Past Imperative

57

EDWARD WAS SCREWED—SCAMMERED, CORNED, FRIED, paralyzed, and plastered. Intoxicated, in other words. He had not been drinking. First there had been that explosion of adulation from the audience. Now he had been backed against a bush with worse thorns than a wait-a-bit by a gaggle of gabbling, animated women. Some of them were old enough to be his mother; some of them weren't. Some of them couldn't keep their hands off him; some of them weren't. He wasn't wearing much more than a lace doily and terrible things were starting to happen. “Thank you, thank you, that's very kind of you, well, I'd love to, but...” They kept peppering him with invitations to parties, dinners, dances until his head spun—he thought he'd already accepted at least three for Thighday. And somewhere deep down inside, under all the fizz, if he could only have an instant to think about it, lurked the certainty that he'd made an epochal blunder.

Rescue arrived in the shape of old Trong, who came barging into the melee, thundering apologies while parting the crowd like a charging bull. Assisting him was Ambria. Behind them came a bent, elderly man in sumptuous gold vestments. The admirers fell back.

"Here he is, Your Holiness!” Ambria declaimed. “D'ward Scholar. D'ward, we are greatly honored by the presence here tonight of the Holy Kirthien Archpriest.” Ambria was never serene, but she seemed more genuinely agitated now than he had ever seen her—why?

Having no idea how to greet a senior clergyman in Sussland, Edward merely bowed low. When he straightened up and saw the razor glint of mind in the age-ravaged face, his head cleared with a rush. Epochal blunder! And there was Eleal, at the old man's side. She was so flushed that her face looked fevered in the firelight; she was hopping up and down on the grass, up and down, up and down ... Worse than epochal?

A word from the Archpriest worked wonders. Trong and Ambria shepherded the spectators back, aided by a couple of younger, lesser clerics. Edward was left alone with Kirthien Archpriest and Eleal. Sweat dried cold all over him.

"D'ward Scholar?” the old man murmured. “That is, of course, merely your stage name?” His withered lips wore a smile, but his eyes were as deadly as snakes'.

"It is, er, Your Holiness. I have reasons for not divulging my identity.” He took another glance at the effervescing Eleal and knew that she had blown the gaff. She was precocious, but she would be no match for that sly Kirthien.

The priest chuckled softly. “Your performance tonight was a revelation to us, my son."

"Er, thank you, Your Holiness.” Oh, damn! damn! damn! Why had he ever been such an idiot?

"Such virtuosity can only be a blessing from the Lord of Art.” Kirthien was playing with his prey. “It behooves you to give thanks to him in person, my son. You have visited his temple recently?"

Edward stammered. “I do intend to go there ... come ... very shortly. Tomorrow, or ... Soon ... Thighday?"

"You will be welcome to ride back with us in our carriage—now."

That was an order.

"Er..."

"Oh, yes, D'ward!” Eleal cried, clutching at his hand. “You must come and give thanks to Tion and he will cure my leg!"

"What?"

"His Holiness says so!” She was beside herself with excitement and hope, terrified that he would not cooperate.

Kirthien tut-tutted. “Now, child! I made no promises! I merely said that I thought there was an excellent chance that the noble god would look with favor upon you for your assistance to the Liberator."

"Please, D'ward! Please? Oh, please!"

"I must change just a minute excuse me I will be back directly...” Edward ran.

He dodged past more of his starry-eyed admirers and hurried along the path to the shack that served as the men's dressing room, as fast as he dared go in bare feet.

Why had he been such a muggins? He should never have taken part in the play. It had felt like a way of repaying the troupe's kindness to him, even good camouflage, making him seem like one of them. He had not intended to create a sensation. The audience's enthusiasm had struck him in a tidal wave and swept him away. A rank novice had upstaged Trong Impresario, an old trouper with considerable talent and more than thirty years’ experience—but only because that novice had the charisma of a stranger. Did the old priest know of that vital distinction, or had he merely made a shrewd guess? It didn't matter now, because he had obviously extracted the truth from Eleal.

Was Tion Robin or the Sheriff of Nottingham? Did he play for the Service or the Chamber? Edward was about to find out. If he did not submit to the archpriest's orders, then the old man could summon all those efficient-looking gold-plated guardsmen. Suss was too small a town to hide in. There were only four passes out of the vale. The population was fiercely loyal to its patron god and would not harbor a fugitive. All in all, the chances of escaping from Tion now were nonexistent, even without allowing for the workings of magic. The astonishing thing, really, was that Edward had evaded detection for so long.

He reached the shack. He should have brought a lantern. A three-quarter Trumb lit the sky, but the trees were casting heavy shadows.

As he threw open the door to the black interior, someone spoke behind him: “By George, you really let the bally cat out of the bag, didn't you?"

The voice was unfamiliar, but the words were in English.

He spun around, stubbed his toe on a rock, and almost fell into a bush.

"Who?..."

There were two of them. One was a youth of his own age, or perhaps slightly younger. He was slim, golden-haired, and wearing even less than he was—wearing, in fact, nothing but an inexplicably self-assured smile.

It was the woman who had spoken, though. She was tall by Sussian standards, and her smock revealed thin arms and bony shoulders. He could make out almost nothing of her face.

"Monica Mason,” she said. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Scholar. May I have your autograph? I suspect it will shortly acquire rarity value."

He resisted a mad impulse to fall on his knees and kiss her feet. He found his voice somewhere. “Delighted to meet you, also, ma'am. You are with the Service, I presume?"

"Of course. I am usually known as Onica, by the way. What the hell were you doing, making an exhibition of yourself like that?"

"It was indiscreet."

"Indiscreet? Indiscreet, the man says!” She moved closer, and the moonlight gleamed on a hard, mannish face, framed by longish dark hair, hanging loose. She was wearing the standard local smock as if it were a coronation gown. “There are reapers in town, you dunderhead! Even if there weren't any in the audience, they're going to hear about you soon enough. And if they don't, then Tion will!"

"Tion already has! I mean his high priest or someone did. He knows who I am. He wants me to go back to the temple with him."

She snorted. “I came here to rescue you, not bury you. That is, if you want rescuing?"

"Want? Of course I do! Creighton was killed by—"

"I heard! The dragon trader told us. Well, if you want to come with me, then you'd better get some clothes on. Running around in that getup isn't going to help. You look like a bloody cherub sprouted in a dark cupboard."

Clothes ... He pulled his wits together, stifling a swarm of questions buzzing around in his head. He turned to the blackness of the shed. “I need a lantern."

"Never mind! Even a pinafore would be better than that. Grab whatever you can. Move!"

She shoved him. He stepped into the dark and promptly stubbed his toe on a stool. The youth came in after him and raised a hand. Instantly a faint glow illuminated the plank walls, the rough benches strewn with clothes, the footwear lying around the floor.

He dived for his smock and sandals. “Gosh! Is this mana?"

The boy just smiled.

Edward repeated the question in Joalian, but still received no answer. Pulling his smock over his head, he went out. “Where are we going?” Home, Home!

Mason was a rangy black shape against the moonlight. “Anywhere we can, I suppose. Zath has his dogs loose, and as soon as that priest gets word back to the temple ... He can probably notify Tion directly from here, actually. He's not on a node, but it's not far. He's bound to have some ritual or other."

Edward fumbled into his sandals. There was nothing else he needed. Naked he had come into this world; he had acquired no possessions yet. The woman turned and he began to follow ... Then he remembered Eleal. His mouth went dry and his heart froze in his chest.

"Wait! What happens if I go to the temple?"

She stopped and looked around. “Can't say. Tion may turn you over to Zath. You're not serious?"

"The girl, Eleal. She saved my life! She stayed and nursed me when I was ill, although she knew the reapers were hunting me."

"You don't ... What of it?"

"She's a cripple. The priest says that Tion will cure her limp."

Mason snorted again, a very unladylike noise. “And you have a huge honorable schoolboy lump of guilt, I suppose? Well, it's your neck. I'm leaving, and leaving pronto, because I value my skin. One reaper I might just be able to handle, if I saw him in time. Several reapers I can't, and God knows I wouldn't have a hope against Tion.” She did not move, though.

Oh, hell! He clenched his fists in agony. “Would Tion cure her? I know he can. Would he?"

"Impossible to say. He's mad as a hatter. They all are. A few hundred years of omnipotence boils up their brains."

"He's one of the Chamber?"

She shrugged. “Probably not, and he can't be very happy having Zath's killers all over his manor.” She frowned. “Tion fancies himself as a collector of beauty—pretty girls, pretty boys. He has unorthodox tastes in what he does with them. You would most likely find yourself in the temple guard, I'd think. He favors that role for tall young men."

"My preferences wouldn't matter, of course?"

"Not in the slightest. He's quite capable of turning you into a woman, if that takes his fancy, but he can do whatever he likes with you. You'll probably enjoy it, although I can't guarantee that, even. He's better than some, but I shouldn't want him as a friend."

Judging by her companion, who wandered around so shamefully in the altogether, she had liberal tastes in friendship.

"But Eleal saved my life!"

Mason tapped her foot on the path. “Make up your mind. Tion may very well appoint you a god, you know. That's what's prophesied. Whether that comes after the hanky-panky or instead of, I don't know."

"Make me a god?"

"There is no god of courage—hasn't been for a couple of hundred years. Gunuu was one of Tion's but he switched allegiance. You must know about the Testament by now, surely?"

"I haven't read it. What does it say?"

He could hear voices. Someone was coming, probably looking for him. The woman had heard them also. She glanced around as she spoke. “D'ward shall become Tion. He shall give heart to the king and win the hearts of the people. D'ward shall become Courage. That's it. Come on, laddie! Time to go."

Eleal! Blasted, meddling Eleal! Giving him the part of Gunuu had been all her idea. She had arranged the whole debacle. She must have found that passage in the copy of the Testament they had left back in Ruatvil. That was how the old priest had guessed. But...

"I fulfilled that prophecy tonight, in the play!” Bless you, Eleal!

Mason uttered a harsh bark of laughter. “Damn my eyes! I suppose you did. Actually, that's quite a relief, old man. We were worried about that one. Good show.” She took a couple of steps and then looked back. “Are you coming or not?"

Time! He needed time to think. He turned to the youth, who merely shrugged, seeming amused but not about to offer any helpful suggestions. He had not spoken a word so far.

"Good luck in your new career, whatever it is,” Monica Mason said. “Give my love to Zath, or Tion, whichever gets you first.” She disappeared into the shrubbery. The youth went with her.

"Eleal saved my life!” Edward wiped his forehead. With a crippled leg, she could never have the stage career she craved, could never enter Tion's Festival. She had braved the deadly reapers to stay and nurse him through his fever. He had always thought that honor enabled a man to choose between good and evil. He had never seriously considered that a decision might lie between two evils. Be a god? Be plaything to an omnipotent pervert?

That damnable Gypsy witch, Mrs. Boswell, had defined the conflict exactly: You must choose between honor and friendship. You must desert a friend to whom you owe your life, or betray everything you hold sacred.

Fallow had not prepared him for this.

The approaching voices were louder, just around the last bend.

"Wait!” Edward said. “Where are you going to take me? What does the Service want of me?"

There was no answer. He could hear Mason and her young friend moving through the bushes, the sound growing fainter as they retreated. He shouted, “Wait!” and ran after them.

All that nattering about courage and then he ran away.

58

THEY SLIPPED OUT OF THE THEATER AREA, APPARENTLY unseen. Trumb's green brilliance suffused the landscape, but red Eltiana and blue Ysh added a strange mix of tints to the shadows. There could be reapers ... Over the last week, Edward had almost forgotten the reapers, and now he was too tormented by thoughts of Eleal to worry about them. Mrs.—or Miss—Mason seemed to know exactly where she was going. She did not head for the city gate, but struck off down an unused, overgrown track, heading roughly in the direction of the river. He stumbled blindly along between her and the youth. Half a mile or so away, the temple dome shone points of colored light back at the moons.

Eleal was a likable kid. Her extreme nosiness was more funny than annoying. She was brave, amusing, dedicated. He owed his life to her, and now he was walking out on her. She could have what she wanted most in the world, and he was denying it to her. His betrayal might ruin her entire life.

Mr. Goodfellow had healed broken bones, which would have healed anyway. Eleal's trouble was more than that. “Could Tion cure a deformed leg, ma'am?"

"Call me Onica. Of course he could, easily. Didn't Creighton explain? Tion's a stranger, and strangers have charisma. We absorb mana. It makes us immortal, or almost so, and in large quantities gives us supernatural powers.” She fell silent to work her way through a tangle of thorny shrubs.

Edward followed carefully. The boy just pushed through as if they were long grass.

Yes, Edward had worked it out—and even seen glimmers of it in himself after he had played holy man in the campground. Obviously the effect disappeared if the stranger returned to his home world. Creighton had possessed no “authority” back on Earth, but as soon as he had returned to Nextdoor, he had been able to smite a reaper with a thunderbolt. Mr. Goodfellow had been a stranger on Earth, an immigrant from Ruatvil.

"I think I picked up some tonight—a sort of tingle? Can I work miracles?"

She shook her head. “Unless you're on a node, it's pretty much impossible to collect enough to produce physical effects."

The campground where he had faced down old Graybeard had been a node, and he'd acquired real mana there. He had used that power to learn the language so swiftly and to cure Dolm's guilt. All the same, his tongue could find no cavities in his teeth now. What should be surprising about minor repairs? The guv'nor had lived somewhere in this world for thirty years without aging a day.

Even the charisma itself was dangerous. Edward Exeter could be the greatest actor in the world if he wanted. He could pluck women like daisies. He could enter politics and be a dictator in no time. He could raise an army and conquer the world. Now he knew why Creighton had wanted older recruits—they might be able to handle this sort of power without being corrupted by it. How long would Edward be able to resist adulation on that scale? How long before his moral standards collapsed like a wet soufflé? At last he understood why the guv'nor had wanted to break the chain and prevent him from becoming the Liberator.

But Eleal! ... What sort of rotter was he to walk out on her like this?

They were past the bushes. He fell into step with Onica.

"What constitutes worship? Blood? Degradation? Public prostitution?"

She stalked on without looking at him. “Sometimes. They don't all go that far. The general principle is that sacrifice must hurt. The believer must voluntarily do something he doesn't want to do—give money or perform unpleasant acts. The greater the pain, the greater the crop of mana. Adoration works too. Tion's better than most in that regard. He bribes his worshipers with roses. He probably gains more mana from one hard-fought singing contest on his node than Zath does from any of his distant murders."

"Human sacrifice is the most powerful source?"

"With one exception. Look out for the burrower holes here."

They were closer to the temple now, and well below the city. Its roofs were a jagged blackness against the sky. Good-bye, Suss! Oh, Eleal!

"What does a god of courage do?” he asked miserably.

"He gives supplicants courage, of course. It isn't difficult to make young men behave like suicidal maniacs.” Onica's voice held traces of the adenoidal accent of Lancashire. “The fact that they're still worshiping there on a node that's been unoccupied for two hundred years shows that most of the effect is wishful thinking. As I recall Gunuu's rituals, they're quite honest. The worshiper offers blood and is granted courage, but it's conditional on abstinence. As soon as he takes a woman, the deal is off. That must bring in lots of return business in the course of a long campaign."

He remembered what Piol had told him about the monastery at Thogwalby. “The god of strength works the same sort of swizz, doesn't he?"

"Garward?” The woman chuckled. “Yes, that's a potent sacrifice! All those young men in training, right on his node, forbidden even to think about their groins. Every night the mana must just pour in. Insomnia to the glory of god! They've been at this for centuries, remember. They've worked out all sorts of twists. Why? Are you seriously—"

She stopped and listened. “Blast! We're being followed!"

"How can you tell?” He could hear nothing.

"Come on!” She began to run down the slope. He loped along beside her, stumbling more often than she did. Either of them might break an ankle any minute. The youth went out in front, jogging steadily. His lack of shoes seemed to make him more surefooted, although he must have feet like hooves to run on this terrain.

"Who's after us?” Edward panted. “Tion? Or Zath?"

"Zath. Reapers. I can smell them. Look, make up your mind, Exeter! Do you want to come with me to Olympus, or don't you? Go to the bloody temple if you want to bare your neck for Tion. Or bare anything else, for that matter."

"Would he really make me god of courage?"

"He might. It's prophesied. Strangers are in short supply, and he needs to reclaim that attribute."

Eleal! Eleal was the problem. Tion might cure her leg out of gratitude, or Edward himself would be able to as soon as he had collected enough mana. A god did not have to be evil, surely? He could do good. A few years on Nextdoor, like the guv'nor...

But the guv'nor's case was different. There was a war on now. Edward had a duty to King and Country. Even his debt to Eleal must take second place to that call. He certainly couldn't trust Tion.

Could he even trust the Service? He stumbled wildly, caught his balance. “Never mind what I want. What does the Service want with me?"

"Save you from Zath. Cameron's son."

Mana or not, she was panting harder than he was. How much farther?

"Suppose you do. Then what? Creighton told me you were divided over the Filoby Testament."

"Obviously. Oh darn it!"

A peculiar, rumbling explosion rent the night. Edward shied to a halt as he registered two huge green eyes glowing at him from the darkness.

"What in Hades is that?"

Onica had gone on to the monster and was embracing its huge head, provoking more belching rumbles. “This is Cuddles. She's a dragon. Quick! They're closing on us."

She scrambled up into the saddle. “Up here, behind me. Hang on. Cuddles, Zomph!” She held out a hand for him.

As she hauled him aboard, the saddle simultaneously shot skyward. He grabbed at the woman's arm and a pannier, was almost thrown as the huge brute launched itself forward. He caught a glimpse of two black shapes and cried out at a sudden pain in his leg like a jolt of electricity. He started to overbalance, then the spasm passed and he could grip again. A nasty pins and needles remained, but was already fading. The rush of wind in his face told him they were racing over the ground, although the ride was as smooth as the Bodgleys’ Rolls.

"All right?” the woman yelled.

"Fine. Reapers?"

"Not quite within lethal range, fortunately.” The wind caught her words and flung them past him. “They can't catch us now. You can relax."

He had been that close to death and he was expected to relax?

He shouted, “Righto!” and passed the word to his insides: relax! That was not so easy when he was perched on the rim of the saddle with a bony plate digging into his back.

Dragon? He had thought the word referred to something like a horse—T'lin Horsetrader. This thing was more like the stegosaurus in The Lost World, bigger than a full-grown rhino. She had a ridge of high plates along her back, one of which had been cut out to make room for the rider. A couple of wicker panniers were strapped to the one behind the gap. Dragon was a fitting name for the beast, though—she even had long winglike frills stretching back from her shoulders.

The monster raced along a flat, treeless terrace. Rugged hillocks and cliffs flowed by, pale in the moonlight, casting multitoned shadows. There was a gully ahead. Onica's hair kept flying in his face, and conversation was impossible. Cuddles hurtled down into the gully and up the other side with a stomach-churning lurch. They were heading east, passing the temple at a lower level.

Three or four gullies later, Onica yelled, “Hang on now. Whilth!"

The dragon swung to the left and headed straight up a fifty-degree slope. Edward toppled back, steadying himself against the panniers. He was deucedly uncomfortable. Onica had the advantage of a flat seat and stirrups.

When they reached the level again, she said, “Varch!” Cuddles dropped to a slower pace. No reins or handlebars—she was entirely controlled by voice commands and must be at least as smart as a dog.

In a few minutes Onica told her, “Zappan! Wosok!” Cuddles stopped and crouched down. “Off!"

Edward assumed that meant him, and gratefully scrambled to the ground. She slid down beside him. They were in another gully, a smaller one. It was dry and shadowed.

"Come on!” She hurried up the slope.

He strode beside her, his longer legs giving him an advantage.

The boy strolled along at his side. Edward turned to him and met the same inscrutable smile as before. He forgot what he had been about to ask.

"Well?” the woman said. “Which is to be, Exeter? The temple, or Olympus? If you want the temple, you can walk from here."

He could see it, not half a mile away, and the city beyond. “I want to go Home. To England. We're at war with Germany."

"I heard about that. We'll see you get Home, then, if that's what you want. Yes, we're of two minds about the Liberator, but if that's your decision, then I'm certain the committee will consent."

They crested the rise, coming to flat farmland. Onica headed for a clump of palmlike trees.

"Do you mind explaining what we're doing?” he asked politely.

"Wondered when you'd start wondering. I want to go west, to Lameby. I'm hoping the opposition will be deceived and give chase. We can watch the road from here."

A low stone wall ran through the grove. She sat down on it and wiped her face, puffing. “May be a long wait. They'll have to run back up to the town and find mounts."

"What sort of mounts?” Setting himself beside her, he tried to visualize a midnight chase of dragons.

"Moas."

"I thought moas were one-rider animals?"

"They are, but I suspect reapers can get around that. They probably have moas of their own, anyway."

They were in shadow, and now he could see the dirt track that was the main highway across Suss, a couple of hundred yards away. It was deserted at this time of night. The countryside slept peacefully under the light of three moons, which was much brighter than the moonlight he knew. Only a week or so ago, he had come along there with Dolm and Eleal.

Again he turned to say something to the youth sitting beside him, and again that cryptic smile distracted him.

Onica said, “Tell me what happened after T'lin escaped from the reapers."

"I arrived...” Edward told what he knew from his own blurred memories and what Eleal had recounted.

When he had done, she said, “Hrrnph! We thought you'd been knocked off, of course. I came to investigate. Arrived last night, detected reapers still around. That made me wonder if you might be alive after all, keeping under wraps somewhere."

"How did you find me?"

"Sheer chance. I saw the playbill, saw a D'ward listed. Good job I made the connection before Zath's thugs did, you bloody idiot."

A change of subject was called for. “Tell me about Olympus."

"It's in a little side canyon. There's hundreds of those, of course, but that one's a beautiful spot. We try to keep it an outpost of real civilization—it's not unlike Nyagatha, actually."

"You know Nyagatha?"

"Dropped in there with Julian in ‘02. Met you—solemn, stringy kid, brown as walnut. Could have been a native, except for those blue eyes. You'll feel right at home in Olympus. We don't fly a Union Jack, but we do dress for dinner."

Mm! It sounded as if the Service was not unlike Holy Roly's Lighthouse Missionary Society, bringing enlightenment to the heathen. The guv'nor had supported it, so it must do some good.

He asked about dragons and received a long lecture on their habits and strengths. Mason was obviously an enthusiastic dragon-lover and made them sound like the finest riding beast in the Universe. Eleal had raved about them, although without thinking to describe what they looked like. When he had learned much more about the lizards than he wanted to, he managed to ask something more relevant.

"What about Gunuu? Why is there no god of courage?"

"How much do you know about the Great Game?"

He could say, “It means the struggle between England and Russia to control Afganhistan and the Northwest Frontier, which has been going on for more than a hundred years,” and he would sound like a complete muffin. In the Vales there was a similar political rivalry between Joalia and Thargia, the major powers of the Vales, which he had privately classed as equivalents of Athens and Sparta, with Niolland, off to the north, roughly corresponding to Corinth. Obviously that was not what was meant either.

He said, “Nothing."

Onica grunted. “Immortality gets boring. The strangers compete among themselves. Earth has five great powers, right?—England, France, Russia, Germany, and Austria. So have the Vales, except here they're called Visek, Karzon, Eltiana, Astina, and Tion."

So the teams did wear colored jerseys! “Yes?"

"The priests’ doctrine of the Pentatheon is a rough approximation—the Parent, the Man, the Lady, the Maiden, and the Youth. Those are the parts, but the actors change from time to time. Each one has a supporting cast of avatars. They're all strangers, like us—from Home or other worlds. There's plenty backstabbing goes on within the teams, but mostly the Game is played between the five. They change alliances all the time."

"Sounds like a feudal system."

"Very much so,” Onica said approvingly. “Especially since it all rests on the backs of the peasants, whose worship provides the mana. A couple of hundred years ago, Gunuu got subverted. He announced that he was an avatar of the Maiden, not the Youth—Gunuu Astina, not Gunuu Tion. He ordered his priests into blue instead of yellow, and so on. Tion wasn't willing to lose a profitable source of mana, so he retaliated. Normally the Game's played by Queensberry rules: Natives are fair game for anything, but stranger doesn't usually make a direct attack on stranger. That's a waste of mana and can be dangerous if your opponent turns out to have more power than you expected. In this case, Tion got nasty, very nasty."

Edward glanced at the youth, who shrugged sadly. He still had not spoken one word, and yet his reactions suggested he understood English.

"Pour encourager les autres?"

Onica chuckled. “Exactly! Since then Gunuu's node has been unoccupied. To recruit a substitute stranger, Tion would have to visit another world, and he's not likely to take that risk."

Creighton had commented on the problems of recruitment.

"He could send a helper, an avatar?"

"It's done, but then the new boys may have loyalty problems, what?"

"So, now, when people pray to Gunuu, where does the mana go?"

"Most of it's wasted. If they pray to Gunuu Tion, then Tion will get some of it. If they pray to Gunuu Astina, then the Maiden will."

"They play rough, don't they? Just before I arrived, Garward's monks sacked Iilah's grove at Filoby."

"Sounds fairly typical—the rough work would be done by locals. Iilah herself would not be hurt. If a lot of nuns were raped or killed ... well, they're only natives, you see. Garward's a fool. He'll pay for that, I'm sure."

"Pay to whom?"

"To his master Karzon, of course. Let's see ... The Thargians are brewing a war. The warriors will seek portents from their patron goddess, Astina. The omens will be bad. Karzon will complain to Astina; she will demand justice for Filoby, because Iilah's one of hers. Karzon will pull strips off Garward's hide until she is satisfied. There may even be a change of resident at Thogwalby. Quite typical."

Quite disgusting! The guv'nor's support for the Service was starting to seem more understandable.

Edward squirmed. The wall was only slightly less uncomfortable than his perch on the dragon had been. How could the bare-arsed boy sit there without even fidgeting? He seemed quite content, listening to what was being said with calm amusement.

Something that sounded like a miniature pipe organ began singing in the branches overhead.

"What the dickens?..."

"We call them nightingales. They look more like squirrels, though."

Damn! Why did this world have to be so interesting? “It was Iilah who created the Filoby Testament, I suppose?"

Onica covered a yawn. “Apparently not. Even the big players rarely meddle with foretelling. Prediction involves holding a mirror up to memory, to recall the future. That can be dangerous! One can forget who one is and how to let go. The situation may become permanent. It also costs an incredible amount of mana. None of them likes to squander mana. I told you Garward's an idiot. The story is that he'd seduced Sister Ashylin—he's always in among the nuns there—and for some reason he gave her the gift of prophecy in return. He botched the ritual. The first time she invoked it, it drove her out of her mind with prophecy. It completely drained Garward himself, serves him right. She went mad and died. He almost died."

After a moment she added, “The future doesn't interest them. Most of them are centuries old. Nothing can harm them. The only thing they fear is boredom. Boredom kills them all in the end. That's why they play the Great Game.... Look!"

Two dark figures were racing along the road, coming from the town, going far faster than a man could run, or even a horse. The moas’ long legs were a blur of ten-foot strides. The hooded riders crouched on their backs were barely distinguishable at that distance, and yet infinitely sinister in the green moonlight. Like silent motorcyclists, they disappeared along the Rotby road.

Edward suppressed a shiver. He glanced at his other, silent companion, who was frowning angrily. Then he met Edward's eye and smiled again....

"Looks like they took the bait,” Onica said. “We'll give them a few minutes, just to be sure they keep going. Then we head west."

"There's a bridge at Lameby? Then where?"

"The road goes on over Rothpass, to Nagvale.” She hesitated. “You definitely want to go Home? You don't want to stay on Nextdoor and try to fulfill the prophecy?"

"No, ma'am. I definitely want to go Home."

She eyed him curiously. “You're an odd fish! A boy of your age, offered a whole new world to explore, a chance at fame and power ... yet you refuse?"

He resented being called a boy, but Onica Mason must be a great deal older than she seemed.

"I'd love to stay,” he admitted. “I'd love to see more of the Vales, and meet the people who knew my father. At any other time, I'd jump at it. Now—there's a war on. I must go Home and do my bit."

"Does you credit, I suppose,” she muttered. “You'll have time to change your mind if you want to, because I can't take you straight to Olympus. Cuddles can go across country, but not with two riders. I did not expect to find you living, Mr. Exeter. I didn't bring a spare mount. I didn't bring warm clothes for two. You'd freeze your arse up there.” She gestured at the towering peaks of Susswall.

The conversation was not heading in favorable directions.

"You can go over that?"

"Dragons can. They don't like the heat down here, and Nagland's even hotter. Furthermore,” she added, “to take a dragon into Nagland would be like riding one down Whitehall."

"Conspicuous?"

"Quite. Rothpass is ranked as easy. By Valian standards, that means you can walk over it if you have the legs of a goat. I'll take you to the summit, though, and set you adrift there. I'll go over the hills to Olympus and report. You go down into Nagvale. The first village you come to is Sonalby. Ask for Kalmak Carpenter. He's one of ours, in the religious branch. The code question is, ‘What do you get when you cross a wallaby and a jaguar?’”

"And what's the answer?"

"The kids’ answer is, ‘A fur coat with pockets.’ If you get that, then you've found the wrong man. If he says, ‘Sunrise over five peaks,’ then he's sound."

Straight out of Kim! “And what do I do with Kalmak Carpenter when I've got him?"

"Mostly keep your mouth shut. He's a local, so he doesn't know what you know, but he's trustworthy, a good man. Stay with him until we send someone for you."

"How long?” he asked, trying not to show his doubts.

"Couple of weeks. Travel's slow here. I'll have you Home inside two fortnights, Exeter, promise.” She twisted her awkward mouth in a smile. “A month, that means."

What could he say? “Fair enough."

She glanced at him quizzically.

He shrugged. “They all say the war'll be over by Christmas."

"So keen to kill? How long till Christmas?"

That she had to ask was a shock, a reminder of how very far away England was.

59

"WELL, THEY OBVIOUSLY DIDN'T SENSE US,” MASON said. “Let's go."

Edward rose from the wall with relief. “What happens if they turn back and follow us?"

"Down here, they'd catch us easily. This is moa country. They can't handle heights, though. We'd have to try to get to the hills.” She walked on for a few minutes, then added, “But we wouldn't make it."

"You know, you're full of cheerful information."

She chuckled. “If there's only two, I may manage to handle them."

He wondered how the members of the Service came by their mana. It might be an impertinent question.

The three of them walked in silence back down to the dragon, and again Edward had to squeeze himself into the gap between Mason and the bony plate. It was about as comfortable as riding on handlebars.

Once on the road, though, Cuddles ran smoothly. They sped by the temple, detoured around the town, and rushed on through the night, heading west.

He tried to keep watch behind. He felt worn-out by this interminable day. A few hours’ sleep and he would be ready for anything. Talk was too difficult, so he just sat without speaking, wishing he could dismount from his uncomfortable perch—wishing, too, that he had not been such an unmitigated bounder as to walk out on Eleal when she needed his help.

After half an hour or so, Onica pulled the dragon in behind a copse of trees and made her lie down so the riders could dismount. There they were hidden from view but could look back along the dirt track crossing wide meadows of moonlit grass. They would see the reapers if they came.

"Just a short break,” she said, stretching. “Hungry?"

"If you are going to eat, I could nibble something."

"Like a roast ox?"

"With potatoes and gravy, please."

She rummaged in one of the panniers and produced a small bundle wrapped in a cloth. She sat down and opened it, revealing some lumps of a hard bread. Edward was more than happy to sink to the grass and stretch out, finding new joints to put his weight on. He bit into one of the crusts. It was nutty and fresher than it looked, with a pleasant spicy flavor.

The golden-haired youth squatted down and took one also.

Edward said, “How the devil?..."

The boy smiled at him, chewing.

"What?” Onica asked.

"Nothing. Forgot what I was going to say. Tell me about Zath."

She grimaced. “What do you want to know?"

"Well, I don't like having an enemy who tries to kill me for something I haven't done and don't intend to do. Suppose I wrote him a note—"

"He'd never believe you! Zath's the worst of them all. I told you the native theology is only an approximation. The Man has always been god of both creation and destruction, symbolized by his hammer. Zath was his persona as god of death, but no one ever assumed the role—who would want to? About ... oh, about a hundred years ago or so, someone did. Whether he asked Karzon for the post or it was all Karzon's idea, I haven't the foggiest. Doesn't matter. Zath invented the reapers. He may have stolen the idea from Indian thuggee."

"Their murders give him mana?"

"In spades. Human sacrifice died out a long time ago on Nextdoor, just as it did at Home, but it generates huge amounts of mana. He's enormously powerful because of it, although his technique's very wasteful—the deaths don't happen on a node, and they're mostly a long way away from Zath himself. It's just that there are so many of them. In doctrine he's only an aspect of Karzon, but in fact he's by far the stronger now. The Five are worried about him, worried he may decide to promote himself to full Pentatheon membership."

"Can't they gang up on him?"

She laughed grimly. “Honor among thieves? Who bells the cat? Mana is power and power always has friends."

He looked at the youth, who grinned, shrugged, and went on eating.

Mason fell silent too. She seemed to be thinking hard, so Edward respected her silence. He had decided that Onica Mason knew what she was doing. She was a very competent ... whatever she was.

Cuddles was grazing without standing up. She could probably do so for quite a long time before eating everything within the reach of that serpentine neck. Trumb was setting behind the peaks. Yellow Kirb'l had appeared, low in the south. He considered asking for an explanation of that rogue moon's motion but decided he was too fagged out at the moment to take in a lecture on astronomy.

Onica reached for the cloth. “Finished? Time to be on our way."

"Yes, thank you, ma'am.” He stood up and peered back along the road. He could see no sign of the reapers. As they walked back to the dragon, he blurted: “Did you know my father?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to hear about him some time. I feel I hardly knew him."

She clambered into the saddle, keeping her back to him as she answered. “I knew him intimately. Does that shock you?"

"Of course not!” It did, though. He had never imagined the guv'nor having a lover. The information saddened him, emphasizing that his knowledge of his parents was that of a twelve-year-old. He had never really known them, and never would. They had died because of Zath and the Filoby Testament.

Onica held down a hand and helped him up with a surprisingly powerful heave. He wondered how old she was.

"He was a fine man, widely respected. I was very much in love with him. We drifted apart later. It was long before he met your mother, of course. All right, Cuddles, old girl. I know you're tired. Wondo!"

Did that long-ago affair explain why Monica Mason had come to aid Cameron's son? But why had she gone visiting her former lover at Nyagatha? That sounded like bad form, or was he just naive? There were too many questions to ask, too many pitfalls and unforeseeable hurts lurking in the possible answers.

He lost track of time. Uncomfortable as he was, he began to find the motion of the dragon soporific. He tried to keep watch behind them, but in the moonlight he probably would not have been able to see the reapers approaching until it was too late to do anything about them. Trumb and Ysh had set; now golden Kirb'l ruled the sky. The night was taking on a sense of nightmare, one of those awful dreams that never end.

Then Onica shouted something and pointed.

Houses. Lameby.

She skirted the hamlet, cutting across fields. Cuddles turned out to be as skilled as a horse at jumping fences, although Edward found the landings exceedingly unpleasant. Then they were on the road again, and it angled down into a narrow ravine, a dry streambed. A steady, low-pitched roar must be the voice of Susswater.

"Damn!” Onica said. “Zappan!"

The dragon stopped, claws scrabbling in gravel.

Silence, except for the bone-jarring rumble of the river, not even a whisper of wind, here in this little gorge ... Walled on either side by steep cliffs, the track disappeared around a sharp bend about fifty yards ahead. The gap showed a glimpse of mightier, moonlit cliffs in the distance, and the far end of a bridge. Like the one he had seen at Rotby, it was suspended from heavy chains, but here there were no towers. The anchors must be set in the rock of the canyon itself. The near side was hidden around the corner.

"Trouble?” he whispered.

"At least two of them,” Onica said. She sighed. “It's a logical place for an ambush. I should have thought of it."

"We can go back?"

"And then where? Cuddles needs rest, even if you don't. I think we'll try the direct method. Saint George and the dragon will now perform! Get down."

"Ma'am, I—"

"Get down!"

The command was spoken quietly, but it must have been backed with mana, because his feet hit the dirt an instant later. He staggered.

"Here goes the charge of the Light Brigade,” Onica said.

"No, wait!"

"You can't help. Keep your fingers crossed, Exeter. Remember Kalmak Carpenter. Zomph!"

Cuddles shot forward, claws spraying stones. She hurtled like an arrow along the road, leaned into the curve, and disappeared.

He choked back a shout of anger. He stood there on the gravel, feeling like a pampered brat. The smirk on the youth's face did nothing to help his feelings. Bloody young exhibitionist, parading around in the nude!

"Well, come on!” he snapped. “Let's try to help!” He began to run, and the youth loped along at his side without a word.

The worst part was that he heard nothing at all—no screams, nothing. Cuddles came into view again, streaking across the bridge like a runaway lorry. Her claws must have made a considerable racket on the timbers, but the roar of the river below muffled it completely. At the far end, the dragon did not turn to follow the road, but went straight up the cliff face like a gigantic fly. She had no rider. In moments she vanished over a ledge. He caught one more glimpse of her, higher up, and then she had gone.

He stopped in dismay. The river rumbled, his heart thumped madly.

He wondered if he was the victim of some horrible hoax and rejected the notion as madness. Something had spooked that dragon!

If Onica were alive, she would come back. If she had died, she would not have accounted for all the reapers.

Now what? Eleal had explained that ordinary weapons were useless against reapers. Onica might be lying on the road, hurt and in need of help. If any of the enemy had survived, then they might well be able to sense him as Mason had sensed them—he did not know the extent of their powers. He bent and fumbled in the gravel until he had found a couple of rounded rocks that would fit his grip. He put one in his pocket and stood up. He would not likely have time for more than two shots.

What was the reapers’ range? He racked his brain to recall that brief glimpse he had caught earlier. Fifteen yards? Hard to say in the dark, just two black shapes in the night. He had better allow twenty, at least. A cricket pitch was twenty-two yards long.

He turned to his cryptic companion, who was watching him with amused contempt.

"Are you going to help or just stand there displaying yourself?"

This time he got an answer. He had spoken in English, but the reply came in Joalian:

"You go ahead, D'ward dear. I'll be very interested to see what happens."

With a snort of disgust, Edward started forward. He walked as quietly as he could, although he knew the river would mask any sounds he made. The youth sauntered along beside him.

Edward ignored him, keeping his eyes on the corner ahead, rolling the stone in his hand, forced his breathing to stay slow. The corner was not a knife-edge, just a very sharp bend. He moved close to the wall, crept forward more slowly. One step at a time now...

He saw a body. And a dark-robed form bending over it. Now! Quickly!

He sprinted forward. The reaper looked up, surprised, then rose, brightly lit by moonlight. He raised an arm....

Edward pivoted and bowled his best fast ball. For a moment he thought he had left it too late—a spasm of pain shot through his arm.

He hadn't, though. The reaper had no chance to dodge a missile moving at that speed. The rock took him between the eyes with an audible crunch. He went down, as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer.

Edward stumbled to a halt, rubbing his tingling hand and fighting waves of nausea. He did not want to think what that rock would have done to a human face. He had probably killed a man, or at least maimed him horribly. Worse, if the reaper was not dead, then he could still be dangerous. Dare Edward go closer to finish him off? Could he kill an injured man in cold blood? There were other bodies, but no one standing or moving.

He hurried forward. The first two were both reapers, and the one he had struck down was still twitching. The next was another reaper, sprawled in a contorted way that suggested he was very dead indeed.

Onica lay at the beginning of the bridge. She was dead, too. Her face was a lurid color in the green light, and twisted as if she had died in agony. A black trickle of blood had flowed from her mouth. He closed her eyes as he had closed Creighton's.

First Bagpipe, then Creighton and the Gover man—now Mason, too! How many deaths must he trail behind him?

Sudden realization made him leap to his feet. He turned to face his companion, the youth with the golden curls, the one who wore nothing but the light of the joker moon, the one who had not ridden on the dragon but had turned up at every stop. He had appeared at the theater with Mason, but she had not brought him. Mason had not even known he was there.

The two stood and looked at each other, the youth smiling, Edward fighting against tides of fury and despair, racking his brains. Out of the frying pan! I demand to see the British Consul! Bring in the gunboats!

What was the proper form for greeting a god? A local chieftain could be accorded respect, within limits, but Tion was not a secular authority, nor even a high priest or witch doctor. He was a brigand, a parasite, a first-class fraud. A native would undoubtedly throw himself in the dirt at this point, but no Englishman should grovel like that to anyone, and this young bugger ranked lower than a Sarawak pirate. Grovel? Edward wanted to smash that pretty face to pulp.

"I suppose you're Tion?"

The boy uttered a high-pitched laugh. “And you are the Liberator! Do you like this body? It was a present from Kirb'l.” He turned around to display it. “He's a maniac, but he does appreciate my tastes."

"A present?"

"Or you could say I won it in the festival. I win one every year—my prize! Do you like it?"

Was there any good answer to that?

"It's a fine representation of the young Apollo."

Apparently Tion understood the reference, for he flashed white teeth in a smile of pleasure. “Thank you! You're quite nice-looking yourself, you know. I say so, and I am the ultimate authority on such matters."

Fury! He must be mad as a March hare and dangerous as a hungry shark. With his superhuman power, he had turned up like a deus ex machina and then done nothing at all! “Why didn't you save her?"

The god pouted. “Why should I? She was only one of those meddling, idealistic nobodies from the Service! They won't last. It's been tried before. I've been around a lot longer than the Service, and I shall be around when they're all dead and forgotten."

"I'm sorry she's dead!"

"Well, you shouldn't be!” The Youth sounded peeved. Then he smiled. “We mustn't leave the evidence lying around, though. It's unsightly, having bodies all over the place. Drop them in the river."

"I won't take orders—"

"Yes you will,” Tion said quietly.

Before he knew it, Edward had bent to take hold of Onica's feet. He tried to let go, but his hands refused to open. His feet started to move, and he began dragging her out onto the bridge. There the roar of the river was deafening. A cold, misty wind blew along the canyon. The planks were slippery.

"Damn you!” he shouted. “She deserves a decent burial at least!"

"No she doesn't. This should be far enough."

Sick at heart, Edward pushed the body out through the chains and watched it dwindle away to a speck before it vanished in the surging foam of Susswater, far below.

He found himself hurrying back to the corpses, and then he stopped resisting the compulsion. He did not care about the reapers, but he felt shamed at having treated the woman so, even if he had had no choice. Tion strolled beside him, making no effort to assist. Manual labor must be beneath a god's dignity.

"This one she ran down with the dragon,” he remarked. “But too late to avoid his power, of course. And you got the last of them, dear boy! Nasty vermin. You are a very good thrower, aren't you?"

Edward almost choked on his anger. “Why didn't you save the woman?"

"Because I chose not to, of course. She was trespassing. So were the others. I warned Zath to keep his trash off my lawn. Giving powers like that to natives is quite disgusting."

When Edward came to the man he had felled, though—trying not to look at the bloody wreckage inside the hood—he discovered that the victim was still moaning.

"This one's not dead!"

"A purely temporary state of affairs, dear boy. Go on."

Unable to refuse, Edward dragged the man to the bridge and disposed of him as he had disposed of the bodies. He felt more nauseated by that than by anything else that had happened. He was really a murderer now. The Vales’ equivalent of Inspector Leatherdale would be justified in swearing out a warrant for the arrest of D'ward Liberator.

The last reaper followed the others. When morning came, travelers crossing Lameby Bridge would see no evidence of the massacre.

"There, that's better!” Tion sighed. “And I suppose I must let you be on your way, tempting though you are. Mustn't upset any of the prophecies! The pass is clear, you'll have no trouble. You did frightfully well to dispose of that reaper without mana—but you are altogether the most interesting thing to come along in centuries, dear boy! I can't imagine how you're going to settle that horrible Zath, but I do so hope you succeed! I can't wait to see how you do it."

"You heard what I told Mrs. Mason—I'm not fulfilling any prophecies! I am going Home."

The Youth shrugged disbelievingly. “Beware the Service, D'ward Liberator. Remember Verse 114!"

Edward Exeter must be the only man on Nextdoor who had not read the Filoby Testament. “Which one's that?"

"Oh, let me think.... How does it go now? Men plot evil upon the holy mountain. The servants of the one do the work of the many. They send unto D'ward, mouthing oaths like nectar. Their voices are sweet as roses, yea sweeter than the syrup that snares the diamondfly. He is lured to destruction by the word of a friend, by the song of a friend he is hurled down among the legions of death. Horrible prose, but you see what I mean, darling?"

If he was telling the truth, that did sound ominous. Holy mountain must refer to Olympus, because there was no other holy mountain. It was odd that Tion had made the connection, but he had known of Apollo, too.

"Well, that completes the night's business,” Tion said. “It's been a most entertaining evening. Bye-bye!"

"Wait!"

The Youth cocked an eyebrow, almost as if he had been waiting for the word. “Yes?"

Edward braced himself to plead with this monster. “If you enjoyed the show, let's pass the hat. The girl who's mentioned in the Testament, Eleal—she deserves the credit for staging it. She's only a child. She has a crippled leg."

Tion switched on a smile that was too sudden to be genuine. “You want me to heal her for you?"

"Would you, sir?” It was hard to be respectful to this seeming-boy who had so callously let four people die, but Mason had said he was not as bad as some of the other strangers. “She'll go mad with joy."

"That's trivial, D'ward! Nothing to it. Delighted to do you a favor."

There was bound to be a catch, though. Cautiously, Edward said, “Thank you, sir! I'd be very grateful—and she'll be ecstatic!"

"You can't have omelette and roast goose, of course."

Trapped!

Tion's smile grew broader.

Edward wiped his forehead. He owed his life to Eleal, but to repay that debt would force him to stay here on Nextdoor, and inevitably he would find himself fighting in the wrong war. His war lay on another world.

What would his father have done?

Zath and the Chamber had killed his parents ... but he had only Creighton's word for that.

Zath had killed Creighton. What sort of chap did not try to avenge his friends? But he had only Eleal's word for that.

He could cause Eleal's limp to be cured and thus repay her for saving his life ... but he had only Tion's word for that.

Tion was smiling gleefully. “You understand what I mean?"

"You mean I can't have my cake and eat it, too."

The boy smiled sweetly. “I mean, if we're into doing favors ... You have an Eleal problem, I have a Gunuu problem, that unmanned aspect. You'd make an excellent god of courage, D'ward, you really would.” The childish face glowed with innocent appeal. “Even a beginner ought to be able to raise that much mana in a fortnight or so. To pay me back. I mean, that would only be fair, wouldn't it?"

"A fortnight? Just a fortnight?"

Tion pursed his cherub lips. “Perhaps a little longer. It's hard to say.... I'd have to see how you perform.” His pale eyes shone very bright.

Speak ye one word in elfin land ... If Edward bit, he would be hooked, somehow. Perhaps forever.

Where did honor lie in this morass? Where were courage and duty?

King and Country! There were no doubts about those. They took precedence over anything else.

"I cannot accept a favor from you on those terms, sir. I withdraw my request."

Tion sighed, but he did not seem surprised. “Good-bye, then, D'ward Liberator! I wish you luck—god knows you'll need it, and I speak with authority.” He shrieked with childish glee and faded away.

Edward was alone.

He didn't even have Eleal to look after him now. Oh, Eleal!

Would the dragon find her way home to Olympus? Would she return in search of her mistress? He could not control her if she did. The only course of action open to him was to head on over the pass and find Kalmak Carpenter.

Having nothing else to do, he walked over the bridge and began climbing the trail on the other side.

He was going Home! That was what mattered, he told himself. Duty called. Onica's death gnawed at his conscience. So did his despicable betrayal of the child who had saved his life, but there he had made his own choice and it was too late to back out now.

Nextdoor was a snare and a temptation. He must answer his country's call. Zath was not his proper foe. He would go Home and enlist to fight in the war he was meant to fight in.

There a man at least could know who was right and who was wrong. There a man fought with bullet and bayonet, not hideous sorcery. There a man could hope for honor, trust in courage, believe in a cause.

END OF ROUND ONE