"It was foretold that he would sire a son."

"Sir!” This was starting to sound suspiciously like a leg-pull in very poor taste.

"Furthermore, the date was specified very clearly."

"June first, 1896, I presume?"

"No. Sometime in the next two weeks."

Edward said, “Oh.” He studied the thick hedges passing by. Life had been much simpler a few days ago. “Well, that's impossible, so this Testament has now failed?"

Hrrnph! “No again. The date was a misinterpretation. The seeress may not have understood correctly herself, and she expressed herself poorly—the ordeal drove her insane and she died soon after. Prophecy requires an enormous amount of mana, which is why it's so rare. The person who had given her the talent miscalculated. He was utterly drained by her outburst. Almost died himself, or so it's said. That's beside the point. Anyway, the Service decided that your father had better go into hiding until the danger was past. And so he did."

"He left New Zealand?"

"He went back to New Zealand! Ultimately he went on to Africa. A year or so later he was blessed with a son, namely you.” Creighton spoke in sharp, authoritative phrases, as if he were instructing recruits in the mysteries of the Gatling gun. If he had been, then at least one recruit would have been totally at sea.

Edward was tempted to ask if the prophecy had saved him from being a girl, but that would sound lippy.

Creighton was still talking. “The Service has rather mixed feelings about the Filoby Testament, but all in all we tend to favor the future it describes. So he fulfilled that element of the prophecy and stayed where he was, at Nyagatha, killing time until the—"

"Killing time? Sir, he was—"

"I know what he was!” Creighton barked. “I dropped in there in ‘02 and met you. Cute little fellow you were, lugging a leopard cub around under your arm everywhere. Nevertheless, take my word for it, as far as your father was concerned, Africa was merely an extended working holiday."

"A twenty-year holiday, sir?"

"Why not? Exeter, when I say that your father belonged to the Service, I am not referring to His Majesty's Colonial Office. The Service to which I belong and your father belonged is something else entirely, and probably a great deal more important."

Edward muttered “Yes, sir,” wondering how to bring up the question of his father's true age.

Creighton did not give him the opportunity. “Now you understand why I waited until you saw your leg healed before I tried to tell you any of this."

"It will take a little time to adjust, sir."

Creighton might be crazy, but he seemed to know exactly where he was heading. The dogcart was entering a fair-sized village. A baker's wagon was making its rounds, but otherwise the streets were still deserted.

"Time is something we don't have,” he said testily. “The opposition have tried three times to nobble you, Exeter. Five times, if you count the first attempt on your father and the Nyagatha massacre. They probably assumed they'd got you that time, by the way. That would explain why they left you alone for so long afterward. But this spring a certain building was buried by a landslide, and then everybody knew that the Filoby Testament was still operative. Your parents were definitely dead, so you must be alive. They set the hounds on you again. You can't expect your luck to hold indefinitely."

"How can they find me now, sir? If I can hide from the law, then I can hide from ... Who exactly are the opposition? I mean, if someone's out to kill me, I'd like to know who."

Creighton directed the pony down a side road. He made his Hrrnph! noise. “Ultimately the people who are so eager to put your head over their fireplace are the group we refer to as the Chamber. It has no official name and its membership varies from time to time. This is a little hard to ... Look at it this way. You know that His Majesty's Colonial Office doesn't operate in England. The Home Office doesn't operate overseas. But the two would cooperate if—oh, say a dangerous criminal wanted by one of them escaped into the other's territory. They'd pass the word. With me so far?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well the Chamber doesn't operate here—its members have no power at all in this, er, environment. The Service that I belong to doesn't operate here either, but we're allied with a sort of local branch that we usually refer to as Head Office, although the relationship is informal. We help each other out from time to time—in matters like this, in recruiting, and so on. They were the ones who got your father appointed D.O. at Nyagatha, of course, as a favor to us. He, in turn, did certain favors for them while he was there. The two organizations have similar aims and goals, so we cooperate with them and they with us, but you understand that here I am only a private citizen, with no authority."

Hrrnph! “Now, the opposition here is as variable and poorly defined as the Chamber—knock one down and two more spring up—but at the moment Head Office is tangled with a really hard bunch they're calling ‘the Blighters.’ It's a very apt description! Blighters here and Chamber there both oppose the aims that the Service and Head Office aspire to, so they're natural allies. It's the Blighters who killed your father and who are after your hide, as a favor to the Chamber."

Which was all very clear, Edward thought, but it had told him nothing except meaningless names. “Would you mind defining a couple of terms, sir? Where exactly do you mean by ‘here'? If the Service you refer to is not the Colonial Office, then what is it? What sort of people make up the Chamber, and the Blighters?"

"That's a deuce of a lot of defining. As for what sort of people, well Mr. Goodfellow is one example, although he has always remained neutral until now."

This was definitely too much to swallow on an empty stomach. “Sir, are you telling me these groups are made up of gods?"

Creighton sighed. “No, they're not gods, not in the sense you mean. They may act like gods, and they do have supernatural powers. The one you met is a faint shadow of what he would have been in Saxon or Celtic times, and he cured your leg out of kindness, because he'd taken a fancy to you. Snap of the fingers, you might say."

"If he's not a god, then he's some sort of numen, or woodland spirit, or a demon, or—"

"He's a man, like us. Born of woman. He's a stranger, that's all."

"Well certainly! But—"

"And I won't define ‘stranger’ either. Not yet. He has a store of mana and I'm sure that a long time ago he was much more powerful than he is now. Yet he was probably always a pygmy in his class, whereas some of the Blighters are giants—look what they've achieved in the last month. This bloody war in Europe was provoked by them. Head Office have been struggling to prevent it for years. The Blighters outmaneuvered them. Now it's happened, utter disaster. But on that level the battle is over, and the big bad wallahs can sit back and savor their rewards. They can also turn their attention to other things. Like you."

Mr. Goodfellow had said very much the same thing about the war, Edward recalled, and whoever or whatever Mr. Goodfellow was, he was no ordinary mortal.

The dogcart had left the village and was bumping across a common on the far side, heading for some trees by the river.

"You see,” Creighton added in a terse tone, as if he was tired of explaining things to a very thick child, “part of the trouble has been that both Head Office and the Blighters have been so occupied with political conniving these last few months, that they had no real assets to spare for peripheral matters such as doing favors for friends. That's why they just sent a crazy woman against you. They say she truly is crazy, by the way. She's a Balkan anarchist with a bad case of bloodlust. In other circumstances, they could have disposed of you without any trouble. On the other hand, had things been normal, Head Office could have defended you better."

"So it canceled out?"

"Perhaps it did. But now Head Office are in disarray. They have lost badly and will need time to lick their wounds. The Blighters are about to reap an enormous harvest of mana. This is definitely a good time to do a bunk!"

"But I don't have any choice—” Edward said, and then stopped in astonishment. The dogcart had rounded the trees and was almost into an encampment of Gypsies—half a dozen wagons and a couple of tents. Smoke trickled up from a central fire. Small children were running for cover and several dark-garbed men had turned to inspect the visitors. Gypsies?

"Any choice of what?” Creighton demanded, reining in the pony.

"I mean I'm going to enlist, of course. There's a war on!"

Creighton turned to him with an air of exasperation. “Yes,” he said. “So there is. I've been trying to tell you."

35

"YOU SHOULD HAVE TURNED OUT THE LAMP BEFORE YOU went to sleep,” T'lin grumbled. “Waste of oil. Come on."

Rubbing her eyes, Eleal stumbled out of the tent behind the big man and hobbled after him as he strode in among the sleeping dragons. There was no sign of Gim or Goober. She was stiff and cold. She must have slept a couple of hours, because the sky was bright, and she could see the mountains. The stars had almost gone, but Ysh's tiny blue half disk and Eltiana's fiery point still shone. It was going to be a fine day.

"This is Lightning,” T'lin said, stopping so suddenly Eleal almost bumped into him. The dragon twisted his long neck around to inspect her. She rubbed the big browridges automatically, and he snorted warm hay scent at her, perhaps approving of her size.

T'lin inspected the girths. “He's not as young as he used to be, but he's wise, and he won't even notice your weight.” He lifted Eleal effortlessly to the saddle and began adjusting the stirrup leathers.

"Hill straps?” she said apprehensively. Lightning was large, making her feel very far from the ground already. She had never ridden except on the flat. Truth be told, her riding experience could be described as extremely limited.

"Just buckle them loose for now, so they don't flap. I'll tell you when to tighten them. There. Now let's see how far you can make him go. That way.” He pointed west, upstream.

"That's not the way to Rilepass."

T'lin's big hand closed fiercely on her knee. His face in the twilight was hard as rock. “I know that, Little Missy. And understand one thing: You don't argue or talk back on this journey, all right? This isn't a joyride to amuse a usefully nosy little child anymore. This is serious, and I didn't ask for the job of rescuing you."

"I'm sorry."

"Good.” He snorted. “Your business is costing me a lot of money. It may cost me my life, or even my soul. And when I say ‘Do this!’ you do it. Don't waste a moment. Clear?"

If he was trying to frighten her, he was succeeding. She had never heard him speak so sternly. “Yes, Dragontrader.” She gripped the pommel plate with chilled fingers. “Lightning, Wondo!"

Lightning turned his head around again and stared at her with big eyes, their glow still just visible in the fast-brightening dawn.

"Wondo!” Eleal shouted.

Lightning lifted his head high and looked over the rest of the herd. Then he faced Eleal and yawned insolently, showing teeth as big as her hand.

"Shouting doesn't help,” T'lin sighed. “Kick him."

Eleal kicked in her heels. “Wondo! Zaib!"

Uttering a muffled belch of disgust, Lightning lurched to his feet and Eleal found herself staring down at the top of T'lin Dragontrader's turban. The dragon strolled insolently forward, picking his way between his sleeping mates, but in a moment he began to curve around. He did not want to leave the herd.

With much kicking and directions of Whilth! and Chaiz! she directed him to the open meadow and tried Varch! He eased into a feeble pretence at a run, but in a moment he looked behind him and slowed down again. Then he began to curve to the left. Eleal drummed her heels on his scales and scolded. He straightened momentarily but soon started edging around to the right. In a few minutes she admitted defeat, afraid she was about to be taken ignominiously all the way back. “Wosok!” she said, and was relieved when her stubborn mount accepted the compromise. He lay down, still disgustingly close to the herd and facing toward it.

Another dragon had risen from the mass and was approaching at a slow run. It came willingly as far as Lightning, and then balked. Gim shouted angrily; Eleal was secretly pleased that he did no better than she had done. His mount settled on the grass, nose-to-nose with Lightning as if to compare notes on this disgraceful waste of valuable sleeping time.

"Stupid lizards!” Gim muttered. His pack and lyre were strapped alongside the baggage plate at his back. His face was pale and unweathered under the black turban, unconvincing as the face of a wrangler. “Why all this wosok and varch stuff anyway? Why not teach them to understand good, honest Joalian?"

Eleal restrained a snigger—what Gim Wrangler spoke was a long way from true Joalian. “Because common words like ‘run’ may differ between the dialects. The dragon commands are the same all over the Vales, and they're very old. So T'lin says,” she added to forestall argument.

Gim grunted.

"You'll like Sussland,” she said cheerfully. “It's much warmer and more fertile than Narshland."

"And the people riot all the time."

"Sussia's a democracy.” She hoped that was the right word. “They meet every year to elect the magistrates."

"So do we. The adult men, anyway."

"But in Narsh the elections are a foregone conclusion. In Suss it's always a free-for-all. So T'lin says."

Gim mumbled something sadistic about the dragon trader, ending the conversation. The two of them sat in shivering silence, not even looking at each other.

The east was growing brilliant and color had returned to the world. Lightning was revealed as a nondescript dun, Gim's mount was a glacier white. Eleal realized that the city gate was clearly visible now, so she must be visible to the guards on the parapet. Eventually she could stand the quiet no longer. “He's not bringing the whole herd?"

"Evidently not.” Gim twisted around in his saddle to see what was happening. Nothing was. “Maybe they're going to head off in the opposite direction after we leave,” he added, sounding as if he'd just thought of that. “Lay a false trail."

Then a third dragon emerged from the herd and came racing toward them. It was dark-colored and soon recognizable as Starlight, but he seemed to have no rider. He slowed as he reached the watchers. Someone cried, “Zomph!” shrilly, and he continued on at a smooth run.

"Gods preserve me!” Gim said, kicking angrily. “Wondo, Beauty, you scaly horror! Zomph!"

Beauty and Lightning rose as one, taking off after the newcomer. The meadow rushed past so fast that the wind seemed to fade away. Dragons were a smooth ride.

"Zomph!” Gim yelled again, but Beauty and Lightning were already going flat out. Gradually Beauty fell behind, despite Gim's curses. Starlight was still pulling ahead, making a race of it.

Then he veered to avoid a clump of bushes and Eleal caught sight of a small figure cowering over in the saddle, almost hidden by a bulky pack strapped to the baggage plate. Garments streamed in the wind, stirrup leathers and hill straps were flapping free. The light flashed on a strip of steel, but she had already guessed that the rider must be Sister Ahn.

Apparently Gim had not realized that T'lin was missing. He could do nothing about it even if he did. Eleal twisted around and stared back at the dawn. Already the camp was invisible and the city was receding into the distance, with the spires of the temple dominating its skyline. Another dragon was coming in pursuit.

The old woman must certainly be crazy. She would be killed if she fell off. “Zomph!” Eleal yelled, kicking madly. Lightning could go no faster, though. He was breathing hard, while white steam poured from his nostrils. Starlight was younger.

The river had disappeared. The bizarre little caravan was racing along an obvious track now, with scattered cottages and dry stone walls. The hills of Narshslope marched alongside to the north, drawing no closer. The sun rose suddenly and in minutes the dragons were chasing their own long shadows over dry wheel ruts and scraggly grass.

So Eleal Singer had escaped from Narsh, if not yet from Narshvale. As far as she could remember, the western end was closed. Rilepass led north to Sussland and Fandorpass east to Lappinland. There were other passes to the south that she did not know, leading to Tholand and Randorland, but she recalled none to the west. Soon she thought she could see brightness in the distance, probably morning sun sparkling on the dew-wet thatch roofs of a village. That must be where this road went, and probably where it ended.

Then a largish stream blocked the way. The trail dipped to a ford and Starlight balked, because dragons disliked water. He wheeled around, apparently with no objection from his rider. Lightning made gasping sounds of approval, and slowed. The three dragons came together, uttering joyous roars, nuzzling each other in greeting.

Gim's jaw dropped when he saw the old woman crumpled in the saddle. He leaped down, shouting “Wosok, Starlight! Wosok!"

Eleal made Lightning crouch before she dared dismount, and then she went to help Gim. The old woman seemed unconscious, but her twisted hands still held a fierce grip on her staff and the pommel plate. Carefully avoiding the sharp-looking sword, the youngsters dragged her from the saddle and lowered her to the grass like a heap of washing.

She blinked up at them, her eyes watering. When she spoke, though, her creaky voice sounded amazingly calm. “The Maiden be with you, child. Introduce your friend."

"Gim Wrangler, Sister."

"He is not mentioned,” Sister Ahn proclaimed, as if dismissing Gim from consideration. She struggled up to a sitting position and began tucking white strands of hair back under her wimple.

"He rescued me from the temple."

"The god rescued her!” Gim said.

Sister Ahn nodded. “Praise to the Youth. But the Maiden is worthy of thanks also. I did not injure the dragon with my sword, did I?"

Gim bent and inspected Starlight's flank. Starlight turned round and puffed grass-scented steam at him.

"A couple of faint scratches on his scales. Nothing serious."

"How did you make him leave the herd?” Eleal demanded.

"I gave him some nice hay and told him how beautiful he was. It is always best to pay in advance, whenever possible."

"The dragon trader didn't know, did he?” Eleal said.

Sister Ahn frowned at her, and then suddenly smiled. Probably her smile was well intentioned, but it seemed just as gruesome as it had two days ago, involving much crunching of wrinkles and a display of lonely yellow teeth. “Sometimes action must come before explanation,” she explained wryly. “I always wanted to try a ride on a dragon!"

She took a firm grip on her staff and held out an arm. Gim helped her rise, studying her with rank disbelief.

"You've never done it before?"

"I implied that, did I not? Had I not overheard you, young man, I would not have known the correct command. Now, what place is that?” Apparently her watery eyes were not as useless as they seemed.

"Morby, sister. Just a little place."

"Never heard of it.” Her tone implied that it was therefore of no consequence.

"It has a wonderful bakery,” Gim said wistfully.

The fourth dragon arrived in a scramble of claws, being greeted by belches from the others. T'lin Dragontrader seemed to hit the ground running before it had even stopped. His face was flushed with fury and he towered over the nun.

Sister Ahn attempted to straighten, but the move merely emphasized her hump. Her long nose was about level with the middle of his chest.

"You stole my dragon!” His fists were clenched.

"Borrowed it, merely. Time was short and you would have argued."

"By the moons, I would have argued! And now I suppose you expect to accompany us to Sussland?"

He was speaking much louder than usual. The dragons were all watching curiously. Eleal caught Gim's eye. He did not seem to know whether to be amused or concerned. Neither did she.

"Accompany you? I don't know anything about you,” the old woman proclaimed. “You are not mentioned. It is written, Before the festival, Eleal will come into Sussvale with the Daughter of Irepit. This is Thighday. The festival begins tonight, does it not? You don't expect to negate holy prophecy when the goddess Ois failed, do you?"

T'lin shook his fists futilely and then grabbed his beard with both hands as if to keep them from doing violence to the maddening old woman. Starlight was Dragontrader's personal mount. They had been together as long as Eleal could remember. She had never seen rage portrayed so clearly, not even when Trong Impresario played Kaputeez in The Vengeance of Hiloma.

"Is that so? Really so? As I understand your discipline, sisters of the sword always offer value in return for service."

Sister Ahn nodded complacently. “Always."

"Today the price for passage to Sussland is one million stars, payable in advance!” T'lin pushed his bristling red beard almost into her face. “Well?"

She raised hairless brows. “Or something greater?"

"Greater? Name it!"

"Your life, my son. Without me you would presently be chained in the city cells."

T'lin made a choking noise.

"Why do you think the guard did not come after you?” she asked pityingly. “Do you believe they are all so stupid, or that the priests of Our Lady are?"

T'lin wavered. “What did you do?"

"I told them I had seen a black dragon with two people aboard climbing over the wall and heading in the direction of Nimpass. A mounted patrol left immediately and all the rest went back to—"

"You lied?"

"Certainly not!” Again Sister Ahn tried to look down her long nose at him, but he was still much too tall. “I was vouchsafed a vision of this, in a dream. It was very clear."

T'lin Dragontrader moaned and covered his face with his hands. Eleal bit her lip to restrain a snigger. There was silence, until Gim said hesitantly, “It was odd that the guard did not come after us, sir."

"Not odd at all!” the nun sniffed. “I gave them my oath that I had seen what I said. Sisters of my order are impeccable witnesses. Courts have accepted the sworn word of a Daughter over the testimony of phalanxes of magistrates. You owe me your life, Dragontrader. Or if not, at the very least they would have impounded all your worldly goods. I have paid fairly."

36

CREIGHTON SEEMED TO HAVE AN INFINITE CAPACITY TO astonish. First he had produced ancient woodland gods out of pagan legend, and now Gypsies. Gypsies were thieves, poachers, charlatan fortune-tellers, and altogether not the sort of people whose company any self-respecting gentleman would cultivate. Nor was this encounter a sudden impulse, for he had obviously been recognized. A man was approaching. There was no smile of welcome on his face, but he was not scowling either.

"Get your bag,” Creighton said, “and then wait here.” He jumped down.

Edward followed and retrieved his suitcase. Without a word, the Gypsy took charge of the dogcart and pony. He was nattily dressed, although his clothes had more elaborate pleats and stitching than those of any ordinary Englishman. His waistcoat was too fancy, his hat brim too wide, and he had a colorful kerchief around his neck. He returned Edward's smile with a sullen glance and led the pony away. Only now did Edward register that the dogcart was an outlandishly gaudy affair of shiny brass fittings and bright-hued paints. So were three or four of the wagons, in varying degrees. Others were plainer, scruffy by comparison.

Creighton was already in conversation with an elderly woman sitting by the fire. She was so muffled up in bright-colored clothes that she resembled nothing more than a heap of rainbows. She said something, nodding, then looked up to stare across at Edward. Even at that distance he sensed the piercing dark eyes of the true Gypsy. He tried not to squirm.

Waving to him to follow, Creighton headed for one of the gaudiest of the wagons. When Edward arrived, he was regarding it with distaste.

"I don't suppose the police can put the bite on you in here, old man,” he said, “but I can't answer for fleas.” With that, he trotted up the ladder. Edward followed. By the time he was inside, Creighton had stripped off his hat and jacket.

There was barely room for the two of them to stand between the chairs and table and stove and shelves and various bundles and boxes. The air was heavy with an unfamiliar scent, and everywhere there was color—reds and greens and blues rioting on walls, furniture, garments, and bedding. The ceiling had not been designed for a six-footer. At the far end were two bunks, one above the other. From the assortment of clothes littered everywhere, this was home to a large family, and the lower bunk had pillows at both ends. In the middle of it lay a notably new and clean pigskin suitcase. Edward assumed it had been stolen, but when Creighton had stripped to his undervest, he began stowing his shirt and waistcoat in it.

"Close the door, man! They said we could help ourselves to anything we find. I don't suppose there's much here that will fit you. Have to do the best you can."

Edward began to undress. “Sir, you said the guv'nor was killing time in Africa. My uncle Roland accused him of engaging in devil worship because—"

"Terminology depends on whose side you're on. One man's god is another man's devil. I'll explain about your father later.” Creighton was rummaging through heaps of garments.

"And where does Christianity fit into this?"

"Anywhere you want. Good King George and his cousin the Kaiser worship the same god, don't they?” Creighton held up a pair of pleated black trousers and frowned at them. “Britain and Germany pray to the same god. So do the French and the Russians and the Austrians. They all trust him to grant victory to the righteous, meaning themselves. Here—these look like the longest.” He handed them over. Then he selected a pink-and-blue shirt and wrinkled his nose.

"Something wrong, sir?” Edward inquired, discovering that the pants did not reach his ankles.

Hrrnph! “Just wondering about, you know, cleanliness."

"I don't think you need worry. They will. You must be paying them handsomely? Or Head Office must be?"

Creighton shot him a glare that would have softened horseshoes. “Just what're you implying?"

"Well, anything that's been worn by a gorgio will be mokadi, and will be burned as soon as we leave."

"What?"

"Mokadi—ritually unclean. In fact I suspect they'll burn the whole wagon."

"Burn the?...” The hazel eyes scowled out from under hedges of eyebrow in the sort of glare Edward had not faced since he was one of the crazy imps of the Fourth Form. “What the devil do you know about Gypsies?"

"They quite often camp at Tinkers’ Wood, sir, near the school,” Edward said blandly. “A family named Fletcher.” He reached for a rainbow-embroidered shirt.

"Out of bounds, I hope?"

"Er, yes, sir."

"They're swindlers and horse thieves!"

"Oh, of course!” Fascinating people—even as a prefect, Edward had sneaked out at night to visit them. “They'll steal and lie and cheat any gorgio who comes within miles. That's just their way. But isn't it also true, sir, that they've been known for centuries as the finest spies in Europe?"

A reluctant smile twitched the corner of Creighton's mouth. “I daresay."

"The true Rom are about the most fastidious people in the world.” Edward was enjoying this. “They make high-caste Brahmins look like slobs."

Hrrnph! “I suppose their fleas are frightfully pukka, too?"

"I doubt if they're as fussy, sir."

Creighton laughed approvingly, and proceeded to dress. Edward wondered if he'd just been tested in some way....

"You feel spooky at all?"

"No, sir. Should I?"

"This is a node, I think."

"It is?"

"Well, of course here I'm no more certain than you are. I can always detect virtuality on Nextdoor, but here's trickier. The Rom prefer nodes for campsites, for obvious reasons. The headman's name is Boswell, by the way, but the real power is his mother. You look awfully sweet in that shirt. Old Mrs. Boswell's a chovihani—a witch, and a good one. Be respectful."

"Oh gosh, sir! I grant you I saw a miracle this morning. I met Puck himself, an Old One. I know I would not have believed this yesterday and it was the experience of a lifetime—but please! Do I have to believe in Gypsy witches now?"

Creighton flashed him another menacing, hazel glance. “Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon, Bismarck, Jenghis Khan.... You ever study any of those men in your fancy school, Exeter?"

"Some of them."

"They all had a lot of what's called charisma. Know what I mean by that?"

"Er, leadership?"

"More than that, much more. It's a faculty to absorb their followers’ admiration and focus it. A charismatic leader can persuade men to believe what he tells them to believe, to die for his smile, to follow him anywhere he goes; the more he demands of them, the more they are willing to give. He grows by their loyalty and induces more loyalty because of it. Generals, politicians, prophets—sometimes actors have charisma."

Creighton paused in his dressing, and sighed. “I once saw Irving play Hamlet! Incredible! Half the audience was weeping, and I don't just mean the ladies. You must believe in faith healing? Well, in extreme cases, a charismatic leader can literally inspire miracles. And a chovihani has charisma. You'll see."

Hunger and lack of sleep had made Edward short-tempered. Argument burst out of him before he could stop it. “Come, sir! Charisma is one thing. Magic's something else!"

"Is it? Sometimes it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. So you plan to enlist, do you?"

Thrown off-balance, Edward said, “Of course!” His country was at war—what else could he do? Let the beastly Prussians take over Europe? If they won, they'd attack the British Empire right afterwards anyway. They had to be stopped now.

Creighton sighed, and bent to scrabble through a pile of socks. “Well, I suppose I might have felt the same at your age. Do you know Germany has invaded Belgium? The British and French are going to try and stop them, and sheer hell is going to stalk the plains of Flanders. The oracular reports are terrifying. The last few days have darkened the entire century. But I suppose at your age you feel immortal."

"It is my duty!"

The colonel straightened up and scowled. “I think you have a greater duty, although you don't know it yet. I think I have a duty to your father to save his only son from being hanged for a crime he did not commit. But I'll make a bargain with you. My friends and I saved you from an assassin. We've rescued you from a murder charge that would undoubtedly have sent you to the gallows. We've cured your leg. I think you owe us a little something, don't you?"

Put like that, the question had only one answer.

"I owe you a lot, sir, a devil of a lot."

"Too bloody Irish you do! I'm calling in my debt, Exeter. Pay now."

"Pay what?” Edward asked grumpily.

"Parole. I want you to—I demand that you—put yourself under my orders. You will obey without question!"

"For how long?"

"One day. Until dawn tomorrow."

"That's all? Then we're quits?"

"That's all."

"You're asking for a blank check!"

"How much did you have in your account last night?"

Creighton was not without charisma himself. Edward could not meet those eyes glittering under the hedgerow brows.

"Thruppence! Very well, sir, I agree."

"Right. Word of honor, of course?"

Strewth! What did the cocky little bastard expect? Edward stared cold fury at him and said, “I beg your pardon?"

Creighton nodded placidly. “Good. Then make yourself respectable and come on out. Rabbit stew for breakfast, I expect. Or pheasant, if we're lucky.” He pushed rudely past Edward and headed for the door.

"Sir? What did you mean—"

"Without question!” Creighton snapped, and disappeared down the steps.

There was indeed stew for breakfast, and it might have contained rabbit. It certainly contained many other things, and it tasted delicious to a hungry man. Edward tried not to think about hedgehogs and succeeded so well that he emptied his tin plate in record time.

He sat on the ground in an irregular circle of Gypsies, mostly men. Woman flitted around in attendance, never walking in front of a man. The women's garb was brighter, but even the men seemed dressed more for a barn dance than for country labor. There were about a score of adults in the band, and at least as many children, most of whom were hiding behind their elders and peering out warily at the strangers. The campsite was an untidy clutter of wagons and tents and basket chairs in various stages of assembly. Heaps of pots and clothespins indicated other trades. A dozen or so horses grazed nearby, and the skulking dogs seemed to belong.

Creighton sat at the far side, deep in conversation with the ancient chovihani. Edward could hear nothing of what was being said, although there seemed to be some hard bargaining in progress. The few words he overheard near him were in Romany. He could not but wonder what the masters at Fallow would say if they could see him now in his grotesque garb. His wrists and ankles stuck out six inches in all directions. He was barefoot because he had been unable to find any shoes to fit him. The only part of his apparel not too small for him was his hat, and that kept falling over his eyes.

A slender hand reached down to his plate. “More?” asked a soft voice.

"Yes, please! It's very good."

He watched as she carried the plate over to the communal pot and heaped it again with a ladle. Her dress made him think of Spanish dancers, and she was very pretty, with her head bound in a bright-colored scarf and her dangling earrings flashing in the sun. Her ankles ... Some ancient instinct caused him to glance around then. He saw that he was the object of suspicious glowers from at least half a dozen of the younger men. Good Lord! Did they think? ... Well, maybe they were right. Not that he had been considering anything dishonorable, but he had certainly been admiring, and that was forbidden to a gorgio. Nevertheless, he smiled at her when she gave him back the plate. She smiled back shyly.

Eating at a nomad's campfire, he could not help feeling he was slumming, yet he knew that these were a proud people, and to them he was probably as out of place as a naked Hottentot at a dons’ high table in Oxford. There was a lesson there and he ought to be learning from it. The guv'nor would have been able to put it into words.

The second helping he ate more slowly, feeling sleepiness creeping over him—he hadn't really slept at all in the night. There were so many things to think about! Could he trust Creighton, in spite of what the man had done for him? He was certainly being evasive. He claimed to have visited the guv'nor at Nyagatha, and he had known about Spots. He had pointedly avoided saying where he had come from, except for cryptic references to somewhere called “Nextdoor.” He had contrasted it with “Here,” without stipulating whether “Here” meant England or all Europe. The Service he talked about—what government did it serve? Some semiautonomous Indian potentate? The Ottoman Empire? China? China was in disarray, wasn't it?

Everywhere was in disarray now, and yet Creighton had never once hinted at the possibility of the war interfering with whatever his precious Service served. And what could the Chamber be? He had certainly implied that it was in some sense supernatural; if it was, then the Service must be also.

So what on Earth did that make Nextdoor?

Replete, Edward returned his plate to the owner of the ankles and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He wanted a wash and a shave, but sleep would do for starters.

Creighton called his name and beckoned.

He walked around the fire, being careful not to step on anything sharp. Creighton was paying court to the old woman. Perhaps she really was a phuri dai, a wisewoman, but Edward knew enough about Gypsies to know that their leaders were invariably male. Furthermore, the man beside her was sitting on a wooden chair, while everyone else was on the ground. That made him unusually important. Edward went to the man.

Boswell was probably in his sixties, thick and prosperous looking, with a patriarchal silver mustache. His face was the face of a successful horse trader, unreadable.

Edward doffed his hat respectfully and said, “Latcho dives."

The man's mustache twitched in a smile. “Latcho dives! You speak romani?"

"Not much more than that, sir."

Still, Edward had scored a point. Boswell said something very fast in Romany—probably addressed to his mother, although he was watching Edward to see if he understood, which he did not.

Edward bowed and squatted down before her, alongside Creighton. She looked him over with the most extraordinary eyes he had ever seen. Her gaze seemed to go right through him and out the other side and back again. He barely noticed anything else about her, except that she was obviously very old. Only her lustrous Gypsy eyes.

"Give me your hand,” she said. “No, the left one."

He held out his hand. She clutched it in gnarled fingers and pulled it close to her face to study. He was able to glance away, then. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Creighton, who frowned. Then the old woman sighed and closed his fingers into a fist. Here it came, he thought—you will go on a long journey, you will lose a close friend, your dearest love will be true to you although you may be troubled by doubts, et blooming cetera. She was going to be disappointed when she told him to cross her palm with silver.

She was looking at him again, darn it!

"You'ave been unjustly blamed for a terrible crime.” Her voice amused him. It was straight off the back streets of London, almost Cockney.

"That is true!” He tore his eyes away and reproachfully glanced at Creighton.

"I told Mrs. Boswell nothing about you, Exeter."

Oh, really? Edward would have bet a five-bob note—if he had one—that Creighton had told the old crone a lot more than he thought he had.

"You will go on a long journey,” she said.

Well, Belgium was a good guess, and quite a long journey.

"You will have to make a very hard choice."

That could mean anything—pie or sausage for supper, for instance. “Can you be more specific, ma'am?"

Creighton and Boswell were listening and watching intently. So was everyone else within earshot.

Mrs. Boswell twisted her incredibly wrinkled face angrily, as if recognizing Edward's disbelief. Or perhaps she was in pain. “You must choose between honor and friendship,” she said hoarsely. “You must desert a friend to whom you owe your life, or betray everything you hold sacred."

Edward winced. That sounded too specific!

"If you make the right choice, you will live, but then you will have to choose between honor and duty."

"I beg your pardon, ma'am. How can honor and duty ever come in conflict?"

She turned her head away suddenly in dismissal, and he thought she would not answer, but then she added: “Only by dishonor will you find honor."

Bunk! Edward thought, more nettled than he wanted to admit, even to himself. “Honor or friendship, then honor or duty ... Do I get a third wish?"

She did not reply for a long moment. Just when he had concluded that she would not, she whispered, “Yes. Honor or your life.” Then she waved him away without looking around.

Soon the Gypsy caravan was ambling along the lanes of summer England, heading Edward knew not where. Creighton, having snared his victim with an oath of obedience, now refused to answer questions, or even hear them. Time for forty winks, he said.

"How are you at dancing?” he inquired brusquely while they were undressing.

Edward admitted he could probably manage a slow waltz.

"And how are your teeth? Any fillings?"

"Two."

"Pity.” Creighton stretched out on the lower bunk in his underwear.

"Are those necessary qualifications in recruits to the Service?” Edward clambered into the upper berth, banging his head in the process. Even with the windows open, the wagon was stuffily hot.

"Very much so,” said a smug voice from below him. “A knack for languages helps. How many can you speak?"

"Usual school set: French, Latin, Greek. A bit of German."

"You took the medal in German. How about African?"

"Bantu."

"Which Bantu?"

"Embu, of course, and Kikuyu. A smattering of Meru and Swahili.” That sounded like bragging, so he added, “Once you've got a couple of them, the others come easily. Anyone can read Italian or Spanish if he knows French and Latin."

Creighton chuckled at something. “A faculty for language helps, but you're far too young. If it wasn't for the Filoby Testament, I'd throw you back. I was looking for men in their fifties or sixties. Women even better. Didn't find any."

In five minutes the man was snoring.

37

DRAGONS HAD A NOTORIOUS DISLIKE OF WATER, BUT when Dragontrader had coaxed Starlight to cross Narshwater, the others had followed. He had relegated Sister Ahn to the fourth mount, named Blaze, and insisted that her sword be bound to its pack. There had been another fight over that, but she had yielded when he pointed out that the hilt would still be within her reach.

"What pass is this?” Eleal asked wonderingly as the procession raced northward over the grassy hills of Narshslope.

"No pass,” he growled. He was still mad. “Dragons don't need passes. Your hill straps all right?"

She nodded. In fact the belt was uncomfortably tight, but having seen Starlight scramble down a temple wall, she had a strong suspicion she was going to need it.

The sun was climbing higher, shedding real heat. Soon a valley enclosed them, providing shelter from the wind, and she began to feel warm—a rare sensation in Narshvale. A few hours’ sleep would be nice, and she remembered Gim's remark about the bread shop in Morby with regret, but obviously the fugitives must hurry on their way. The Narsh guard would discover Sister Ahn's deception soon enough.

Dragons in motion spread out and she had no one to talk with. The saddle had begun to chafe already. Yesterday at this time she had just begun plucking chickens—she cocked a mental snoot at the temple. Pluck your own fowls, Mother Ylla! The day before, the oracle had spoken, and the day before that she had unmasked Dolm. On Ankleday she had been an aspiring actor looking forward to a ride on a mammoth. Life had been very simple back then.

For half an hour or so the fugitives raced up a brush-filled valley, climbing steeply alongside rapids and waterfalls. Trees were rare in Narshvale, and no other obstacle was a hindrance to dragons. Eventually the valley curved off T'lin Dragontrader's preferred path; he put Starlight at the slope. At the top, he called a halt to let the mounts catch their breath, and they automatically closed up near one another.

Eleal was astonished how high they were already—perched on a windy, grassy ridge with all of Narshland spread out before them, cupped within the icy peaks of Narshwall and dappled by shadows of clouds. Even in summer it was more tawny than green; hard country good only for grazing. Here and there she saw the scars of mines. Gim was staring at it all openmouthed.

"Never seen it like this before?” she asked.

He shook his turbaned head. “I'm not like you. I've never been anywhere! Well, I've been everywhere down there.” He waved at the valley. “We go on picnics sometimes, Mom and Dad and the girls and me. Thunder Falls, up there. Daisy Meadow over there. You know, you can walk across the whole land and back in a day, if you own some good boots. You can walk from one end to the other in two days—Dad did, once."

Eleal would not want to try that, but a strong man probably could. “There are smaller vales,” she said helpfully. “And some larger. In Joalvale there are places there where you can hardly see mountains at all!"

Gim looked suitably impressed. “Sussland is much bigger, isn't it?"

"It's broader,” she said. “Not much longer, maybe. Lower, hotter."

"Tell me about the festival,” Gim said, but mention of their destination had reminded Eleal that she had prophecies to fulfill.

Sister Ahn was sitting as erect as she could on Blaze, one gnarled hand behind her, clutching her precious sword. Her haggard face seemed relatively content and unthreatening. Before Eleal could question her, though, T'lin Dragontrader intervened.

"Sister, I don't suppose your prophecies tell you which is the best way through this?” He waved irritably at the jagged rock and ice filling the northward sky—gray and white, with hardly a speck of green in view anywhere.

"No."

"Or whether Ois will contest our passage?"

"She may.” The nun sniffed. “She wishes to stop Eleal and myself, but you and the boy may die also. I cannot say."

T'lin uttered his inevitable snort. “Religion is such a comfort in times of need!"

"Holy Tion will shield us,” Gim said devoutly. “We are pilgrims to his festival."

"Indeed?” For the first time, Ahn showed some interest in him. “You plan to play your lyre for the god?"

"I'll enter if Dragontrader will permit me to."

T'lin snorted again. “Think you can win a rose, do you?"

"Oh, no!” Gim looked down at his boots and mumbled, “I'd be honored just to try."

The red beard parted in a toothy smile. “You might win the gold one."

The idea had occurred to Eleal a moment before T'lin spoke. Gim turned his face away quickly and said nothing.

The dragon trader shrugged, apparently regretting his ridicule. “Oh, never mind. I think we'll try for that gap there. Looks like a good place to be eaten by snow tigers."

Eleal saw her chance. “Sister, will you tell me now what is going to happen in Sussland?"

The old woman frowned, and then nodded. “Certainly! In fact I should probably give you some instructions as soon as possible, because the holy testament does not specify exactly which day the wonderful event will occur."

"Instructions?"

"Yes. There may not be time after we arrive, you see? Unless you are already experienced, of course."

"Experienced in what?"

At that moment T'lin shouted, “Zomph!” and Eleal was thrown back against the baggage plate as the dragons flashed into high speed. Whatever Sister Ahn said was lost in the wind.

The ridge curved as the valley had done; T'lin led his troupe down a steep slope and straight up the other side. Dragons were in their element in mountain terrain. Roaring with excitement, they raced one another up hills and slid down long scree slopes in showers of gravel. Eleal understood then why they stayed so far apart, and she also realized this crossing might take much less time than the plodding mammoths needed for their long trek over Rilepass. Soon the air grew cold, although the wind was not as fierce as she would have expected. Even grass became rare and gray stone stretched out everywhere.

Starlight was chief dragon, but he labored under T'lin's substantial weight. With his much lighter burden, Lightning took to challenging him for the lead position, and then the pace became fierce indeed. As T'lin had said, the old dun was wily, with a good eye for the easiest routes. The two females, Blaze and Beauty, scorned to play such foolish games and were soon left far behind.

Eventually they vanished altogether, and T'lin called a halt. Eleal rode up beside him. Starlight and Lightning belched weakly at each other, puffing clouds of steam into the wind. The dragon trader himself was flushed and grinning.

"You know what that is, Jewel of the Mountains?” He gestured at a wall of dirty white blocking the valley ahead from side to side. It was bleeding a torrent of frothy green water.

"It remarkably resembles snow, but I am sure you would not have asked if the answer was so obvious."

He nodded, uncorking his canteen. “It's an old avalanche."

Eleal looked around uneasily. On either side the valley walls rose in cliffs and scarps and impossible slopes, mostly still mantled with winter snow. At the top sunlight glinted on parapets of ice, a white frame around deep blue sky.

"Meaning this place is dangerous?"

He took a long drink. He nodded as he wiped his mouth. “If Ois wants it to be. Listen!"

She listened. There was only the dragons’ puffing and the chatter of the stream and ... a distant rumble of thunder?

"There goes another!” T'lin said with an unconvincing smirk.

They peered around, but the wall of snow prevented a proper view of the valley ahead.

"We should ride along the top,” she said. “Then nothing can fall on us."

"It might fall on us as we went up. It might fall when we were on top of it. Praise the goddess.” T'lin sighed, staring back the way they had come. “What does holy scripture tell us about squabbles between the gods?"

"Scripture I leave to the priests. I can tell you what happens in drama, though."

"So what happens in drama, Embodiment of Ember'l?"

"They usually appeal to the Parent."

"And what happens then, Wisdom?” His green eyes fixed on her with a quizzical expression she could not read.

"He sends them away. That's in Act One. In Act Three he renders judgment. Then we all come out and bow and pass the plate again."

Dragontrader busied himself replacing his canteen in his pack.

"You think that's what's happening?” she asked. “You think the Lady has gone to appeal to Visek?"

He shrugged and smiled. “I am only a humble dragon trader. You are the fountain of the arts, the Avatar of Astina. If you don't know, then what mortal can understand the gods?"

She thought over all the tragedies she could remember. “Prophecy's one of Visek's attributes. Being god of destiny, he will not allow the others to block the fulfillment!"

"Truly your insight is comforting. Have you discovered yet what the prophecy prophesies for you?"

"No. Sister Ahn was about to tell me at the last stop, and you interrupted.” And he had done so deliberately.

"It says that during the seven hundredth Festival of Tion—that's now, starting tonight—that the Liberator will be born.” T'lin raised a coppery eyebrow to ask what Eleal thought about that.

"Who's the Liberator?"

"His name is not given. He is the son of Kameron Kisster."

"Who's he, and what's a Kisster?"

The dragon trader shrugged his bulky shoulders. “I do not know these things! Perhaps it is all his given name—Kameron-kisster?"

Eleal searched his face for signs that he was making all this up, in some stupid, stupid game. T'lin might, but Sister Ahn had displayed no signs of a sense of humor, and reapers had to be taken seriously.

"Who or what does the Liberator liberate?"

"And from whom? Or from what? That is not so clear at all. The Testament implies he will be very, very important, but it sort of takes that for granted and does not say how, except for one sort of hint."

"What sort of hint?” she snapped.

"It implies he will kill Death."

"I think I would class that as an important act."

"It probably doesn't mean what it seems to mean, though. What it does say is that he will be born sometime in the next few days, in Sussvale."

T'lin had not known this in Embiliina Sculptor's kitchen, or at least had not admitted knowing it. His obvious amusement was very irritating.

"And what does it say about me?” she demanded crossly.

"Ah. Here come the others now."

"You are being deliberately aggravating!” Eleal said in Ambria's most disapproving tone.

He stroked his red beard. “I think I would wager that you do not have the right sort of experience. You had best take those lessons from the old hag at the earliest possible opportunity."

"Lesson in what?” Eleal demanded through clenched teeth.

"Delivering babies."

"What!?"

"That is correct, Beloved of the Gods. Naked and crying he shall come into the world and Eleal shall wash him. She shall clothe him and nurse him and comfort him. That's what it says about you.” T'lin shook with silent mirth, so that Starlight turned his head around and peered at him curiously. “I don't suppose ‘nursing’ means ‘suckling,’ unless there are some miracles mentioned I missed."

Personage of Historic Importance?

"That's all? There isn't any more? I don't believe you! Why would I be threatened by a reaper and imprisoned for life by a goddess if all I'm going to do is help some woman have a baby?” Let Kameronkisster go hire a midwife!

"But a very important baby! Even I was small and helpless when I was born. Beautiful, of course, because of my beard. All the witnesses agreed that they had never seen so—"

"So that's where you went last night? That's why you weren't at the camp when Gim and I arrived. You went to visit someone who has a copy of the Testament?"

Seeing a glint of suspicion in Dragontrader's eye, Eleal hastily added, “Some rancher friend, I suppose—outside the city?"

"A very shrewd guess, Goddess of Curiosity."

"There isn't any more about me, or you didn't have time to read any more?"

The other two dragons were closing in, puffing.

T'lin chuckled. “All right! No, I didn't have time to read the whole thing, or anything like the whole thing. It's a terrible jumble. There may be more about you in there—I don't know.” He turned Starlight to face the newcomers.

That, she decided, was better.

Delivering babies? Yuu-uck!

A little later, walking their heated mounts up the valley, they saw an avalanche descend in white smoke and, later, thunder. It did not come close. Just a warning, Eleal thought, a sign that the Lady was still angry. She made the sign of Tion, and probably Gim did also. Sister Ahn clasped her hands in a prayer to Astina. T'lin made a gesture Eleal did not quite see.

The ascent out of the gorge was almost vertical, it ended in a scramble up a face of sheer ice. Nothing but a dragon could have gone that way, except birds. The surface of the glacier was a jagged nightmare, blindingly bright and swept by a cruel wind. It formed a saddle between two jagged peaks, and the mountains ahead were lower.

Soon it dipped. It dipped more steeply. Then Lightning launched himself like a toboggan and went sweeping off with Eleal screaming, “Zappan!” on his back and T'lin shouts of warning fading in the distance. She was too scared even to close her eyes. Cold wind rushed past, peppering her face with gritty snowflakes. Faster and faster, and she had heart-stopping visions of hurtling out over a precipice.

She did not. The crafty old dragon seemed to know what he was doing. He came to rest in a flat snowfield far below, belching contentedly to himself and twisting his long neck to watch the others follow the trail he had laid out.

"When we get to Sussland, lizard,” Eleal said grimly, “I shall take off these accursed leggings and strangle you with them."

Going down was usually faster than going up, but Eleal—as an experienced traveler—knew that this descent would take longer than the climb, because Sussland lay so much lower than Narshland. Yet soon the snow had been left behind and what had seemed to be more snow ahead turned out to be the tops of clouds. Mist crept in on every hand, transforming the sun to a glowing silver disk and the world itself to a circle of rock no larger than the amphitheater at Suss. Always the dragons headed downward; the air grew steadily warmer and damper. The dragons had a discerning eye for the easiest path, although several times Eleal found herself leaning on the pommel plate and staring straight down while Lightning negotiated a near-vertical face. Once he turned around and descended backward, as Starlight had at the temple.

Grass appeared and eventually straggly shrubs, silvery with dew. It was still not yet noon when the first blighted trees emerged from the fog and T'lin called Starlight to a halt. The other dragons closed in, scales shining wetly, breath cloudy.

"Looks like a good spot for lunch,” he said. “Strip off the tack and let them graze, Wrangler. Food's in that pack. Wosok!"

T'lin was in a good mood. He helped Sister Ahn dismount. She was probably too stiff to have managed by herself, although she did not utter as much as a wince. He retrieved her sword and attached it to her belt; then he escorted her over to the little stream where Eleal was already gulping ice-cold water.

With both men thus occupied, Eleal slipped off into the rocks to make some necessary adjustments. Already she was far too hot, and in Sussland itself the heat would be stifling. She removed her wool sweater, replaced the smock and coat, and headed back to see what Gim was unpacking.

With the suddenness of a cock crow, the sun's disk brightened. The sky turned from white to blue as if the gods had drawn back curtains. The mist dispersed and Sussland was laid out far below like a painting, framed between two massive cliffs. Gim was kneeling with a loaf of bread forgotten in his hands, staring openmouthed.

"There it is,” Eleal said cheerfully. “Green, isn't it? Suss itself is over there. I don't suppose you can make out the city, but that bright spot is sunlight on the roof of the temple. It's gold, you know. The gap in the mountains beyond is Monpass, to Joalvale. I've been over that one lots of times. The place in the middle with all the trees is Ruatvil, but that's mostly ruins. I know—I've been there. The Thargians still call this Ruatland, did you know that? The gorge is Susswater. It's a much bigger river than Narshwater, and it flows west, not east. There's only two places you can cross it. Filoby is over there.” She pointed to the right, although she suspected that Filoby itself might be behind the mountain.

Gim nodded, then sprang back into motion as T'lin came striding over. Eleal turned to him.

"We're coming down right on top of Thogwalby, Dragontrader."

"Or will do, if we can find a way through the forest.” He flopped down on the grass and produced his knife. As he reached for the bread, Eleal sat down also.

"Aren't you going to say grace?"

T'lin shot a penetrating green glare at her. “No. I earned this. You can thank the gods or thank me, as you prefer."

Even Eleal was surprised by that, and Gim looked truly shocked, but he said nothing. Sister Ahn was hobbling over to them, leaning on her staff and weighted down with her ridiculous sword.

"What's at Thogwalby?” Gim asked. He was apparently waiting for the nun to arrive before starting to eat.

Eleal bit into a peach. “A monastery."

"Not much else,” T'lin said with his mouth full. “Green brothers. Don't allow women near the place."

"Not even these two?” Gim grinned shyly.

Dragontrader shook his head.

"Garward Karzon, god of strength,” Eleal explained. “Men go there to train for the festival.” She had never been to Thogwalby and was annoyed to hear that she might miss it this time. “Some of them stay there year after year!"

"And never see a woman,” T'lin agreed. “Lot of sacrifice for a miserable flower in their hair, if you ask me."

Gim bristled. “The principle is that all mortal achievement is transitory, sir, and the roses fade after—"

"I know the principle, lad. It's the practice that would bother me."

Gim clenched his lips and did not reply.

Sister Ahn settled awkwardly to the ground, clasped her hands in prayer, then helped herself to a slice of bread and a piece of cheese. Apparently she considered the cost of food to be included in the fare, because she did not offer additional payment. Her face was gray with fatigue.

T'lin chewed for a while, studying her. Finally he said, “Sister? We're going to come down somewhere near Thogwalby. Where do we deliver our Maiden of Destiny?"

The nun blinked her faded, filmy eyes at him. “I am not familiar with the geography, T'lin Dragontrader. The prophecies do not specify a location. I am sure the gods will provide."

"One way or the other? According to our little Toast of the World, there are at least two reapers skulking around Sussia now, and at least one of them knows her and will kill her on sight."

"Two reapers?” Sister Ahn turned her head stiffly to look at Eleal. “Tell me, child."

All the taste had gone out of the food. Eleal recounted the tale of Dolm Actor again.

The nun frowned as if worried, but did not comment. There was a long silence while everyone waited for her to finish chewing, but she just kept on and on. Dragons crunched grass in the background.

"Why don't you mention his name?” Gim asked. “You didn't last night, either."

"Because if you know a reaper, he will know you know him! I am trying to spare your life, that's all."

Gim gulped, and looked at the other two for confirmation. The nun was still chewing, staring at the ground. T'lin was frowning. After a while he said, “The convent at Filoby will take you in, Sister."

The old woman nodded, not looking up.

"And the girl also."

"Zappan to that!” Eleal said. “I did not escape from the red just to be trapped by the blue. To be a priestess is not my ambition, T'lin Dragontrader!"

"No self-respecting goddess would have you anyway, minx. You want to go to Suss and join your friends?"

"Er, no.” One of those “friends” was a reaper, and from the glint in T'lin's eye he had guessed as much.

"The sisters will grant you shelter while the festival is on, I'm sure.” T'lin popped a last fragment of cheese in his mouth. “What happens after depends on what happens during. Maybe nothing."

Life, Eleal decided, had become very much like that journey in the mist—straight down with no clear future in sight. What happened after she had delivered that unthinkable baby? Would Tion reward her when she had fulfilled the prophecy? Would the Lady bear a grudge, so she would have to wander the world forever like Hoinyok in The Monk's Curse?

"Eleal?” Gim said, “tell me about the festival.” He was smiling wistfully. Sister Ahn had drifted off to sleep where she sat, head down, a small huddle of threadbare blue cloth. T'lin had stretched out on the grass, soaking up sunshine.

"Well!” Eleal pondered. “It would take me all day to tell you everything. It always begins on Thighday evening, with a service in the temple. That's not in the city, it's outside. The next day there's the dedication. Then all the athletes go off on the circuit and the artistic events begin."

"Circuit of what?"

"Sussvale. It takes four days. They stay at Thogwalby, and Filoby, and Jogby. Every day the last few are disqualified and lots just drop out."

Gim's blue eyes widened. “Why?"

"Exhaustion, of course! Sussland's always hot as an oven. At Thogwalby they honor Garward. At Filoby they have another dedication, to lilah. She's goddess of athletes. They spend the night in the sacred grove there.” She sniggered. “One year there was a thunderstorm and they all caught colds! Next day they march to Jogby."

"What do they do there?"

"Lick their blisters."

"I mean what god do they worship?” Gim said crossly.

Eleal could not recall ever hearing of a temple at Jogby. “None! You don't have to go round by Jogby to get to Suss, so I've never been there. I suspect it's just a ploy to keep them out of the way. By the time the brawn gets back to Suss, we artists've usually got most of the individual performances out of the way, and a lot of the plays, too. The end is on Headday, of course. The roses are awarded and the winners parade into the temple to thank Tion, and all the cripples and invalids are brought in and the god performs a miracle ... What are you grinning about?"

Gim scrambled to his feet and went sauntering off as if to admire the view. Eleal went after him.

"What's the matter?"

He grinned sheepishly. “Nothing."

"Tell me! I told you about the festival!"

He was turning pink. “Oh, I was just wondering if Holy Tion looks anything like ... like Dad's statue of Kirb'l."

"He doesn't look at all! Don't you even know that? There's no image of Tion in the temple. No mortal artist could do justice to the lord of beauty."

"Oh. Dad's carving...” Gim squirmed.

"I'm sure it comes very close!"

His milky complexion reddened perceptibly. “Little monster!"

"That's what T'lin meant by the gold rose. There's one yellow rose given out, and the winner of that stands before the altar and represents Tion. He hands out the red roses."

Gim glowered. “I know that!"

"I am sure you will win the gold rose!"

She had thought that his face was red, but it had been barely pink compared with what it now turned. Scarlet spread from the roots of his hair to the collar of his smock. His misty mustache became fairer in contrast. She was fascinated. She couldn't recall ever managing to provoke such an all-encompassing blush, like a stormy sunset all over the sky.

"Go jump off a mountain!” Gim spun on his heel.

She hobbled after him. “But it's a very great honor to portray a god, and in your case you would be entering as a likeness of your father's carving. Perhaps the god is telling us that he wants your father brought here to make—"

Gim spun around furiously. “Go away and stop pestering me, little girl!"

Oo! “But I am drawn to your beauty as stenchbugs to honey—"

"Stenchbugs get stamped on!"

"But beauty should be recognized and all women—"

"What's the argument?” asked T'lin Dragontrader, strolling over to them. He had stripped down to a smock and baggy Joalian breeches, both colored like a flock of rainbow birds. His sword dangled at his belt. The little gold ring glinted in his earlobe.

"Nothing!” Gim barked.

"I was just explaining about the gold rose."

"Ah.” T'lin shrugged. “Myself, I don't think good looks are anything to brag about. But they're nothing to be ashamed of, either, and you'll grow out of them soon enough. Don't let this little queen bee get under your skin, lad. How well can you play that lyre of yours?"

"I'll show you!” Gim said, eager for a distraction.

"I'm no judge."

"I am,” Eleal said.

T'lin folded red-hairy arms. “You keep out of this, pest. Can you twang a note or two well enough to enter? Not win, necessarily, just reasonably enter?"

"Think so."

"Good. Then you'll do that. You can be our scout at the festival."

Gim frowned. “The festival is to honor the—"

"Then why are there reapers there? Your god told you to rescue this half-size bellyache, didn't he?"

Both men looked down at Eleal while she tried to think of a witty alternative to kicking Dragontrader's shins.

"I'm suggesting your responsibilities aren't over yet,” T'lin said. “We've got her here, you and me, and we've got to try to keep her alive. Or do you put your trust in Sister Ahn's swords-manship?"

Gim smiled. “No, sir."

"Ah, the old bag's awake, we can be on our way. Let's see you saddle up, Wrangler. Come, Jewel of the...."

Eleal spun around to see why T'lin was staring. She saw smoke. Something big was burning in Sussland.

38

"PIOL POET WAS PLANNING TO WRITE A DRAMA CALLED the Zoruatiad, about the siege of Ruat,” Eleal explained, “so of course that year we went there to let him look over the place. He never did write it, though. Once this was all Ruatland, and Ruat was a fair and mighty city. There was a bridge there in those days. Then came the Lemodland War. Ruatia fought for the Thargians, but the Joalians won, at least hereabouts, and Trathor Battlemaster razed the city and threw down the bridge. They made Sussby into the new capital, on their side of the river, but there's still only the two bridges, at Rotby and Lameby. So Sussby grew up to became Suss, Ruatwater became Susswat—"

"Do you ever stop talking?” Gim asked.

"Not when faced with such an abundance of ignorance in need of instruction.” That was a quote from last year's comedy, and quite witty under the circumstance, Eleal decided. She would forgive him, then. Besides, he had smiled enough to take the sting out of his words and Gim Wrangler's smile would melt a statue of the Maiden. His face was scorched by the sun already and so coated with road dust that his eyebrows and mustache had vanished altogether. The latter looked much better when it wasn't visible.

T'lin was in the lead. Behind him Sister Ahn lolled in Blaze's saddle like a bag of cordroot. Even if she was as unconscious as she looked, she was well strapped on. The youngsters were bringing up the rear. They had gained enough control over their mounts now that they could ride side by side and converse.

The descent of Susslope had been easier than Eleal had expected, following the steepest route to avoid trees and then down avalanche cuts. Those in turn had led to a sizable river, which had soon entered a cultivated valley, and since then it had been all dirt road and dust and sweat. She had forgotten just how hot Sussvale was, or else the quick descent had given her no time to adjust. She had stripped down to breechclout and smock. Her legs were getting burned. So were Gim's, because he was wearing no more than she was.

Dragons did poorly in heat, and T'lin was holding them to a gentle zaib. On either hand sun blazed on lurid green paddy fields, where brown-chested men in wide straw hats would straighten from their work to inspect the travelers, and sometimes return their waves. Eleal suspected the water round their legs would be as warm as a hot bath. Some crop she should recognize and didn't was flowering in acres of pale pink, scenting the air like custard. Once in a while the road passed through orchards of the great dark bellfruit trees, and the black shade was a blessing. Sometimes, too, watchcats would yowl from the little farms as the four dragons ran by.

In Suss itself, and in the villages, men and women dressed in smocks that were no more than tubes of cotton with shoulder straps. Here the field hands wore only loincloths. For everyone, though, the brutal sun of Sussvale made the wheel-sized straw hats essential wear. Turbans were just not adequate. T'lin outfitted himself and his companions by buying hats right off the heads of children who ran out to see the dragons. Four copper mites bought four serviceable hats, which the original owners could replace with a few minutes’ work. Even Sister Ahn made no complaint when T'lin leaned over and placed one on her head.

"We're still heading northeast,” Eleal said. “So we're not going to come out near Thogwalby at all. Probably nearer Filoby. And I wish I knew what that smoke was!"

The black pillar had not dispersed; indeed it still seemed to be thickening. It stood almost dead ahead, towering over the hills like a menacing giant. The top spread out in a sooty layer, drifting gently westward, but for most of its height it was a vertical scar upon the hot, still afternoon.

"I expect we'll find out soon enough,” she added. The side valley was about to enter Sussvale proper.

"How big is Filoby?"

To avoid saying she had no idea, Eleal risked a guess. “About a hundred homes, more or less."

Gim nodded. “Built of what?"

"Er. White stuff. Like those.” She pointed to a cluster of farm buildings.

"Adobe. That doesn't burn very well. What else is there at Filoby?"

"A waterfall."

Gim rolled his eyes and joined in her laugh.

"The Convent of Iilah,” she said.

"Describe it."

"I'm not sure,” she admitted. “I've only passed by. The buildings are mostly hidden in the trees. There's this sacred grove, you see. It's a little round hill covered with mighty oaks. The temple is quite small. All you can see is the dome and some red tile roofs."

"Tiles need beams. Anything else?"

"No,” she admitted, worried.

"Then there's your answer,” Gim said with a frown. He nodded at the smoke. “The late sacred grove."

Almost imperceptibly, the valley widened into Sussflat. The peaks of Susswall came into sight to the north, shimmering behind veils of heat haze. The rich plain was familiar to Eleal—a mosaic of orchards, bright green crops, tiny white hamlets—but she knew it must seem strange to Gim, native of a bleaker land. At times a star flashed in the distance; she pointed it out to him, explaining that it was sunlight reflecting from the temple roof in Suss itself. To the east, the ominous smoke still crawled into the sky.

Red dirt tracks between the fields led eventually to the main Filoby—Thogwalby highway, which was no more than a wider version of the same rutted trail. In this hottest part of the day traffic was light: scrawny herds being driven to fresh pasture, a few ox wagons. Once Gim cried out in astonishment and pointed to a party of men riding long-legged moas in the distance. Eleal suspected they were soldiers and was relieved to have missed them.

Eventually T'lin halted Starlight and waited for the others to gather around. “We must take a break,” he said, scowling at the mounts. “They can't take this heat.” He nodded at a hillock ahead, capped by tall trees. “Head over there; I'll catch up with you.” He rode off toward a cluster of farmhands, who were gaping at the dragons.

Normally the others would have tried to follow Starlight, but now they were too dispirited to argue. Gim persuaded Beauty to move. Lightning and Blaze followed. The trees were smooth pillars, erupting into green canopies very high from the ground. Their shade seemed dark as a cave, and nothing else grew in it.

Gim said, “Wosok!” and beamed when all three dragons obeyed him. He looked around approvingly at the grove. “Cool!"

Eleal slithered down from Lightning's saddle, feeling as old and stiff as Sister Ahn. “It isn't really. It just seems cool after the heat outside."

"You have to argue, don't you? What are these trees called?"

"Parasol trees."

"Do you know that, or are you guessing?"

"I know that, of course.” After all, she had just called them parasol trees, so they were called parasol trees by her, even if other people had other names for them. She sat down on the sand and leaned back against one of the great leathery trunks. The air did feel sort of cool. Filoby could not be much more than five or six miles away; even the flames were visible now.

Gim had helped the nun dismount. The old woman seemed barely conscious. She did not ask for her sword, which was a bad sign.

Ahn had never said that she was Eleal Singer's protector. Although the sword seemed to imply that, the nun had firmly denied that it was a weapon. Nor had she ever claimed that the Maiden had sent her, only that she was fulfilling the prophecy. The Youth had designated Gim to rescue Eleal from the temple, but had sent him no further orders, no vision of later events. T'lin Dragontrader was Eleal's guardian and keeper now. Her secret friend had turned out to be the most important person in her life. He was big and gruff, and she knew he had secrets she did not share, but she had no one else to trust. She wished she knew which god had sent him.

T'lin joined them in a few minutes. He sat down, wiping his forehead with a brawny arm. His face was as red as his beard, and he was glaring. “Well, that's the sacred grove, as we thought. Last night a large group of men went by here, heading for Filoby. Fifty or sixty of them. They joked that they were going to call on the goddess."

"What?” Eleal shouted. “You mean it was deliberate?"

"Typical Sussian atrocity."

Defile the abode of a goddess? “Who were these savages?"

Gim was frowning. Sister Ahn was slumped over, apparently barely conscious.

T'lin's green eyes were cold as ice. “The trainees from Garward's monastery, led by some of the monks. At dawn they roused the people of Filoby to join them, and they sacked the convent. Anyone who refused to help was beaten and his house destroyed."

"Why would they do such a thing, sir?” Gim asked softly.

"What happened to the nuns?” Eleal demanded.

T'lin shrugged, apparently in answer to both queries.

Despite the heat, Eleal now felt thoroughly chilled. “Last night you said there was a serious squabble in the Pentatheon, didn't you?"

"Seems I was right, then."

She was a token in a game being played by the gods. Garward was another avatar of Karzon and apparently just as much involved in this affair as Zath. The Man and the Lady were against her in all their aspects. The Youth was helping her, and now it seemed that the Maiden was on her side also—or at least on the opposite side from the Man, which must mean the same thing ... mustn't it? And the stake in this whole evil game was the Liberator, a baby.

Sister Ahn stirred and tried to sit up straight. She still wore her woolen habit, which must now be intolerably hot. Somehow her face was both flushed and haggard. After a moment she spoke in a surprisingly firm voice: “Woe to the Maiden, for the Man shall ply his strength against her. Woe to her holy place. Virgins are profaned. See blood and ashes paint the face of sanctity. The sacred place yields to the strength of the Man and only lamentation remains."

"I suppose that's part of your precious prophecy?” T'lin sneered.

She nodded, blinking tears. “It is so written in the Testament, but there is no date given. I weep to see it."

"Me too. Doesn't make any sense until it's too late, does it?” He scowled contemptuously. “We need a change of plan. The thugs are probably on their way to Suss and the festival now, but there's no point in us going to Filoby. We certainly can't risk Thogwalby after this.” He eyed Eleal shrewdly. “And we can't take you to Suss, either, can we?” He had guessed about Dolm Actor.

"Wouldn't I be safe if I took refuge in Tion's temple?"

"Would you? Would the priests let you? Besides, we must stop soon—the dragons can't take this heat.” He was looking at Sister Ahn, though, who had slumped over again in abject exhaustion.

"That only leaves one choice, sir, doesn't it?” Gim said calmly. “We go to Ruatvil."

"There's nothing there!” Eleal protested, and then realized that no-thing might be a very good thing under the circumstances.

T'lin cocked a coppery eyebrow. “Know it, do you?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Nowhere to stay?"

"Well, yes. There's a hostelry."

"And do you know the Sacrarium?"

"Of course,” she said, relieved that he had asked something easy.

"Good. Then let's zaib!"

The big man rose to his feet and headed for the dragons before Eleal had a chance to find out why T'lin Dragontrader should want to go sightseeing. It seemed out of character.

It was not true that there was nothing at Ruatvil. There were ruins, and trees, and hummocky pasture. As Eleal explained to Gim while they were riding in—repeating what Piol Poet had told her two years before—much of mighty Ruat had been built of clay bricks, and those parts had collapsed to mud once their roofs had gone. The stone buildings stood as isolated walls, broken towers, and stark, useless arches. Some families dwelt in shanties within these relics, in constant risk of death from storm or earth tremor. Other cottages had been constructed from fallen masonry and then roofed with turf, so that goats grazed on them. The result was a strangely widespread settlement, a village scattered like seed corn over the grave of a metropolis.

"I think I could have worked all that out for myself,” Gim said, looking around disparagingly.

"If you win the gold rose, the priests will make you shave off your mustache."

"What has that to do with anything?"

"I've been meaning to ask you the same question."

They were all weary. None of them had slept much in the previous night, and the journey had been hard.

Ruatvil was not completely abandoned. The main street was still wide, although its paving lay buried in grass and heaved by tree roots. A few inhabitants were going about their business—herding goats, bearing loads of food and charcoal. They all paused to stare at the dragons.

Eleal directed T'lin to the hostelry, which he would doubtless have found quite easily by himself. It brought back memories for her, yet it was smaller than she remembered. Once the building must have been some rich man's mansion or a public edifice, and the walls still stood three stories high. Now only the ground floor was in use, and sky showed through the empty arches of the windows, for the roof had long since vanished. The entrance was an imposing portico, but the doors themselves had cooked meals for persons long dead, and only their rusty hinges remained.

Piit'dor Hosteler was a large, ruddy-faced man with a gray-streaked beard and a prominent wart on his nose. Playing his role in traditional fashion, he rubbed his hands gleefully when T'lin flashed gold, gabbling at length how he anticipated an invasion of refugees from Filoby, and how the civic authorities of Ruatvil would require him to provide them with shelter, but if the noble guests were already in residence, of course, then they would not be disturbed, and fortunately his very best accommodation was still available ... and so on.

Gim was already unbuckling the straps that held Sister Ahn in her saddle. T'lin eased him out of the way. “Civic authorities!” he muttered under his breath. “Ten to one they're his brother."

He lifted the old woman bodily in his arms, her sword dangling. Piit'dor Hosteler flinched with astonishment. His joviality vanished, and he backed away until he stood squarely before the steps to his front door, all the while staring hard at that sword.

"Something wrong?” T'lin demanded.

The hosteler began to mutter about evil omens.

"All of us or none! Which is it?” T'lin was still holding the old woman as if she weighed nothing. He rolled forward menacingly.

"She is ill?"

"Merely fatigued."

Obviously unhappy, Piit'dor faltered. Daughters of Irepit must be rare in Ruatvil, but visitors with real money would not be common either. He forced an ingratiating simper. “Oh, my lord is most welcome, and all his companions. The reverend lady shall be fittingly attended.” He scurried up the steps muttering, “My wife..."

"I'll bet the ceilings leak,” Gim said.

"Yes, they do.” Suddenly Eleal began to yawn. She was too weary to relate how much it had rained on her previous visit. It had not seemed funny at the time. She thought that even a cloudburst as bad as that one would not waken her tonight, once she found somewhere to lie down.

Hayana Hosteler was even larger than her husband, boisterous and motherly, with a matching mole on her nose. She knew all the traditional business of her role—the smear of flour on the forehead, the fast shuffle on flat feet, the wiping of hands on apron—and she arrived with an entourage of several adolescent assistants. Displaying no superstitious dread of a Daughter of Irepit, she bemoaned the poor sister's distress, saw her laid on a mattress, and then chased the men away.

Furnished with a bucket of water of her own in a corner of the big room, Eleal set to work to remove the sediment of her journey. Although her inclination was just to fall over and sleep, she could not do so until Hayana and her brood stopped fussing around Sister Ahn. They were to share the same bedchamber. That mattered little; there would have been ample room for a couple of the dragons as well.

Sunlight poured in two huge empty window arches, so there was no privacy—and no security either, for anyone could approach through the woodland outside. The roof was partly composed of the original beams and upstairs flooring, now sagging badly. Where it had collapsed, the holes had been patched with tree trunks. The beds were oddly placed, obviously in the driest locations, for much of the mosaic floor was grimed by dry watercourses, relics of rain.

She had no garment other than the smock Embiliina Sculptor had given her, and it was red with dust. With her hair still damp and her feet still bare, she found herself hustled off to eat. Gim was already doing so, sitting in lordly solitude in a vast room furnished with rough-hewn tables and benches. Faded fragments of frescoes clung to the walls. His hair was as damp as hers, but he did have a clean smock. There was no sign of T'lin, who was probably fussing over his precious dragons.

Lunch—or perhaps dinner, or maybe supper—comprised heaps of fruit and hot bread and goats’ milk cheese. Gim, his new cleanliness emphasizing his sunburn, tried each sort of fruit in turn, demanding to know its name. Eleal told him, making up suitable noises when she wasn't sure. Apart from that, neither spoke much.

Eventually she could keep her eyes open no longer, although she knew the sun would not set for a couple of hours yet. “I am going to bed!” she announced firmly.

Gim donned a superior, tough-male expression. “I am going to practice my lyre, unless Dragontrader needs me."

"You can practice drums and you won't keep me awake,” Eleal said, and headed off to her room.

A mattress in one corner was invitingly empty. Another near the center bore a snoring Sister Ahn. No matter! Eleal would sleep if—Eek!

A man was peering in the window. It took her a moment to realize that it was T'lin Dragontrader in a straw hat and a drab-colored local smock. She had never seen him without his turban, and there was something odd about his beard.

"Only me!” He dropped a bundle over the sill. “Brought you something to wear. Up all night—expect you want to sleep now?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Just tell me how to find the Sacrarium."

Fogged by fatigue, Eleal regarded him blankly for a moment. He had apparently smeared his beard with charcoal, dulling its normal copper red. Why did Dragontrader want to be inconspicuous?

And why did he not just ask one of the locals to give him directions?

"You can't miss it,” she said. “Follow the main road north to the old bridge. It's east of the road, ‘bout half a mile. There's a sign, and a path."

"Oh. Good. Er ... anything you need before you kip?"

Eleal yawned and stretched divinely. “Can't keep my eyes open."

"Right.” T'lin eyed her with bright green suspicion. “If you do wake up when I'm not around ... Well, this isn't Narsh or Suss, remember. You stay here!"

Eleal walked over to her mattress and sat down, promising faithfully that she would go no farther from the hostelry than the dragons, which she could hear belching faintly.

"Just remember what happened at Filoby this morning,” T'lin said thoughtfully. “They catch bigfangs hereabouts sometimes, too."

She went on the offensive. “Are you trying to keep me away from something, T'lin Dragontrader?"

"No, no! You sleep well.” He disappeared.

Perhaps food had revived her. Perhaps it was only curiosity. Either way, she knew she could not sleep now. She rushed over to the bundle he had tossed in, discovering a smock and a pair of sandals. He would almost certainly hang around for a while and watch the window in case she tried to follow him. She changed quickly into the clean smock, grabbed up the sandals, and ran out the door. Slop slap slop slap...

39

EDWARD HAD NOT EXPECTED TO SLEEP, BUT HE DID. THE wagon was hot and noisy. From time to time he would become aware of snores, wheels rumbling, axles squeaking, and the clopping of hooves. Very rarely a lorry would go by or children would shout abuse at the hated Gypsies. Dogs barked hysterically. At such times his worries would surge in on him again and for a while he would stare at the painted slats above his nose while plot and counterplot raced around in his mind. What proof of age or identity would he need to enlist? He would not dare use his own name. His OTC Certificate would be useless and was unobtainable now anyway, back in Kensington, so he could not hope for early routing into officer training. Well, he would not mind the ranks. But how long could he conceal his identity? How long until word filtered back to Fallow and Greyfriars?

Sometime during the morning the caravan halted for a while. He did not bother to investigate the reason for the stoppage. He did not think it would be a police roadblock looking for him, but if it were, the Gypsies could handle it. They had centuries of practice at dealing with rozzers. Creighton continued to snore.

By now Alice must have heard of his disappearance. She would be worried crazy. On the other hand, he thought with much satisfaction of his uncle's reaction, wishing he could somehow take him to that hilltop grove and introduce him to Puck. He wondered how Head Office had contrived the Oldcastle sham for the last two years. A committee, Creighton had said, and yet all his letters had been answered in the same handwriting.

The wagon rolled again. He slept again.

He dreamed of his parents and awoke shaking.

In the dream they had been sitting on the veranda at Nyagatha, writing a letter together like a committee of two, and in the way of dreams he had known they were writing to him.

That Jumbo letter was what was bothering him. It tied in so well with what Creighton had told him! Without it, he probably would dismiss all of the colonel's story as rubbish—mended leg or no mended leg.

"I see you're awake at last.” Creighton was stripped to his undervest, shaving with a straight razor. “Was that the sleep of the just, or just sleep?"

"Yes, sir,” Edward said, with what he thought was admirable self-control. He felt limp and sweaty in the noon heat. There was no room for him to climb down. The wagon was still moving and he might jostle Creighton and make him cut his throat. The man was infuriatingly tight-lipped, but that would be going a bit far.

The wagon lurched as Creighton stooped to see in the looking glass, preparing a stroke. He cursed under his breath.

"Will you tell me where we are, sir?"

"Halfway to where we're going. We'll be there tonight."

"And where is that?"

"Stonehenge."

Edward sensed a leg-pull and then realized. “A node, of course?"

"The most powerful in Britain, so I'm told."

"And who do we meet there? Druids?"

"Druids? I suppose they would have used it, but I suspect it was ancient even in their time.” Creighton aimed another stroke at his neck. Apparently he was in a more informative mood now, for he carried on talking as he wiped the razor. “It has no resident genius now, so far as I know—so far as my friends in Head Office know. Nodes have another purpose, many of them. They can be used as portals."

He had just confirmed something Edward had been afraid of.

"Portals to where?"

"Various places. Most of the European ones connect with a territory known as the Vales, but that may just be a peculiarity of the keys we know—something to do with the languages or the cultural trends in rhythm. Try this.” He laid down his razor and beat a rapid tattoo on the table. “Can you do that?"

Edward reached up to the roof in front of his nose and repeated the beat.

Creighton whistled. “First time? That was perfect, I think. Do it again."

Edward did it again, wondering what the catch was.

"Let's see if you can do the whole thing then!” This time Creighton repeated the refrain and continued drumming. The whole thing was long and extremely complex, but obviously just a series of variations and syncopation. Edward played it back to him exactly.

"Exeter, you're a wonder! How the deuce did you manage that? I thought it would take you all afternoon to get it."

"I was raised in Africa. The natives have far more complicated beats than that. Try this one.” His fingers were rusty, and it really needed two drummers, but he managed a fair imitation of one of the simpler Embu rhythms.

Creighton listened in silence, and then suddenly laughed. It was the first real laugh Edward had heard him utter, a raucous bray. “I could never come close! Well, that takes care of one problem. How are you at learning stuff off by heart?"

"Average, I suppose."

"Modesty? You played the king in Henry V. That's a tough part."

"How did ... You read my letters to Mr. Oldcastle?"

"A summary of what you've been up to.” Creighton seemed to have forgotten that half his face was coated with soap. “Repeat this:

"What's it mean?"

"Lord knows. It's in no known language. Probably older than the pyramids. Try it."

That was tougher. It took him several tries and repeats.

"They go together, don't they?” he said. “What's the melody?” He began to sing the words to the beat.

"Stop!” Creighton barked. “Do not mix the ingredients until I say so!"

"Sir?” Edward wondered yet again if the man was crazy.

"Beat, words, melody, and dance. You must learn them separately. Together they're a key."

"A key to what?"

"A key to a portal, of course. I hope it's one of the keys to Stonehenge. Let's try the next verse."

"A key to a portal to where?” Edward said angrily.

"Obedience without question! Second verse—"

"Sir!

They glared at each other, but Edward was so riled now that it was Creighton who looked away. He smirked into the looking glass and picked up his razor again.

"The keys are all very ancient,” he remarked cheerfully. “Shamanistic, most of ‘em. Been used for thousands of years. We've got a chappie at Olympus who's made quite a study of them, trying to figure out how they work. Not all keys work at all nodes. In fact we know how to work very few of them as portals, and not all of those lead to Nextdoor, although most of them do—that's why it's called Nextdoor, I suppose. The European ones are definitely biased in favor of the Vales and vice versa, he says, but there are exceptions. There's one in Joalland itself that connects to one in New Zealand. Does that surprise you?"

"No,” Edward admitted. “And another in the Valley of the Kings?"

Creighton cut his cheek and barked out an oath that would have had any boy at Fallow sacked on the spot.

"What do you know about that?"

Apparently Edward had poked a very sensitive tooth, which he found highly satisfying. “It's sometimes called the Valley of the Tombs of Kings. Near Luxor. A bunch of pharaohs were buried there."

Creighton glared, blood streaming down his neck. “Answer my question, boy!"

"Will you first answer some of mine?"

"No, I will not! I am not playing games!” He was, though. “This is a matter of life and death, Exeter—your death, certainly. Possibly mine too. Now tell me how you learned of the Valley!"

Reluctantly, Edward conceded. “A letter my father wrote just before his death, sir."

"Where did you see this letter? Where is it now?"

"Back at the hospital."

With another oath, the colonel took up a perfectly good shirt and dabbed at his cut. “Who was he writing to? Not you."

"No, sir. A chappie called Jumbo. The letter was never sent, obviously. I found it in his papers last week."

Creighton grunted. “Well, you're right. Jumbo is one of us. There is a portal in Egypt. Now the opposition may learn of it! Damn it to hell! I wonder if I can send a telegram from one of these villages?” He glared wordlessly at the shirt.

"I expect the police will impound my belongings, sir."

"You think that will stop the Blighters? Well, you didn't know; it's not your fault. The Luxor portal is handy because it leads directly to Olympus. Some others do, but they're better known. This key I'm teaching you usually leads to somewhere in the Vales. What else was in that letter?"

"I think,” Edward said icily, “that you cheated."

"Absolutely unthinkable,” Creighton told his reflection blandly.

"I think that when my parole ends, you will have made it impossible for me to enlist!"

"Did I ever say I wouldn't?"

"That,” Edward snarled, “is hairsplitting! Bloody lawyer talk!"

Creighton made his Hrrnph! noise and glared again. “And that is insubordination!"

"You extracted my word of honor. Where's your honor?"

"Insolence! Impudent puppy!"

They were both shouting now.

Edward swung his legs around, dropped to the floor, and straightened up to confront the colonel. He cracked his head resoundingly against the roof, seeing blue flames.

Creighton snorted mockingly. “See? You can't even stand on your own two feet. You're a dead man without me around to save you, Exeter. You'd never get into uniform. The Blighters will track you down, and this time they won't beat around the bush. They'll snuff you like a candle."

Edward sank down on a suitcase to massage his scalp. Trouble was, he had every reason to believe the maniac. “One of the first things I heard you say, at the hospital, was, ‘He cannot cross over with that leg.’ Cross over to where?"

Not getting an answer, he looked up. Creighton was regarding him sourly. Then he shrugged. “Nextdoor, I hope. Nobody's ever tried Stonehenge before, that I know of, but we'll have to risk it. If it doesn't work, we'll head over to the big circles at Avebury and try there. All our usual portals in England will be under surveillance. According to the Filoby Testament, my lad, you arrive at one of the nodes in Sussland, which is in the Vales, on Nextdoor. We must trust the prophecy."

"On Nextdoor? Not in Nextdoor? Nextdoor's an island?"

Creighton turned back to the looking glass. “No,” he said. “Not an island. Nextdoor is a lot more than an island."

"And that's where the guv'nor was living before he came back to New Zealand? The missing thirty years when he did not grow old?"

"You're a sharp little nipper, you are!” Creighton said. “Give me that first verse again."

40

SUSSWATER WAS SAID TO BE THE LEAST NAVIGABLE RIVER in the Vales. Muddy yellow, it roared along the bottom of a canyon whose sides were hundreds of feet high and usually sheer. In only three places was it narrow enough to bridge, and the bridge at Ruat had been the first and most splendid. When Trathor Battlemaster had laid siege to the city he had begun by throwing down the stone arch on the north bank. The south arch still stood, a notable landmark dangling vestiges of its ancient chains and straddling a paved road now trod by none. From its base the towers of Suss were clearly visible to the north, the sun glinting on the roof of Tion's temple. They seemed but an hour's stroll away, yet it would take a strong walker all day to reach them. The citizens of Suss had blocked any effort to rebuild the bridge, lest Ruatvil rise again as a rival.

So Piol Poet had said.

The Sacrarium must once have been a noble and imposing monument, standing by itself near the edge of the cliffs. It was revered as the oldest holy building in the Vales, its builders long forgotten. Even Trathor had not dared violate a temple so sacred, but time, storm, and earthquake had done it for him. All that could now be seen was a pentagonal platform of giant blocks bearing remains of a circle of pillars. Many were represented only by their bases, less than a dozen still retained their full height. What sort of roof or lintels they might once have supported was unknown, and theologians could not explain why they had originally numbered thirty-one. Pilgrims still came, although rarely, and devout persons had kept the inside of the circle clear of rubble. The surrounding land had been too holy to plow; it had grown a forest instead, and now the lonely ruin was buried in jungle.

Eleal was confident she could find a shortcut. Rather than follow the old highway and the pilgrim path, she would head directly northeast until she reached the edge of the gorge and then approach the Sacrarium from the other side. Holding her hat on with one hand and her sandals in the other, she ran barefoot through the grassy woodland of Ruatvil, skirting its stony ruins. A few young goatherds watched her, but no one challenged her or jeered at her awkward lope. Puffing and sweating in the heat, she came to the woods and realized her error. She had forgotten how dense the jungle was.

Thorns and brambles became so thick that she was slowed to a stumbling walk. Masses of stone lay hidden everywhere. She found the way hard going in sandals, but she forced her way through, being as quiet as she could. Her hat kept catching in branches; she took it off and carried it in front of her to shield her face from twigs. The grove was utterly silent in the heat of the afternoon. Not a bird sang. Even insects seemed to be sleeping.

Then she discovered a stream by almost falling into it. Where had that come from? It crossed her path in a deep gully, whose sides were muddy and crumbly. She slid and floundered down to the water, and was infuriated to discover that it was flowing from right to left. As far as she could remember, the pilgrim path never crossed a creek, so she must be on the correct side already. She struggled back up again, and set off to follow the gully—it could only flow to the river, and the cliff.

It certainly did not flow directly to the river. It wound and twisted until she lost all sense of direction and began to think that the sun was setting in the east. Her legs shook with weariness; her hip ached fiercely. Soon she was tempted to turn back and forget stupid T'lin Dragontrader and his idiotic interest in ruins. Trouble was, she would have to follow the stream all the way.

In the distance, someone began whistling a solemn refrain. She halted and listened. It was not a tune she knew. It stopped suddenly. She started to move again, heading in that direction. Soon she saw steps rising out of the undergrowth, the edge of the plinth. Directly above her stood a stub of stone pillar as thick as a man's outstretched arms and furred with dense ivy.

She heard a murmur of someone speaking.

Step by step she approached. When she reached the base of the mossy, crumbling stair, the voice was clearer, and apparently coming from just behind that same pillar. Barefoot again, she tiptoed up until she stood beside its ivy-coated bulk, and then she could make out the words.

"...the boy to bring her to my camp. I went and told my men to expect them. Then I went back into town and reported to Narsh Prime."

T'lin himself!

That was better. Eleal eased around the curve of the stone like growing moss.

A man chuckled. “And what did he make of all that?"

A Thargian! He was speaking Joalian, but the guttural accent was unmistakable.

T'lin again: “He thought the Service would be interested."

"He was right, of course."

T'lin sighed. “Glad to hear that! Well, we thumbed through the Testament—as much as we had time for—and found her name, as she had said. Funny, that! I've known the brat for years and never guessed she was anyone of consequence. She's an incredible little busybody. I always thought she might make a good recruit when she's older."

"Sounds like she might."

"Well, Prime agreed I ought to bring her if I could. When I got back to my camp, I found the kids had arrived safely—much to my surprise. So I loaded them up on mounts. What I hadn't realized was that the old nun was skulking in the herd. I geared up my own dragon and turned my back for a moment. Before I knew it, she'd scrambled into the saddle and taken off.” He paused, then added diffidently, “In the end I had to bring her also."

The other man chuckled. He sounded quite young. Peering with one eye around the pillar, Eleal made him out. He was seated on a fallen block of stone, his back to her. T'lin must be at his side. They were facing into the empty paved space within the Sacrarium.

"I'm not surprised! The Filoby Testament has turned out to be astonishingly accurate. It said the girl would come with a blue nun, so she came with a blue nun. Only a miracle could have prevented it."

"It's a miracle I didn't strangle the old witch!"

The Thargian chortled loudly, as if that were a good joke. “Violence is not advisable with her kind!"

Eleal eased herself a few more inches around the ivy so she could watch with both eyes. The two men were sitting in shade, and had removed their hats. The Thargian was as tall as T'lin, but he was leaning back on his arms, and they were sinewy, youthful arms, well burned by the sun. He was a much younger man. His hair was black and when he turned his head she saw that he was clean-shaven.

He wore a small gold circle in his left ear!

"She's back at the hostelry now, sir,” T'lin said. “So what do I do with her?"

Sir? T'lin Dragontrader addressed this stripling as Sir?

"Good question!” The Thargian straightened up and ran his fingers through his hair. “What do you get when you cross a wallaby and a jaguar?"

T'lin said, “Huh? Oh! ‘Fraid I don't know, sir."

"That's all right. Just means there are some things I'm not supposed to tell you. Don't feel slighted, now! I'm sure you have secrets in the political branch that I don't know. This is a religious matter, that's all."

T'lin uttered his familiar snort. “I had gathered that! Subversion and infiltration I can understand. I'm totally out of my depth with something like this."

"You're not the only one, believe me! How much have you put together?"

"Very little. There's supposed to be some child born in Sussland during the festival. The girl delivers it. The Karzon and Eltiana faction is trying to prevent this. Tion and Astina seem to be in favor. I gather the Service is in favor also?"

The younger man grunted. “We are. Zath and Ois are opposed, certainly. Karzon and Eltiana, probably. But don't ever trust Tion! He plays his own dirty games."

Eleal gasped. Blasphemy!

"Tion sent the boy to rescue the girl,” T'lin demurred.

"Kirb'l did, you mean! I shudder to think what his reasons may be. Kirb'l is an outright maniac. Astina herself is staying out of things at the moment."

"That was her grove got burned this morning."

The Thargian sighed. “No! That was Iilah's grove. Iilah is more or less on our side—or she was. She may be dead now. Listen, I'll tell you some things I'm not supposed to, so be discreet, all right? The priests’ theology is totally muddled, understandably. Their idea of five great gods, the Pentatheon, is a useful simplification, but it has definite limits. Yes, the five are all very powerful—Visek, Karzon, Eltiana, Astina, Tion. But some of the others carry a lot more weight than you'd expect, and their loyalties are not always what you'd expect either. All the aspect-avatar business is stable washings. Iilah is not Astina; Kirb'l is not Tion; Garward is not Karzon! Ois is not Eltiana, either. She's an utter bitch, that one, with her ritual prostitution—and immensely powerful because of it, of course. She probably can cause avalanches as she claims. For all his patronage of art and sport, Tion is just about as depraved as she is."

This was foul, foul heresy! Why was T'lin Dragontrader listening to such blasphemy?

"Fortunately,” the stranger added, “they don't all support the Chamber. There's some decent types, and a lot of fence-sitters."

After a moment, T'lin laughed ruefully. “And I thought politics was complicated! Thargdom's going to annex Narshia, you know. Any day now."

"Doesn't surprise me,” the Thargian said. “And the Joalians won't stand for it. Idiots! But that doesn't matter much compared to this. Wars come and wars go. The Liberator may turn out to be far more important than any war. You arrived in Sussland after dawn?"

"Well after. After noon."

"Ah! Garward's mob sacked the Filoby grove before that. So he didn't succeed."

Silence followed. Eleal resisted a temptation to scream. She was relieved when T'lin said, “Succeed in what?"

There was another pause then. The Thargian bent over and produced a bottle from near his feet. He drank and passed it to T'lin. “I'll have to explain a few things. First of all, the birth thing is a misinterpretation. We're not expecting a baby. This Liberator the Testament mentions will be a grown man."

T'lin chuckled. “My young friend will be relieved. She did not enjoy hearing she was going to be a midwife."

"Don't tell her any of this!” the Thargian said sharply.

"Of course not, sir. I won't tell anyone."

"Right. She has to act on her own volition. If she knows what's expected of her, she may do the wrong thing altogether. Not that I know what is expected of her either, so it probably doesn't matter, but we mustn't risk upsetting the prophecies now. The Chamber's been trying to do that for years, and whatever they want we don't want, if you follow me.” He paused again. “That's why Garward sacked Iilah's grove this morning—he wanted to break the chain of prophecy. I think he just strengthened it. He's a headstrong bully and none too bright."

This was a god he was insulting!

"Nevertheless,” the blasphemer continued, “the Chamber has much greater resources in this than the Service does, Seventy-seven. Zath is deeply involved, for one."

"Death!"

"The person who claims to be Death. The Liberator sounds like a personal threat to him."

"He's got a couple of his reapers here, apparently."

"More than just a couple. We're pretty sure he's done a foreseeing of his own—he's plenty strong enough to risk it. He probably knows exactly where the Liberator is going to arrive, and we don't.” The young man laughed ruefully. “At least we didn't until you came. I thought I had an easy watch here, and now you've thrown me right in the thick of things."

"Bringing the girl, you mean?"

The Thargian made an affirmative sound as he tipped the bottle again.

"I should have left her at some handy farmhouse and come on alone!” T'lin said, sounding annoyed.

The other passed him the bottle. “Maybe. Maybe that would have fouled up everything—who knows? Why did Narsh Prime send you here, to Ruatvil?"

T'lin wiped his lips. “Didn't. He suggested I go to Filoby and report to Thirty-nine. He mentioned this place as a backup. Said there was sure to be someone from religious branch here."

He tried to pass back the bottle and the Thargian said, “Finish it. See, as far as we know, there's only six places in Sussland where the Liberator can realistically be expected to appear. Tion's temple is one, the Thogwalby monastery's another. If he picks either of those, the Chamber's got him and he's dead meat. We were banking on Iilah's grove at Filoby, because she'd have sheltered him. Probably she would. Garward's taken care of that possibility! You can bet your favorite organ that he's left some henchmen there to look after matters if the Liberator does arrive. There's a roadside campground just outside Filoby that has loads of virtuality..."

"Loads of what?"

"Forget that. I just mean it's another possible choice. That leaves this place, the Sacrarium, and another node ... place, I mean ... up in the hills near Jogby. That was our second choice, after Filoby, because it's unoccupied."

"You've lost me, sir."

"Nothing there, I mean. No temple or shrine. Too obvious, perhaps? Well, never mind. Question is what to do now. The festival starts tonight."

He thought for a moment. “First, you've got to dump the boy. If he really is a Tion Cultist, then Kirb'l may have marked him in some way. So give him some money and send him off to the festival. That's easiest. After that, he can fend for himself. He'll never be any good to us. There's still a couple of hours of light. Take your dragons over to Filoby and see if you can help ferry survivors to Rotby. Go back and forth several times. You've drawn attention to this place with the dragons, so you'll have to try and muddy the waters."

T'lin seemed to swell. “They're tired, sir!"

"Kill ‘em if you have to and put it on your expense account!"

The dragon trader subsided again. “Yes, sir."

"Sorry, but the stakes in this are higher than you can imagine. Leave the girl at the hostelry."

"I'd best keep her away from this place, you think, sir?"

The young man laughed. “You can try, but I'll put my bets on the prophecy."

Eleal liked him a little better for that remark. She was fighting an urge to walk out and ask T'lin if he'd had any trouble finding the Sacrarium, just so she could see his face.

The Thargian stretched his ropy arms and yawned. “We've got a courier coming round tomorrow on a fast moa, so I'll pass word to the others and hope they can spare me some reinforcements. It's not likely. Got all that?"

And again the strangely humble T'lin said, “Yes, sir."

"It's a pity the Chamber identified the mysterious Eleal before we did, but perhaps our turn is coming. I suppose there couldn't be two Eleals, could there? She sounds too young."

"She's twelve, I'm sure."

"Mmph! Mostly she just appears in the bit that sounds like delivering a baby, but another passage says she will be the first temptation. Little hard to relate temptation to a twelve-year-old, isn't it?"

T'lin uttered a dragon snort. “There's many a time I've been tempted to thump her ear, sir!"

I will get even with you for that remark, Dragontrader!

The Thargian chuckled. “How about cavemen, then? You haven't run into any cavemen in your adventures, have you?"

"Cavemen, sir?"

"One of my favorite verses: Many mighty shall go humbly, even as Eleal took him to the caveman for succor, then they are going mightily again. That's about average for clarity."

"It doesn't mention the Liberator."

"No, it may have nothing to do with him at all. Or it may refer to events years from now, because there's lots of unrelated stuff about him: The-Liberator-comes-into-Joal-crying-Repent! sort of thing. But Eleal is only mentioned four times and that sounds like she is still helping the Liberator, so it may be relevant to what's about to happen this fortnight. Just wondered."

"No cavemen,” T'lin growled. “I wouldn't like anything to happen to the kid, sir."

"Nor I,” the Thargian said, rising. He was very tall and skinny. “But you could put the whole Joalian army around her and it couldn't protect her from the Chamber. Until the Liberator himself arrives, she's the obvious weak link in the chain. If Zath's reapers find her, she's dead. Nobody in the world could do anything for her then."

T'lin rose also. “The saints, sir?"

The younger man cleared his throat harshly. “Ah, yes. Well, of course we must pray to the saints to intercede with the Undivided. Come over to the tent and..."

The two men strolled away across the bare stone floor of the ruined temple. Eleal heard no more.

41

ELEAL STUMBLED DOWN THE STEPS AND PUSHED OFF INTO the bush.

The enormity of what she had overheard stunned her. She had trusted T'lin Dragontrader! Gim was only a boy, Sister Ahn a senile maniac, but she had thought that T'lin was a strong man and reliable and a friend. Now she knew that he bore no loyalty to her at all, except some vague idea of one day enlisting her to work for his diabolical “Service,” whatever that was. Her last protector had failed her.

T'lin had taken orders from the Thargian. He had not spoken out against the blasphemy. He was probably a Thargian spy himself! Eleal had never pondered her own political convictions very deeply. Had she been forced to declare her loyalties, she would probably have claimed to be a Jurgian, because she spent more time in Jurg than anywhere else and she liked the king, who clapped when she sang for him. She approved of the Joalians’ artistic principles and the concept of Joaldom, which gave peace to the lands she knew, and she had always heard bad things about the Thargians and their harsh military ways. Spying for them seemed like betrayal.

Her religious loyalties were in no doubt at all. Tion was lord of art and beauty. Ember'l, the goddess of drama, was an avatar of Tion. So was Yaela, the goddess of singing.

The Thargian had done one good thing, though—he had unwittingly told Eleal a lot about the Filoby Testament. She would not be required to deliver any messy baby. A grown man was going to arrive—young and handsome, undoubtedly—either here or somewhere ... how? Nobody had said how he would arrive, she decided. And when the Liberator arrived, Eleal Singer was going to help him. Wash him and clothe him, T'lin had said that morning. She could do with a good wash again herself, to get rid of all the mud and perspiration. The flies had reappeared. Her smock was ripped and filthy. Her legs were so weary they would hardly hold her up.

She staggered and lurched through the thickets, stumbling over hidden blocks of stone. If she kept the sun on her right, she would come to the city.

What she would do when she arrived was another problem altogether. To return to the hostelry would be to put herself back in the hands of the despicable dragon trader and his Thargian overlord, but she had no money and no other friends. Gim would jump at the chance of going to the festival and would probably be gone before she returned anyway.

She must seek out some sympathetic peasant family to take her in and let her stay a while. She could wash dishes or something for them in return for her keep. Sew, maybe—she was handy with a needle. She would pretend to be a refugee from Filoby! My name is Antheala Battlemaster. My father is chief of the Jurgian army and loves me dearly. He plans to betroth me to one of the king's sons when I am a little older. Fearing that his enemies would strike at him by kidnapping me, he sent me to Iilah's convent for safekeeping. That had been two fortnights ago, she decided, so she had not had time to learn very much about the convent, in case she was asked. The green monks had arrived at dawn and there had been terrible shouting and raping and she had fled out into the dark and had walked all day until...

She stepped where there was no ground. Her short leg betrayed her, and she pitched forward through the shrubbery—smashed her shoulder into something—twisted her ankle—screamed—landed hard on her side—rolled—fell again—banged her head—slithered down a steep hill—pitched into a torrent of icy-cold water—was twirled around, thumped against a rock or two, and then wrapped around a submerged tree trunk. She flailed wildly, struggled against the deadly press of the current, and finally managed to get her head up. Spluttering and gasping, she could breathe again. She would freeze to death. How could water be so cold in this hot land? She shook her ears dry and was horrified by the roar of the stream. She must be very close to the edge of the canyon, and might even have been swept into a waterfall had she not caught on the tree.

Struggling back to the bank was fairly easy. Clambering up the long, steep slope was not. Near the precipice, the little brook had dug a canyon of its own, narrow and dark. Eventually she hauled herself up into the bushes and just lay there, sore and cold and shaking.

Tion! she thought, Tion, lord of art and youth, hear my prayer. I do not believe what those men said about you. I do not believe in that heretical Undivided god of T'lin's. Tion, save me!

After a while she concluded that her sufferings were not going to elicit a miracle. Perhaps Tion could not hear her prayer over the racket of the stream. Bigfangs had sharp hearing. The sun was close to setting. She tried to imagine climbing a tree to sleep in. She would surely fall out, and a tree would be a very uncomfortable bed anyway. Scrambling wearily to her feet, she set off along the edge of the little gorge again, limping through the prickles. The stream had stolen her sandals, but it would guide her back to Ruatvil. Thorns tugged at her smock and scraped her limbs.

In just a few moments there were no more trees ahead, only shrubs, with the sky above them. She had reached the town already! She could see the peaks of Susswall glowing pink, and off to the right, just rising clear of them, the green disk of Trumb. When Trumb rose shortly before sunset, he was due to eclipse. Reapers...

As she pushed her way out of the last of the bushes, her foot came down on nothing. Everything happened in a flash and yet seemed to take hours. She yelled in terror; she grabbed at a shrub; the ground crumbled away beneath her heel. She realized where she was—gazing at the sky, she had not been watching where she was going. She had climbed out of the stream on the far side, and followed it the wrong way. Her seat hit the ground and seemed to bounce her out into space. Her right hand had hold of something. The left joined it.

Her shoulders struck rock, skidded, and stopped. The one green cane she clutched so tight had bent double, like a rope, but not broken—yet. She dangled from it, a sharp edge digging into her back, her arms above her head, and her legs flailing in empty air. Hundreds of feet below her, muddy Susswater roiled in its canyon.

"Help!” she screamed. Then she just screamed. Off to her left, the stream emerged from its narrow gorge and sprayed out in a shiny cataract that faded away to the river below. It was much louder than she was.

There was no one around to hear her, anyway.

Her feet could find no purchase; nothing at all. The cane was liable to come out by the roots any minute, and her hands were crushed between it and the rock, so she could not even free them to try and pull herself back up.

Her hands were slipping on the sappy twig.

She tried to swing a leg up to the rock, but it wouldn't reach, and the bush made ominous cracking noises. She tried to turn over, and couldn't.

"Help! Oh, help! Tion!” Her cries were a croak: she could not breathe against the pressure on her back and her arms were about to pull out of their sockets.

I don't want to die! I don't want to fulfill any stupid prophecies! I am only twelve years old! I don't want to deliver babies or wash grown men or do any of those things! I don't want to be a holy whore for Ois. I don't want to be a Historic Personage. I don't want to be killed by a reaper! I just want to be Eleal Singer and a great actor and faithful to Tion and beautiful! I didn't ask for all this and I don't want it and it isn't fair! And I don't want to die!

Then strong fingers gripped her wrist and hauled her upward.

42

THE THARGIAN HAD MENTIONED A CAVEMAN.

Eleal had found him.

Where the stream neared the great canyon of Susswater, it had undercut its bank on one side, to make a hollow roofed with rock and paved with sand and fine gravel. Ferns masked the entrance, so no one would ever find it. Someone had planted those ferns. Someone had made the shelter deeper and fitted it out with a little hearth, a bed of boughs covered with a fur robe, a store of firewood, a few misshapen jars and baskets. Someone was living there.

He was sitting there now with his skinny legs crossed and a crazy leer on his face. His hair and beard were white, flowing out in all directions. He wore only a loincloth of dirty fur. His skin was dried leather. In the flickering light of the tiny fire, he looked more like a bird's nest than a man.

Eleal sat on the bed, bundled inside another robe, and gradually managing to stop shaking. She was even nibbling some of the roots and berries the hermit had brought her, just to please him. She just couldn't stop talking, though. She was telling him the whole story for at least the third time.

He was not speaking. He couldn't speak.

He did not look as scary now as he had when she first saw him, but perhaps she had just grown used to him. He had explained with signs, and by writing on sand, that his name was Porith Molecatcher. He had lived here for many years—he did not seem to know how many. She was the first visitor who had ever come to his cave. He was originally from Niolland, which was many vales away. He had been a priest of Visek until he had been convicted of blasphemy and his tongue had been cut out. At that point Eleal concluded he was fantasizing. Visek's temple at Niol was supposed to be the greatest in all the Vales and hence the greatest in the world. On the other hand, she could not recall any other crime for which tongues were punished.

He was not totally without human contact. He traded skins with someone in Ruatvil for the few essentials he needed—salt and needles and perhaps others. A comb would be an excellent innovation, Eleal thought, regarding the undergrowth in his beard.

He listened to her story with mad grimaces. He frowned when she mentioned reapers, leered when she talked about crazy old Sister Ahn, and pulled faces of fierce disapproval when she described the harlots in the temple, but he might be just reacting to her tone or facial expressions.

She wondered what T'lin and Sister Ahn had made of her disappearance. They would expect her to come staggering out of the forest all repentant. Well, she wasn't going to! She could stay here, with Porith. Tion had sent the caveman to help her.

Night had fallen. The festival would be starting about now, with the service in the temple. Funny—the temple was only a few miles from Ruatvil. She might even be able to see the lights of the procession if she went out to the cliff edge. She wasn't going to, though. Of course it was on the other side of the river and to reach it on foot would be a very long day's walk.

To break the chain of prophecy—that was how the Thargian had described Garward Karzon's attack on Iilah's sacred grove. The world may be changed, Dolm Actor had said. Dolm must still believe she was safely locked up in Ois's temple in Narsh, plucking chickens—unless Zath had informed him otherwise. Who could hide from the god of death?

Well, another god could, because gods were immortal. She must not forget that Tion had rescued her from prison and sent Porith to pull her up the cliff. Tion was on her side! He would protect her still.

"Trumb will eclipse tonight, won't he?” she said, and Porith nodded, pulling faces.

Why was she so apprehensive about an eclipse of the big moon? It happened just about every fortnight, if the weather was good. Sometimes Trumb eclipsed twice in a fortnight, and then the temples were filled as the priests sought to avert misfortune. There were even stories of three eclipses in one fortnight, which meant someone very important was about to die.

She was worried over that silly rhyme about reapers filling sacks, that was all. In a couple of days, very likely, Wyseth would eclipse too, and day turn to night. That ought to be a lot more hair-raising, but somehow it never was.

She chewed another root. She must not expect first-class fare while she stayed with a caveman. Seven days would do it. If her host would let her stay with him until the end of the festival, then she would feel safe to return to civilization, because the prophecy would no longer apply.

Tion had provided the aid she had prayed for. He had brought her to this sanctuary.

What did the god want in return, though? The prophecy fulfilled? If she had been saved by a miracle, then surely it must have been so that she could fulfill her destiny. She was a Historic Personage. She was to help the Liberator—Eleal shall wash him and so on. The Liberator would bring death to Death.

Death was Zath, Dolm's god, the god who had sent the reapers after her. If Eleal Singer wanted anything, surely she ought to want to get her own back on Zath?

Trumb would eclipse tonight. The festival had begun. The Liberator might come tonight. Maybe tomorrow or any other time in the next half fortnight—by night, she thought, not by day. And Trumb would eclipse tonight.

She looked across the glowing embers and their tiny flickering flames to mad old Porith, who was hugging his knees with arms like brown ropes, and watching her through the crazy glitter of his eyes.

"I have to go to the Sacrarium, don't I?” she whispered.

He nodded.

"Holy Tion brought me here to Sussland so that the prophecy can be fulfilled,” she said, working it out. Nod. “If I am ever to succeed in my chosen career as an actor, I must do as my god commands.” Nod. “He guided my steps today so I could overhear those two blasphemers, because I learned a lot from them."

For some reason Eleal Singer had to wash and clothe a grown man and then the world would be changed.

The Liberator was coming. If she did not go and watch, she would never forgive herself. Just watch—she need not do anything.

"That horrible Ois wants me kept away, so that means I should go!” Nod. “And afterward I'll be safe, too, because I'll have played my part in the prophecy!” Nod. “The Thargian said something about, ‘until the Liberator arrives!’ He meant that as soon as that happens, then the reapers will go for him and not me!” Nod, leer. “Then I won't matter to anyone anymore. So I'd better do what I have to do and get it over!"

Nod.

"Will you come with me?"

Porith shook his head violently.

She felt disappointed by that, but of course he was not protected by any god specially and not mentioned ... yes he was! “But I'll bring the Liberator back here?"

Another violent shake—so violent that the old man's white hair and beard seemed to lash to and fro.

"It is prophesied! I told you!"

Porith cringed down as if he were sinking into the ground. He made little whimpering noises. Probably he hid in his burrow if anyone came near—it was only her youth and distress that had persuaded him to reveal his existence to her. He was a crazy old recluse.

"The Testament doesn't say I bring the Liberator to the cave!” Eleal said sharply. “It says I bring him to the caveman! That's you! For succor. So you stay here and be prepared to give succor!"

The sky was darkening, Trumb glowing brighter. She felt sick with fear, but she had known that feeling before. It was only stage fright. That thought cheered her up. This was her greatest role! Tonight she played for history and the gods themselves were in the audience! All the same, she had better get on with it or she might lose her resolve. She might even faint.

"Now, what's the quickest way to the Sacrarium? Can I walk around the cliff edge?"

Nod.

She frowned at her bare feet, already sore and blistered. She eyed the pile of furs—moleskins, she assumed. “Could you make a pair of slippers? Just furs with sort of laces, maybe, to keep them on?"

Porith leered and nodded again, but made no move.

"Well, get started, then!” she said.