Present Tense

17

DAYLIGHT AROUND THE CURTAINS WAKENED HER. SHE FUMBLED FOR her watch. Ten o'clock! Now she could hear the rumble of traffic to tell her that business swirled as usual through the city. She reeled out of bed, buttoned up her housecoat, disciplined her hair viciously, and then hurried through to the sitting room.

A man in a bottle-green dressing gown was reading yesterday's Times. The sight was a stake through her heart, but of course it was only Edward. He lurched to his feet as she entered. He smiled, all blue eyes and white teeth.

No one else around—damn! She was not awake enough yet for the bleeding-hearts scene. “They can't both be in the bathroom. Is there a cup left in that pot?"

"Yes. It's fresh. Ginger went out shopping."

She moved to the counter, turning her back on him. She laid out cup and saucer, bracing for the inevitable questions. She heard a floorboard squeak as he moved to the fireplace, a rustle of paper.

"Tell me about him,” Edward said.

"No.” Perhaps when she was properly awake.

Or perhaps not.

She poured the tea. It looked well stewed.

Edward said, “He's rich, but his wife controls the money. He smokes cigars. He's a barrister and probably in the army."

The teapot clattered on the counter. She spun around, heart pounding madly.

Edward's smirk changed to alarm. “I say! Didn't mean to startle you!"

"Is this some of your witchcraft?"

He blushed like a child caught in wickedness. “Of course not! Not in this world!"

"Then how do you know all that?"

He shrugged, smiling thinly. “The cigars I can smell on this dressing gown. You don't wear a ring, so he's probably married. He buys his clothes at Harrods and drives a cathedral-size car, so he's rich. But you live in a slum, so he can't afford to give you money. Reasonable guess that he's in the Army, living on the King's shilling."

"And a barrister?"

Edward hesitated. Looking thoroughly ashamed now, he pulled a paper from his pocket. “Envelope addressed to Sir D'Arcy Devers, QC, at Gray's Inn."

She took up her tea with shaking hands and went to the sofa. “Elementary, my dear Watson!"

"Bloody cheap trick,” he muttered. “I'm sorry. Soldier by choice or conscription?"

"By choice."

Edward said, “Oh!” and there was silence.

She finished the tea and laid down the cup and saucer.

"And you used to call me a starry-eyed romantic idealist!” he said.

She did not look at him. “They're all over the place. He was in line for a judgeship. A messy divorce would have finished that. His wife is vindictive and well-connected."

"'I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more'?"

"You could say that."

"Herrick said that, actually."

"It was Lovelace. And, no, it doesn't feel good to come second to a war."

"Oh, Alice!” he said sadly. “Oh, my poor Alice!"

"Save your pity. I was a kept woman and happy in the work, until the Kaiser spoiled the show.” She forced herself to meet his stare. “I should have told you. I nearly did, but you had so many other troubles. I'm sorry."

"That long?"

"Since October 1913."

"Oh.” He winced and turned to face the mantelpiece. “I must have seemed a bloody fool!"

"No. Not a fool. Young men in love are foolish, but not fools. I told you, I love you as a brother."

"A kid brother!” he said angrily. “I was eighteen and you were twenty-one. I'm still eighteen!"

"And I'm an old crone of twenty-four!” He looked more like sixteen standing on a box, but she could hardly tell him so. “I still love you as a brother."

He turned back to her and smiled. It was a brave effort, but his eyes were glistening.

"And you're not eighteen on the inside, Edward. In some ways you seem older than Julian, who's been tempered in the flames of hell. What have you been through, to do that?"

"Nothing like what he's seen. Just experience."

Grim, grim experience, she thought.

"You didn't grow out of it?” she asked sadly. “Did you really carry a torch for me all those years on your magic world?"

He bit his lip. “I still had hopes, I suppose. You were another reason for wanting to come Home."

"Oh, come on!” she persisted teasingly. “You have all my secrets. In the car you displayed a certain assertiveness I do not recall noticing before. You've had practice in clinches."

He squirmed. “No love affairs! But—but there could have been.” When she let the silence age, he said, “She indicated that she was inclined in that direction."

He sounded so incredibly Victorian she almost laughed aloud. He was still the paradigm of the romantic.

"Go back to her and try a few more of those clinches,” she said.

He stared down at the cold gas fire. “I am never going back, so it isn't possible. It wasn't possible then. I had given my word to you."

She rose to go and dress. “But I had refused. You were under no obligation to me.” She turned her back on him and suddenly his arms were tight around her.

"I expect I was using you as my excuse,” he said in her ear. “How could I let myself fall in love on a world I was trying to leave? Yes, I was tempted, very tempted. It was my memory of you that sustained me."

Her baby foster brother was a man now, and this was the first time she had really appreciated the difference. Not being able to see his face helped. A man was embracing her, a determined, strong-willed man. No boy.

"Let me go, please."

"I'm not going to rape you. I just want to know if you're happy."

"If the war would end and D'Arcy come back safe, then I would be very happy. His wife's an invalid; she won't live much longer."

"You trust him?"

She would not take this inquisition from anyone else, but he was not anyone else. “Absolutely."

"Because if you have doubts ... If you want to change your mind, Alice darling, then you still can. You can go to Nextdoor."

"What?"

"I'll go fight the Kaiser. You go to Nextdoor. In six years we'll be the same age."

"Edward! That is not the problem! Now let me go and stop talking nonsense!"

He released her. When she turned, she saw that he was furious. His voice had given no hint of that.

"You'd rather stay and fester in this slum? Uncle Roland blew it all on his precious Bibles, didn't he?"

She sighed. She was not at her best first thing in the morning. “Not really. Some man he had trusted embezzled it."

"Someone in his precious Missionary Society, of course?"

She nodded. “He had no idea. He wept when he told me, Edward. I think it killed him."

"So it should have!” He scowled at her frown. “Oh, I don't care about the money. It was his damned sanctimonious holier-than-thou-ness! I hate people who think they know what's best for the whole world."

There were probably many good responses to that, but she could not think of one. “There's a little left, your share. Just a few hundred quid, and it's all tied up in chancery or something."

"Garn! Cheese in a mousetrap?"

"Not worth your neck to claim, no."

With relief she heard the door open. Julian came limping into the room. His hair was wet, but he was unshaven and his clothes were still caked with dried blood. His eyes flickered appraisingly from one to the other.

"Good morning,” he said.

"Good morning. How's the leg?"

"Stiff, that's all. I made a mess of your clean towels, I'm afraid. Have you found any breakfast? We cleaned out the larder like a herd of locusts."

"Horde,” Edward said. “Horde of locusts."

"Plague,” said Alice. They were playing silly games to cover the tension, and it annoyed her. “I'll go and get dressed before Ginger comes back."

The bell rang then. Julian went. Ginger entered with bulky brown-paper parcels under each arm. He blinked short-sightedly in her direction.

"Morning, Miss Prescott."

"Morning, Mr. Jones. My, you have been busy! I apologize for being such a terrible hostess."

"Nonsense. The old need very little sleep.” He dropped the parcels. “This one's five-nine, eleven stone. This is five-foot eleven and three-quarters, ten stone seven pounds.” He reached in pockets. “Razor, shaving soap, brushes of diverse types, all as per your favor of today's date."

"Savile Row?"

"Off a barrow.” He sat down heavily. His hard night still showed. “I made a phone call and I have a refuge for you."

Edward sighed. “Ginger Jones, you are a prince among men! I am so grateful I could weep."

"So could we all,” Julian agreed.

Jones coughed disapprovingly. “Steady, there!” He was genuinely embarrassed.

"Where is this haven, then?” Edward asked.

"The Dower House at Greyfriars."

Edward's eyes widened in shock, making his bony face seem skull-like. “The Grange?"

"Mrs. Bodgley lives in the Dower House now. The general died, you know."

"No, I didn't. I'm truly sorry to hear that. The lady hasn't had much luck, has she!"

"But she knows you were not the cause, and she is anxious to meet you. And a friend. I didn't give your name, Smedley, in case of accidents. There's a train in a little over an hour. Think we could make that?"

Julian and Edward dived for their respective parcels.

"Wait!” Alice said. “I hate to be rushed. Why don't we travel separately? Wouldn't that be safer?"

"All four of us?” Jones asked, frowning, touching his nose.

"Two and two. You and Julian. Me and Edward on the next train."

Everyone looked to Edward.

He nodded. “It can't be any riskier, can it? If I write a letter, Ginger, would you post it in the Fallow box for me?"

The schoolmaster raised his eyebrows and again reached to adjust his absent pince-nez. “Why should it matter what box I put it in?"

"I think it does,” Edward said. “And the handwriting will. It may even matter whether you pop it in the box or I do, but we can try this first."

Julian made a snorting noise of disbelief. “May I borrow your bedroom, Alice? I'm slow, I'm afraid."

"Go ahead.” Alice wondered how she could ever dispose of such horribly bloodstained clothes.

He limped out, carrying his parcel. When the bedroom door clicked shut, Ginger turned to her and smiled triumphantly—the invalid was shedding no tears today.

"What's so funny?” Edward demanded, seeing her answering smile.

"Nothing,” she said.

"Next train's not till four-something,” Ginger said.

Alice relaxed. “Then you and Julian go first. Edward and I can follow."

They would have time to hammer out his emotional problems, and she could hear more of his adventures in that magical world of his. She had a suspicion that he had been harping on the Nagian savages to discourage Smedley's interest. There must be a brighter side to Nextdoor—perhaps that mysterious Prince Goldfish he had mentioned.

18

GOLBFISH SLAMMED THE BEDROOM DOOR ON YMMA'S MOCKING laughter and stamped off to face his ordeal. He stopped stamping quite soon, because he was barefoot.

His honor guards were waiting in the antechamber. He had expected them to be in dressed much as he was, but they all wore Joalian-style armor of shiny bronze. The colored symbols of their devotion to Olfaan and the other gods were marked on the armor, not slobbered in paint all over their faces. The leader saluted. Puish Lordservant bowed and waved forward two flunkies. One presented Golbfish with a spear, and the other a circular shield. It was so massively ornamented with gold that he almost dropped it. Anything less useful for battle had never been invented.

He glowered around the guards, searching for any hint of a smirk hiding inside a helmet, but their expressions were all studiously noncommittal. Growling angrily, he strode off without a word, leaving them to follow in any order they liked.

For the first—and, he fervently hoped, the last—time in his life, he was clad in the traditional garb of a Nagian warrior. Not that there was much garb to it—a skimpy leather loincloth. He felt naked. His face was ludicrously painted up with colored hieroglyphics. His hair and beard had been trimmed short, because that was warrior style, but he knew how it emphasized the smallness of his head. He felt a freak. He knew he looked a freak, too. Perhaps there was a funny side to it, and someday, at some elegant dinner party, he would laugh with his friends, relating how he had been forced to dress up as a barbarian. Perhaps. But if his friends back in Joal could see him now they would ... they would laugh just as hard as that slut on the bed was laughing.

He was not the right shape. His torso tapered upward instead of downward, although that did not stop him worrying that his absurd garment might slide right off him in the sweltering heat. With both hands occupied, he would be able to do little to stop it if it tried. He had no hair on his chest—and no ritual scars, either. If Mother thought he would rouse the warrior caste of her primitive kingdom to blood lust and patriotic fervor, then she was going to be sadly disappointed.

Even stupid Ymma knew that. Her mocking words still rang in his ears: “What will they think of you? What will your precious friends think of you when they see you like that? What verses will your poets compose, what songs will your singers sing? And that sculptor man—will he carve your likeness?” She had started to laugh again—hard, cruel laughter like the strokes of a lash.

Golbfish shuddered. Fortunately his best friends were all far away in Joal, and the few he had in Nag would not be close enough to see any of the details. They were civilians all, talented artists whom he had brought back from Joal to aid him in his efforts at improving the cultural life of the kingdom. Civilians would be kept to the back of the temple.

The Joalians will understand! he told himself. They know I must conform to local custom in raising the horde. They trust me, as they will never trust Tarion. It was the Joalians who insisted Mother appoint me hordeleader.

But Tarion had been made cavalryleader, and Golbfish did not understand why the Joalians had agreed to that. They were relying on the Nagian cavalry far more than on the Nagian infantry, which would be of little help to them. Nagland had plenty of moas, but no tradition of using them in warfare. Joalian lancers were as good as any in the Vales—except the Thargians, of course—but they had not been able to bring their mounts over Thordpass. A moa was a one-man steed that needed many fortnights to be imprinted by a new rider. Little brother Tarion would be technically under the hordeleader's command, but he was far more likely to win glory in the coming war than Golbfish himself was.

He was not looking forward to the war at all. He was a patron of the arts, not a fighter. He was looking forward to this afternoon's mustering ceremony least of all. He would rather face a horde of armed Thargians than go before his own people dressed like this, but there was no way he could escape the ordeal. Joalia had demanded the support of its ally, and the horde must be mustered in the ancient ways.

What Joal wanted, Joal got. That was the law in Nagia.

The palace was a dingy affair of endless stone corridors, badly designed and poorly built, an insipid imitation of Joalian architecture. There was no decent building stone near Nag, not like the lustrous variegated marbles of Joal. Everything was made of the same drab, purplish sandstone. It was so soft it crumbled, and the floors were permanently gritty. Nagland had no tradition of building in stone.

Nagia had no tradition of hereditary monarchs, either. The Joalians had imposed the monarchy by force of arms when they put his grandfather on the throne. His mother, it must be admitted, had astonished everyone by managing to hang on to it, crushing the predictable revolts with Joalian help and ruthless cruelty. It was true she favored Tarion as her successor, for she made no secret of the fact. She maintained that Golbfish was not sufficiently ruthless. She was right about that, but was ruthlessness necessary anymore? After three generations, he thought, the Nagians had adjusted to the situation. They would tolerate a king to keep the Joalians quiet, just as long as he was benevolent and well intentioned.

Mother did not agree.

Golbfish's left foot was already sore by the time he reached the Garden of Blessings, which was a feeble copy of the Garden of Blessings in Joal. Anyone who had seen the original found this one pitiful. Imported Joalian seeds never thrived, and Nagian vegetation just did not have the same luster. The wickertrees gave a feeble shade, the sunblooms and starflowers were almost invisible amid their rioting leathery leaves. Now, in late summer, the fountains had run dry and the ornamental pools looked scummy and dead, as if they should have fish floating belly-up in them. The statuary had been carved from the inevitable purplish sandstone, so that most of the figures were weathered to faceless mummies already.

The honor guard had halted somewhere. Golbfish advanced alone, following the winding path through the shrubbery. He heard voices ahead, many voices, and felt a twinge of uneasiness. He had expected only Mother and Kammaeman, the Joalian commander. Possibly Tarion. He could hear a large party in progress.

Rounding a tangle of bamboo, ruby bushes, and salmon vines, he came in sight of the throne. The queen was holding court, elevated above the crowd. She seemed to be the only woman present. As he approached, he searched in vain for signs of anyone at all gaudied up as he was. Some were clad in bronze, gleaming and warlike, the rest were dressed in the loose breeches and tunics of Joalian civilians. He recognized the usual ministers, envoys, and secretaries. He could understand their being here, but there were others he would never have expected. Mother seemed to have invited every officer in the visiting Joalian army, plus all the court officials and most of the important local notables—and all Golbfish's personal friends, too! There were dozens of faces he had never seen within the palace before: Toalmin Sculptor, Gramwil Poet, Gilbothin Historian, and innumerable others. These were the people he had happily assumed would be relegated to the back of the temple. Why had they been invited to this reception?

And why was the reception being held at all? He had not been told of it. He wondered if Ymma had known about this.

He reached the back of the crowd and said, “Excuse me.” The closer men looked around and gaped in astonishment. Then they backed out of his path, but their eyebrows soared high as flags.

I shall run my spear into any man who smiles! he thought, and then realized he would have to commit a massacre. Faces were averted, but he dared not look behind him to see what effect he was leaving in his wake. He could hear much coughing.

"Excuse me, please!” he said again. And again...

The one advantage of his grotesque war paint was that his blushes would not show. He could feel his ears glowing hot, though.

He was tall enough that he made out Kammaeman Battlemaster even before he reached the throne. The Joalian leader was standing at the foot of the steps, joking with the queen. Despite the gray in his beard, he was still one of the best warriors Joalia had produced in a generation. Kammaeman could be relied on to lead the combined armies with imagination and the necessary ruthlessness. The Thargians would not find him an easy opponent. He was also a shrewd politician, shrewdness in politics being an important survival trait in Joal. Golbfish had met him there often enough, but their friendship had been purely ceremonial.

Needless to say, Golbfish intended to leave all the military decisions to Kammaeman. He also intended to stay very close to him during the battles. An heir to a throne could not take risks like other men.

There was Tarion Cavalryleader, also close to the queen, smirking ominously.

Admittedly Tarion was only his half brother, but the two of them could not have been less alike. He was a pure Nagian type—lean as a whip, tireless, brown skinned, and dark haired—and touchy and dangerous. No one ever outrode Tarion; he seemed to merge with his moa and make it part of himself. If anyone else in this assembly ought to be exhibited in a loincloth and emblazoned with war paint like Golbfish, it should be Tarion, leader of the cavalry. But no. There he was, undeniably handsome in a shiny bronze helmet and Joalian riding wear of blue cotton, bearing himself with all the menace of a naked sword. He was good, and he knew it.

At last Golbfish came to the steps of the throne, stopped, and nodded his head in an excuse for a bow. He dare not ask why his mother was not also wearing national dress for the solemn occasion. If her subjects expected to see the scrawny royal bosom bared, they were going to be disappointed. Her blue gown was as Joalian as could be. She was tiny and frail, her thin white hair hidden by a jeweled tiara. Her face was painted even more heavily than his, but in her case the covering was wax and rouge, to hide the lines of pain and the yellowing skin.

Emchainne was dying. Everyone knew it, even she, and nobody dared say so. A few months at best were all she had left, but the illness that racked her had not yet blunted her will. She was still queen; she ruled Nagia yet, as implacably as she had ruled it for thirty years.

How had anyone so puny ever produced him? He was half again as tall as she was. At the moment, though, her eyes were higher than his, and they glared.

"You're late!” she snapped. “Have you already forgotten the correct form of military salute?” Her voice was croaky.

Grumpily, Golbfish slammed his shield with his spear and almost let it slip from his sweaty fingers. A couple of the onlookers leaped back out of harm's way.

The queen of Nagia looked over her older son with undisguised contempt. “And do you not also salute your commander in chief?"

Now there Golbfish felt he was on firmer ground, if there could be any firm ground in this quagmire of intrigue. He favored Kammaeman with a nod. “Battlemaster?” Then he turned back to the queen. “You are our commander in chief, Mother. I am your appointed deputy. The battlemaster is merely commander of our allies. Of course, I defer to his overall leadership, but by treaty we are equals. We march together against the common foe."

The older man raised a grizzled eyebrow.

With sudden apprehension, Golbfish glanced around the onlookers. Most of them were making an effort to conceal amusement. Not Tarion, though. His helmet did not disguise his sneer. He must know something Golbfish did not. Had Ymma also known it? Did everyone know but him?

"Ah, yes!” The queen glanced over the nearer courtiers. “Who has a copy of my son's speech?"

Golbfish could feel himself starting to grow angry, which was an unfamiliar feeling and an unwelcome one. When he lost his temper he usually became very shrill; he tended to stamp his feet. “I know my part, Mother!"

"We have decided to make a small addition to the ceremony."

"The form is traditional!"

Emchainne sighed, but the glint in her eyes showed that she was enjoying herself. “Monarchy is not. Historically, hordeleaders were elected, not appointed. You are our heir apparent. We have concluded that you are too precious, Golbfish, dear. We have decided we cannot allow you to risk yourself in battle. Nobody doubts your courage, of course. We know how you must regret this, but our Joalian allies agree—do they not, Battlemaster? So you will have to remain here in Nag, with us, my son."

His first reaction was a surge of relief. Tents and coarse food and sleeping on hard ground held very little appeal. Feather beds and silver spoons were more to his taste. Then he remembered Tarion's cryptic joy and knew that there were snakes here somewhere.

"But—” he said.

"No argument! Where is that speech? Ah, yes. Give it to him."

Gragind Chancellor thrust a paper at Golbfish. Having a shield on one arm and a spear in his other hand, he ignored it.

"Tell me!"

Faint cracks showed in the wax coating on his mother's face, as if a smile were struggling to break out. “At the conclusion of the oath-taking, when all the warriors have sworn allegiance to you, Hordeleader, you will announce that you are unable to lead them in person and therefore you transfer their loyalty to Kammaeman Battlemaster."

"What?” Golbfish screamed. “They swear to die for me and then I tell them I am staying home?"

"It is a regrettable necessity, son."

"I cannot do that! No man could!"

Satisfaction glowed in his mother's eyes. “You refuse a direct order from your sovereign, Hordeleader?"

That was a capital offense.

"No,” Golbfish moaned. “Of course not! But—"

"No buts!” Emchainne said firmly, glancing askance at Kammaeman to see his reaction.

The barbarians would never stand for it!

Tarion was smirking from one ear guard to the other.

19

TWO TERRIBLE HOURS LATER, GOLBFISH STOOD BESIDE THE ALTAR, A few steps up from the temple floor, his head almost level with the goddess's toes. The heat beating down off the rock behind him was a torment.

Astina, the Maiden, was one of the Five, the Pentatheon. Her temple in Joal was one of the wonders of the Vales.

In her aspect as Olfaan, goddess of warriors and presiding deity of Nagvale, she had to make do with very much less. The Joalian influence that had transformed the secular capital had been balked when it tried to replace the ancient sanctuary with something more dignified and artistic. Golbfish's grandfather had laid out foundations for a great religious complex on the far side of the city. The priestesses had refused to sanctify it, whereupon the people had downed tools and offered to die before they would offend Holy Olfaan. So the old temple had remained much as it had always been. Queen Emchainne had added a grandiose pillared entrance, but that was the only change.

Visitors, especially the all-important Joalian visitors, were always astonished by it. They complained that a hole in the ground was not truly a temple, and of course they were right. Not that it was strictly a hole—only half a hole, a semicircular embayment in a cliff. Its floor was a plain of shingle that often flooded in the rainy season. The image of the goddess had been carved into the vertical stone many eons ago. On dull days it was hard to make out, but when the sun shone, as it usually did, her outline was clearly visible. Nagians could boast that their goddess was the largest in the world and the acoustics were splendid. But it was still only a hole in the ground, and on a day like this it was a god-sized pit oven.

Before Golbfish, in massed array, stood the young warriors of Nagland, summoned from all over the vale to pledge their loyalty in the ancient ritual. Interspersed among them was a very large contingent from the Joalian army, presently encamped just north of the capital. Officially they had assembled to honor the goddess and their allies. Unofficially they were there to see that nothing went wrong, and the way they had segregated the Nagians into small groups proved that.

At the back of all this blade and muscle stood the queen's civilian subjects, come to watch their sons and brothers be inducted to fight a war that no Nagian truly cared a spit for. They had cheered Her Majesty when she was borne in. They had sung the praises of Holy Olfaan with a genuine verve that had probably been audible halfway up Nagwall, thanks to those superb acoustics. All in all, they were putting a brave face on this latest evidence of Nagvale's lowly status as a colony of Joalia.

After the initial invocation, the priestesses had slunk back to their caves. This was strictly a military ritual.

It had been going on for hours, and had a long way to go yet. The queen's litter had been located well off to one side, its draperies closed against the raging sun. Her attendants kept peering in at her. Golbfish assumed that she must be having one of her bad turns. There was nothing he could do about it, and he could not help thinking that it served her right. Admittedly she could not have refused the Joalian demands, but she had certainly used the situation to dispose of her elder son. He was doomed to die here today. Tarion had won.

The brawny young warrior on the other side of the altar took up the arms he had dropped earlier. He saluted Golbfish and the goddess overhead, then stalked away down the steps, following the last of his contingent. The steps were spotted with blood.

In the center of the altar a stone knife lay on a drying red stain. Beside it were half a dozen gold dishes. Three were empty now. The others were heaped with sparkling white salt, too brilliant to look upon.

Golbfish sighed and glanced down at the handwritten list that had been placed on the stone table to prompt him, weighted with gold coins in case a wind developed later. No such luck! The air was still, the temple an oven.

"I call on Her Majesty's loyal warriors from Rareby!” His throat was parched as the Western Desert. He seemed to have stopped sweating. Probably he had just run dry, like the palace fountains. Earlier, he had worried that he might have washed all the paint off his face.

A massive young man came striding up the steps, bearing his shield and spear. Now that was how a warrior should look! His shoulders were as broad as a wagon, his hips slender. The muscles of his calves bunched as he walked. Golbfish squirmed with shame to look at him.

The giant laid his shield and spear on the altar and spoke the words of the dedication. “Her Majesty's warriors of Rareby swear obedience to Holy Olfaan and to all your commands, Hordeleader.” He had a strong voice, in keeping with his appearance, and the cliff threw it back over the weary multitude who had heard all this so often before. “They offer their blood and their lives and their absolute allegiance. They pray to Olfaan to guide them, protect them, and make them worthy of her service."

"Amen,” Golbfish said for the eighth or ninth time that afternoon.

The man was sweating like a burrowpig, of course, but that could charitably be attributed to the heat. The way he set his teeth as he lifted the knife could not. He was dreading his ordeal. He already bore four merit marks on his ribs, but that knife must be thoroughly blunted by now.

He surreptitiously scraped it on the edge of the altar. That was not part of the service, but he was not the first to do so, and the marks there showed that these warriors’ forefathers had done the same thing many times in past centuries. One scrape would not add much sharpness.

Then he slashed at his ribs.

Golbfish never watched this part. The sight of blood made him nauseous. He heard a faint gasp as the warrior rubbed the salt on his cut. Gods, how that must hurt! Two youngsters had fainted earlier and been dragged away by their friends. Officially they had to be put to death for that display of frailty, but more likely they would be allowed to escape and flee the country.

The troopleader sighed with relief as the pain eased. Then he stepped to the far side of the altar. The first of his men came hurrying up, eager to undergo his ordeal and get it over with. He had hardly stopped moving before he hurled down his shield and spear and grabbed for the knife. He made his cut so fast that Golbfish barely had time to avert his eyes.

"Not enough!” snapped the troopleader.

The warrior scowled at him and cut again. He let the blood run for a moment, as if waiting to be told it would suffice. Then he reached for the salt.

Barbaric! Unspeakably barbaric! The Joalians present would be appalled. When they sacrificed to Olfaan, or even to Astina herself, they offered a chicken, or a calf at most. They would think this deliberate self-mutilation utterly depraved, as did Golbfish himself. It was a primitive, savage custom.

He bore no merit marks. Because of that alone, he must have seemed a very spurious war leader to the real Nagians when he paraded through the town on his way here. He had been secretly ashamed, but he had certainly never considered mutilating himself just to please the rabble.

The warrior retrieved his weapons and departed. Another Rarebian followed, and another. At least they were moving quickly. Some villages tried to drag it out.

Golbfish ought to want it to last. Almost certainly he would die at the end of it. When the last warrior had sworn, he would have to make that dread speech that had been laid out for him. If he didn't, then the Joalians would know that he had disobeyed a direct command from his queen, and they would not tolerate an untrustworthy officer. So they would not help him.

The Nagians would not, either. They had laughed aloud as he marched through the city. Everyone else had been in armor, or mounted on moas like handsome brother Tarion. Only the hordeleader had been stripped down to a loincloth, to show his flabby hips, his narrow shoulders, and his hairless, unscarred chest. The queen had very cruelly demonstrated to her Joalian visitors that her elder son had no following among the people.

Tarion and his cavalry had been cheered! That rankled worse than anything. Tarion cared nothing for the people. Tarion did not know a sonnet from a drinking song. He had no interest in advancing Nagian culture and raising the people from barbarism, as Golbfish had. The Joalians did not trust Tarion, which was wise of them, but now they would have to. Tarion would go off and earn military glory in the war. Golbfish, even if he managed to escape assassination this afternoon, must needs skulk at home in the palace, and everyone would assume he was a coward. He wasn't a very brave man, but he would have gone to the war if he'd been given the chance. It was not fair!

His final act of the ceremony, rejecting all these oaths, was very likely going to be his last. The bloodied warriors would not stand for such an insult. A hundred spears would flash in the sunlight, and Golbfish's blood would mingle with theirs on the steps. A hundred? There were close to a thousand of them out there, and it would only take one.

The heat might kill him first. He lacked the lifelong tan of the peasant. His skin was being fried by the sun. What penalty did the ancient rituals prescribe if the hordeleader himself were to faint during the ceremony?

Oh, goddess! The troopleader was scooping up his shield. Next village, then. Had that one been Rareby or Thoid'lby? For a moment Golbfish almost panicked. Then he decided it had been Rareby, and called for Thoid'lby. No one corrected him.

The Thoid'lby leader was older than most, an ugly, weathered man. A widower, likely. His look at Golbfish was openly contemptuous as he spat out the oath.

The bloodshed continued.

The temple shimmered in the hellish glare.

Only one more village to go! Death was moving in very close to Golbfish Hordeleader now. He could think of no way out. If he did not resign his command as ordered, he would be arrested and executed for mutiny. If he did, the warriors would riot and use him for target practice. And even if by some miracle they didn't, then Tarion would see that he did not remain around long as a rival claimant to the throne. Not one Nagian or Joalian would lift a finger to save him.

He was doomed.

Warrior followed warrior. Cut followed cut.

He wanted to shout out that they were going too fast. Life had become a blur.

Thoid'lby completed its ordeal, and its surly troopleader departed.

The last village! He worked his mouth until he could find enough spit to speak.

"I call on Her Majesty's loyal warriors from Sonalby!"

A murmur of surprise rustled through the temple. Golbfish's eyes snapped back into focus. The Sonalby contingent was not milling forward in a mob, as all the others had done. It was marching four abreast, with its spears on its shoulders in parallel rows like the teeth of combs. Every foot moved in perfect unison as if an invisible band were playing somewhere. The Joalian infantry drilled no better.

"Troop—halt!"

A hundred feet came down together. Their hundred partners joined them, and the warriors stood motionless at the base of the steps. Not a spear wavered. Another bark, the poles sprang to the vertical, then the butts struck the ground. Somebody cheered at the back of the temple and was hushed.

Kammaeman Battlemaster had laughed out loud at the idea of teaching proper drill to Nagians. Past experience showed that it would be a waste of time, he insisted. But Sonalby must have found a veteran leader, one who had at some time served in the Joalian army and learned the advantages of discipline. Somehow he had trained this band.

Who had worked that miracle?

This man?

The troopleader alone had continued. He came marching up the steps toward Golbfish.

Yet he was only a boy, although a very tall one. He bore only three merit marks. One was very recent, probably acquired when he was elected troopleader, but even the others were still red and therefore not more than a dozen or so fortnights old. As he came to a halt, Golbfish saw with astonishment that the youngster's eyes were brilliant blue, bluer than the blue of his face paint, a shade Golbfish could not recall ever seeing combined with hair so black.

For a moment the two stared at each other, and there was a significance in that steady gaze that startled Golbfish utterly. He could not place it. It was something he had never met before. He thought it mattered greatly.

Then, very slightly, the boy smiled.

Bewildered, Golbfish smiled back, and felt an inexplicable sense of relief.

With a couple of smart military movements, the young troopleader discarded his shield and spear. He spoke the words of the oath loudly and clearly, and if as he meant them. He had a faint, unfamiliar accent.

Never taking his eyes off Golbfish, he took up the knife and cut his chest. He salted the wound without a flinch, as if he were barely aware of what he was doing, and all the time that steady blue gaze was asking some impossible question.

He marched to his place at the far end of the altar, and swung around. Again he looked meaningfully at Golbfish. Who was this cryptic youngster? What message was he trying to pass? He seemed almost to be offering sympathy, as if he were aware of the terrible problem. That was impossible!

Then the first of his followers arrived to perform the ritual, and the young leader turned his attention on him.

One by one, a hundred men and boys came to shed their own blood before the goddess and their so-temporary hordeleader. But this time there was a curious difference. They did not look up at the goddess. They did not even seem to notice Golbfish. They watched their leader, and he watched them, and each time Golbfish detected a curious little smile of encouragement pass. The youngster's lips did not move, but his eyes brightened, and every man of the hundred seemed to appreciate that tiny signal, as if they drew inspiration from this juvenile soldier. I did it. It's not so terrible.

Then it was done. The last man marched smartly away.

The leader came over, picked up his arms, shouldered his spear. For a moment his eyes wandered past Golbfish and he frowned slightly, then smiled.

Golbfish looked around uneasily. There was no one there, only the bare rock of the cliff, radiating heat like a forge. He turned back to confront that same blue, quizzical stare. The barbaric face paint made the expression difficult to read. Now the boy would go and leave Golbfish alone, to meet his fate.

But he didn't. Instead he raised his eyebrows in a question. What? A suggestion? An invitation? He almost seemed to be offering to stay and help as if...

Merciful Goddess! Perhaps there was a way out!

Golbfish's knees began to tremble. Mindful of the phenomenal acoustics, he spoke in a tiny whisper. “Could you make me a warrior too?"

The boy smiled, pleased. He spoke as softly. “Only you can do that, sir. But I can show you how."

Golbfish nodded in bewilderment.

The boy marched back to the far end of the table, grounded his spear, and stood at attention—watching Golbfish! Again a mutter of surprise rustled through the crowd.

The prince glanced over to the queen's litter. A curtain had been raised so she could witness his coming resignation—and death. The monarchy had always mattered more to her than her disappointing son did. Golbfish was the product of a loveless, dynastic marriage. Tarion had been born of passion.

Tarion was a bastard in every sense of the word.

The shadows made Mother invisible. Kammaeman Battlemaster stood alongside her litter, tense and expectant. A glance to the cavalry at the other side of the temple showed Tarion—too far off for his gleeful smirk to be seen, although it could be imagined.

I shall cheat you all yet!

Golbfish took one last look at the boy from Sonalby, and received that same little smile of reassurance and encouragement that the others had.

At least one man was on his side!

He ignored the written speech. His voice burst out clear and strong, so suddenly that he hardly knew it was himself speaking. “Warriors of Nagland! I have accepted your oaths in the ways of our ancestors!” That was how the prepared text began, and it was a lie because he had not one drop of Nagian blood in his veins. Tarion did. Tarion was the son of a palace guard.

Golbfish sucked in another deep breath. “I shall be honored to fight at your side—but I am not a general. I am not worthy of your allegiance! I now command you all, in the first and last order I shall give you, to obey the noble Joalian battlemaster, who can lead us to victory in our righteous struggle against Thargian aggression."

He paused, sweating and shaking. Could he really go through with this? Rip his own flesh? He glanced again at the Sonalby troopleader, and again the boy smiled approvingly, urging him to continue. A low but rising growl from the audience warned him he must decide quickly.

"As for me, warriors, I shall fight as one of you, in the ranks."

He turned and took up that odious knife with a shaking hand. He poked the edge with his thumb and knew he would have to strike very hard to make a visible cut—it must be visible. To his horror, he felt a stirring in his groin, a rising thrill of sexual excitement. What foul perversion was that?

In a quick gesture of revulsion, he cut. It felt like molten iron poured on his skin. He had never known real pain before. It was frightful, worse than he had ever imagined. But at least it had banished the deviant surge of lust. He felt panic in its place. Hot blood trickled down his ribs. He was bleeding!

He stared doubtfully at the salt. That would be a hundred times worse. Could he bear even that? Supposing he screamed? Frozen in terror between fear of pain and fear of bleeding, he looked again to his inspiration.

Again that nod, that smile. I know how you feel, the steady blue eyes said. A thousand men and boys have done it already.

Golbfish grabbed a handful of the gritty stuff and did it. Gods, gods, gods! Agony coursed through every nerve, every vein. He bit hard on his lip. He would faint! He must faint! Then the torment slowly faded to a fiery burn. He was still bleeding. Not so much, but still bleeding. Unable to suppress a moan, he took another handful and the torture came again. He blinked at the tears.

"Come,” said the boy softly.

Golbfish staggered back to his own spear and shield. His head swam when he stooped, but he managed to lift them. He tottered down the steps behind his new leader. A hundred astonished Sonalby faces stared up in amazement at the unexpected recruit. The whole, vast congregation had frozen into statues.

The boy barked an order. The warriors snapped their spears to their shoulders. Another word and they spun around to face the other way. One error and those poles would have tangled in chaos, but there was no error. A third order, and they began to march. Their commander followed, and Golbfish tottered along at his side, struggling to keep in step.

He might die in battle, the rigors of training might kill him, but he had survived the ceremony! He stole a glance sideways at the lanky youth who had inspired his dramatic gesture. He felt a strange conviction that his newfound leader would look after him. He had found a friend. He had found someone he could trust.

20

"SO WHAT DID SHE LOOK LIKE, THIS GODDESS?” ALICE DEMANDED.

"Didn't get much of an eyeful,” Edward said. “She was there and then she was gone. You've seen one goddess, you've seem them all."

The two of them were strolling through St. James's Park, Edward casually swinging her overnight bag. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon. They had lots of time, and a straight line from Lambeth to Paddington would take them through the fairest parts of London—over Westminster Bridge, past the Houses of Parliament, across St. James's Park, Green Park, and Hyde Park. Then they would be almost there.

It was wonderful to have Edward back, after three years of wondering and worrying and almost but not quite giving up hope. He was more than just a cousin. He was her foster brother, her only living relative. She had not yet plumbed all the changes in him—strength and firmness of purpose. The schoolboy honor would be more deliberate and perhaps more practical, but no less firm.

This should be a marvelous day, a day to savor and remember, yet she could not shake off a creepy sensation that she was being followed. She glanced behind her once in a while, although reason told her that any follower could hide amid the milling crowds.

Edward noticed, of course. “What's the matter? You're jumpy as a grasshopper."

"Guilty conscience. I ought to be at work."

"They'll hold the war for you. What sort of work do you do, anyway?"

"Can't talk about it. Official Secrets Act.” If he were to guess that pianists made good typists and very few secretaries in London could type Kikuyu, he would not be far off.

Policemen bothered her. She kept thinking they were staring at her.

Half a dozen young men walked past talking loudly. Edward glanced back in surprise. “Americans?"

"Canadians, I expect. On leave."

He shook his head disbelievingly. “The whole world at war! It's mind-boggling."

"They all seem to come to London,” she said. “I don't know how they stand it—a few days in civilization, knowing they have to go back to the trenches, to be scarred and tortured—or killed."

Edward said nothing.

"That wasn't exactly tactful of me, was it? Edward, are you sure your duty is here?"

He looked down at her quickly, then away. He pointed. “Never thought I'd see guns in London. Antiaircraft, I suppose?"

"Answer me!"

He frowned. “Of course my duty is here! You know! We weren't born in England, you and I, but this is our native land. Nextdoor isn't."

"But you know you can achieve something worthwhile there, in your storybook world, because of that prophecy! Here you may just become another number, one of millions."

"I will not be less than those millions!"

"But you could be one in millions."

He scowled. “Alice, can't you understand? You might have talked me out of it before, but now I've seen what it's like! Those men carried me for hours across that hell, and I saw. I had never imagined war could be so horrible. I had never imagined anything could be so horrible. But now I've seen it. Now I know. I have to go back there! I can't run away now."

That seemed a very stupid, masculine way to think. “We have to win the war,” she said. “It's cost so much that we can't stop now. But I don't know that you belong in it.” Or D'Arcy, either. “We aren't all called to serve in the same way. You don't pull carts with racehorses."

"You don't make pets of them, either."

They paced on. The park was surprisingly crowded. She took his hand, though she had promised herself she wouldn't. He squeezed her fingers without looking down at her.

"What amazes me,” he said after a while, “is how you all seem to accept my story. I'd have expected you to have me locked up in Colney Hatch as a babbling loony."

"You carry conviction. You always did. Have you ever told a lie in your life?"

"Course I have! Don't be ridiculous! Everyone has."

"About anything important?"

He took some time to answer, staring woodenly at nothing. “Lying isn't important. Betraying friends, now ... that's worse."

"I won't believe you ever have."

"Well, that's where you're wrong!” he snapped. “Twice! That damned prophecy keeps trying to make me a god.... And I keep thinking of Holy Roly.... Telling people what they must do—what's right and what's wrong!” He looked down, and she was astonished to see that his eyes were shiny with tears.

She reminded herself that something had changed him and to pry might be needless cruelty. This day was much too precious to spend quarreling. “Tell me what magic feels like?"

He smiled. “That's impossible! Like describing color to a blind man. When you have mana you know it, but I can't say how. It's a little like having a bag of money, so you can feel the weight of the coins. You're a great pianist—"

"I had some talent."

"How did you know your talent? Mana's like that. How does an athlete know his strength? It's a fizz in the head. It's an excitement. I thought I knew what it was like, but I didn't really. Not until that day in Olfaan's temple. Oh, I'd picked up scraps now and then, but nothing like that. Having a troop of warriors to lead had been giving me some, but we hadn't been on a node. Nodes make all the difference. That's why strangers find themselves nodes and become numens—gods, if you want to call them that. As soon as we marched in, my chaps realized that my drill had made them superior to all the other contingents. They were thinking, Good old D'ward! and I could feel that pride and admiration like a shot of hot brandy."

"You weren't frightened of the numen, Olfaan?"

He laughed. “I was a complete innocent! I still trusted Krobidirkin, you see. I thought he would have foreseen that ceremony and warned Olfaan I was coming and won her approval. Astina's lot were not part of the Chamber—so I thought, and in a very rough sense I was right about that. I was wrong about Krobidirkin. The Herder was just using me. There's the palace!"

"It's usually around here somewhere."

They stopped at the curb, looking across at Buckingham Palace, waiting for the policemen controlling the traffic.

"Ugly heap, isn't it?” Edward said. “You'd think that the King-Emperor of a quarter of the world would have a more impressive residence. Pity he isn't home, or we could drop in for tea.” The royal standard was not flying.

"He's doing his bit. He does a lot for the troops."

"So he damned well should! They're certainly doing enough for him."

Alice glanced up, surprised. “What's wrong?"

"Oh ... nothing."

"Come on! Out with it."

He shrugged, frowning. “I wish I understood how it works here. That was something we didn't talk about much in Olympus. A couple of thousand years ago, yes. Then it worked on Earth very much as it still does on Nextdoor. I think there really was a god at Delphi, then. When the Greeks went to consult the oracle, there was a numen present and the prophecies were genuine. Or some of them at least. When the Romans prayed in the Capitol to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, someone was listening. But things changed a few centuries back."

Alice had been wondering about that. “Nietzsche? ‘God is dead'?"

"No. The gods are not dead. They're still here, or else there are new gods. People stopped taking them literally when the Enlightenment came, but they didn't die. They've taken some other form."

"You're not saying King George is a stranger?"

He laughed. “Hardly!” His mood darkened. “No. Creighton said the Blighters started this war, but there's no nominal god of death receiving the sacrifices. That doesn't mean the sacrifices aren't being made. Who is lapping up the mana?"

"Edward! Are you saying that all gods—all gods—throughout history ... that all gods and all religions have been fakes, frauds?"

He hesitated. “No. No, I'm not saying that. You see, what the Service is trying to introduce in the Vales is a system of ethics that you would recognize. You would approve. I do. It has a lot of Christianity in it, and a lot of Buddhism.... The Golden Rule, mostly—the sort of thing that has cropped up in our world and in that world many times. It has to come from somewhere and—Come on!"

The policeman was waving. They crossed the road. She kept trying to release his hand, but he was holding her fingers tightly. Passersby shot them disapproving looks.

"It's incredible to be back here,” he said. “To see all the old familiar sights again."

"And yet the differences? What do you notice?"

"Crowds. The whole population of the Vales would not fill London. People overdressed, because of the climate. Walking their dogs! How absurdly, typically English! Mothers pushing babies in prams. Tourists and late holidaymakers, soldiers on leave. Policemen. Do those barrage balloons really do any good?"

They talked of the war for a while. They crossed Piccadilly and entered Hyde Park. His sinister talk of sacrifice bothered her, though, and eventually she asked him how it worked.

He sighed. “Know that, and you would understand all mysteries! The essence of sacrifice is that you do something you don't want to do because you think it will please your god. If you're lucky, you get a pat on the head and feel good. If I hadn't known that before, then I'd have learned it that day in Nag. All those warriors from Sonalby sacrificed to me! They didn't mean to. They didn't even know they were doing it, but each of them had to perform a very unpleasant ritual with a blunt knife and a handful of salt. They thought they were doing it for their own manhood, their goddess, and poor old Golbfish, but I was their leader and their friend, and there I was, right on the node. I had charisma! So they did it for me, and pretty soon I was gibbering drunk with mana."

"That was what you used on Golbfish?"

"Not really. I didn't use anything on him except charisma, and I couldn't help that. Oh, I suppose I was being a little more than naïve. Right at the beginning, as soon as he went up to the altar, I knew he was a very worried man. Probably no one else knew. I had no idea what the matter was, but I felt sorry for him. When I finally got my chance to march up the steps, I tried to give him a bit of cheering up. I gave him one of those looks you do when you want to tell someone something without actually speaking, you know? He sort of grabbed at it, and I realized that he was in mortal terror."

"Then the goddess came?"

"At the end she did. If I was tipsy, she must have been completely bung-eyed by that time. She'd all those thousands of people singing hymns to her and then hundreds of men offering blood and pain, all right on her node—mana in torrents! I don't suppose she'd had a feast like that in a generation. And suddenly it was cut off. It was all coming to me, see? So she came to find out what was going on. I'm sure nobody else saw her. I caught a glimpse and thought, Whoops! and she saw me and I'm sure she guessed right away who I was. I was very bad news, because I might queer her with Zath or Karzon or with major intriguing in the Pentatheon. The lady did not want to be involved! So she scarpered."

"But what did she look like?"

"Nothing special, as I recall,” he said vaguely. “Big woman. Hardly saw her. It was like two friends passing in a busy street. They tip their hats to each other and are gone. I was more worried about Golbfish."

"Why? Why did you decide to help him?"

Edward shrugged, almost shyly. “I didn't do anything, really. He needed a friend and my charisma made him trust me. He thought up his own way out. I was amused to discover I now had a prince under my command. I wasn't thinking too clearly, as I said. I felt invincible! Good day for sailing boats!"

Alice looked to where the children were playing by the Serpentine.

"Is that what you want to do? Stop and play with toy boats on a lake, just let the world go by? Two worlds?"

"I want to enlist."

"Edward, what exactly is prophesied about you in the other world? What does the Liberator actually do?"

He turned on her in sudden anger. “I told you: He kills Death. Not real death, just Zath, of course. And that's disaster! It leads to disaster! There's only one way it could be done, and that's for me to set myself up as a god and collect more mana than Zath—and he's been at it for a hundred years. I can't imagine what horrors I'd have to invent to squeeze worship on that scale out of the masses, and what happens after? What happens to me? What happens to them? All that just to kill one stranger, who'll probably be replaced by another in two shakes? Zath's the first one nasty enough to claim to be god of death, but it's such a great swindle he invented that he certainly won't be the last. The guv'nor saw all that, and when I finally got to read the bloody Filoby thing, I saw too, and I won't have anything to do with it! I came Home to enlist, but I also came Home to break the chain, and I'm never going back! Never! I won't! I mean it! That's final!” He spun on his heel and stalked away, walking faster than before.

She ran after him. “No, I don't see. Are you sure you can't kill Zath without using mana?"

"Absolutely certain."

"Then you could take the god of death office yourself, to make sure it isn't abused."

"Faugh! No. Don't worry about it. It won't happen. I'd rather stop a German bullet any day. What else do you want to know, apart from that?"

"What happened to Golbfish?"

Edward sighed. “Ah, that's quite a story. If it wasn't for Golbfish I wouldn't be here. First thing, of course, when we'd barely left the temple, was that a couple of heralds appeared, demanding that he return to the palace."

"And?"

Edward grinned, looking suddenly very juvenile. “I told them that Golbfish Warrior was now under my command and I refused to release him. I had a hundred spearsmen with me, so the argument was brief."

Alice glanced at her watch. They still had an hour before train time.

"Of course,” he said, “I realized that I had blundered into a major political crisis. We'd hardly got back to camp before I was summoned to appear before Kammaeman Battlemaster, the Joalian general. I was told to bring my new recruit with me, but I didn't. I went alone and explained that the prince couldn't come—he was too busy digging latrine ditches. After that, they sort of lost interest in us."

"Never mind your confounded modesty! What did you really do?"

"Nothing much,” Edward said blandly.

21

"TWO FRIENDS ARE BETTER THAN ONE,” SAID DOSH HOUSEBOY, kneading Tarion's calf, “especially if they are enemies."

"Sounds like one of my dear brother's aphorisms. It's enough to send a whole dining room of sycophants into hysterics."

"It's from the Green Scriptures, Canto 1576.” Dosh turned his attention to the other leg.

Tarion was stretched out naked on an auroch hide. The tent was dim and hot. It smelled of leather, his own sweat, and the fragrant oil Dosh was using. After hours of standing in the temple, a massage felt very good. Massages from Dosh always did—he had skill and his hands were much more powerful than they looked. All the thousands of other people who had endured that ceremony would perhaps appreciate similar treatment, but none of them would be getting it.

"What two friends do you have in mind?” he asked sleepily.

Dosh chuckled throatily. “You and Golbfish."

"The Joalians can still play us off against each other, of course."

"Of course. And the fat man did not die ... which may have been the plan, possibly?"

Tarion chuckled. “Do my thighs now.” He sighed sensuously as those powerful fingers began to work on the muscle.

"So you will have to behave yourself, or they can bring him back,” Dosh said, phrasing the words in time with his thrusts. “They do not trust my beloved master.” He was as nosy as an old woman.

After a while Tarion roused himself to answer. “Mother cannot last much longer. Then the Joalians will have to decide which of us to put on the throne. I think we shall have just time to slaughter a few Lemodians before then. Before the terrible news arrives."

It would be better for Tarion himself if the time was insufficient for the Lemodian's Thargian allies to arrive on the scene—Thargians were dangerous—but that was in the lap of the gods. “It seems most unlikely that my dear brother will survive more than an hour or two of infantry training. He has the muscle tone of a milk pudding. His comrades will laugh him to death. There must be a limit to the amount of humiliation even that man can absorb. Besides ... Do you want to hear a little secret, dear boy?"

"You know I love secrets."

"Then work harder. Harder! I won't break. Ah! Lovely! My whimsical brother took refuge in the Nagian infantry. You know what the Joalians think of the Nagian infantry?"

"They think it a useless rabble,” Dosh said, panting with effort as he pummeled.

"Exactly! Our cavalry—my cavalry I mean ... They will allow us to play some minor part. Nothing too critical, I am sure. I hope showy. But the infantry is a mob. A peasant's idea of fighting is to throw his spear at his opponent's shield and then charge him with a club. Even Lemodians can massacre Nagians. They always have in the past. Start on my back now. Kammaeman will hurl the Nagians in first to use up the Lemodians’ arrows. That's what they're for. Dear Golbfish's chances of surviving his first battle may charitably be defined as, ‘remote.’”

He grunted as Dosh's strong hands pressed down on his torso. He had allowed none of his subordinates to bring personal body servants along to the war, and only the very senior Joalians had them. As leader of the cavalry, though, he needed someone to attend to his mount, his weapons, and equipment. And his more personal needs. Dosh was a real joy, in every way.

"The Joalians do not trust you, master,” Dosh repeated.

"I am heartbroken,” Tarion said drowsily. “I wonder why not?"

"Because two friends are better than one, especially when they are enemies."

Tarion spun over on his back, grabbed a handful of Dosh's hair, and hauled him down. Dosh squealed in surprise and ended leaning on one elbow, nose to nose with his prince and frantically trying not to spill the oil bottle in his other hand.

"What are you implying?” Tarion said menacingly.

He saw none of the fear he had hoped to provoke, only amusement.

"Oh, beloved!” Dosh said in a fake whine of humility. “Who am I to lecture my master on political affairs?"

"Did I ever tell you you had beautiful eyes?"

"I don't think so. You've praised just about every other part of me excessively, but I don't recall you mentioning eyes."

"I do so now only to stress that I should hate to have them put out with red-hot irons. That would spoil your perfection. What were you saying?"

Dosh still showed no alarm. He smiled, as if this bullying were a form of foreplay—which it probably was, Tarion realized.

The beautiful eyes twinkled. “I mean that Thargia would be very happy to see Nagland recover its independence. Thargia is not close enough to be a threat to you in itself. I think you are a man of Nagvale, beloved master."

"My father was a peasant,” Tarion agreed. “And then a palace guard, and then royal gigolo.” He twisted the boy's hair. “Is this what is said about me—that I would sell out to Thargia?"

"It is what is thought. Nobody says it. Ouch! That hurts!"

"It is meant to. Do you spy on me for the Thargians or the Joalians?"

With his head bent over at a critical angle, Dosh regarded the prince sideways and then said, “Both. Whoever pays me."

"Good. I appreciate honesty and a proper respect for money. Spy all you want, but remember this—while you are mine, you let no other man touch you! Unless I say so, of course."

"Of course not. I have my standards."

Tarion chuckled and released him. Then he put an arm around Dosh's neck and hauled him closer. “I love you, you little monster! When we have overrun a village or two in Themodvale, we shall enjoy the spoils of war. What would you like me to bring you? Girls or boys?"

Dosh's white teeth shone. “Either, as long as they are young and pretty. Like you, I am not fussy."

"I am extremely fussy."

"I am flattered."

From outside the tent flap came the unmistakable sound of a spear being thumped against a shield.

"Curses!” Tarion said, pushing his body servant off his body. “Just when things were starting to become interesting! See what he wants."

Dosh rose, straightened his hair, adjusted his loincloth, and took the oil bottle with him.

Tarion sat up, hearing the Joalian voice outside summoning him to the battlemaster's tent. He had half expected this, and of course he must go. He would be very surprised if his beloved half brother Golbfish was not the first item on the agenda.

The camp was not large enough to justify riding; the two men walked. With the sun now dipping toward Nagwall, the temperature was becoming bearable, but Kolgan Coadjutant set a very leisurely pace. When the second-in-command of the Joalian army came in person to conduct a mere Nagian to a meeting, one could reasonably assume that he had an ulterior motive. Tarion was now Nagian heir designate and Kolgan was an important Joalian politician. They had never spoken in private before.

The camp bustled all around them. Troopleaders were drilling long-shadowed squads on the dusty plain; moas were mewing for their evening meal. Smoke trickled up reluctantly from cooking fires.

"How soon do you expect the final contingents from Joalvale, sir?” Tarion inquired politely.

"In a few days.” Kolgan was very tall, and even his armor failed to make him look broad. He had a hatchet face and a reddish beard.

"I hope we shall move out at once. The enemy must know about us by now."

The tall man chuckled. “And the army is eating the heart out of your capital?” Tents ran off in rows for miles, enough to hold five thousand hungry men.

"Certainly. Mother will have to raise taxes to pay for it.” On the other hand, the crown's levy on brothels must be paying royally just now.

"Ah. But the queen's health distresses us all. That unpopular task may fall to her successor."

"Or, if Karzon favors our cause,” Tarion prompted, “loot from Lemodvale may solve the problem?” But would the Joalians let the Nagians have a significant share?

"Possibly,” Kolgan said vaguely. “Do you know how I got to be where I am, Tarion Cavalryleader?” He glanced down with a meaningful glint in his eye.

"Not in detail,” Tarion said diplomatically, “but I have heard how the people's assembly in Joal rejected the Clique's nominee for the position of coadjutant and demanded you instead. Riot was threatened. A great tribute to your reputation, of course."

"A great tribute to graft. I have no military experience to speak of. I had been sponsoring public games on a scale not seen for many years."

The People's Assembly was the ultimate authority in Joal, but it was very expensive to buy. Tarion distrusted candor. Candor was dangerous to both candorer and candoree. “How wonderfully public-spirited of you!"

"I staked everything I possessed and everything I could borrow. Unless I return gloriously victorious and loaded with loot, then I am a ruined man."

"We must trust in the gods and the justice of our cause,” Tarion said, wondering what this frankness could possibly be leading up to.

Kolgan's angular face twisted in a grin—or possibly a sneer. It was hard to tell under his helmet. “And you, Prince? How did you come to be where you are?"

Candor was for others. “Mother has long believed that I would make a better king than my poor brother."

"Quite!” Kolgan Coadjutant snapped. “But her Joalian allies have never agreed with that viewpoint. Our distinguished ambassador recently switched his support to you—in direct breach of the Clique's instructions."

"He did,” Tarion agreed blandly. The Joalian ambassador was effectively the resident Joalian governor of Nagland, although one did not say so openly. Bondvaan was another devious politician, a human snake.

The commander's tent was in sight now. Kammaeman had appropriated the best campsite, under the only decent shade trees. He was sitting on a stool, still wearing armor and watching his subordinates approach. Beside him sat that very same Bondvaan.

"Three years ago,” Kolgan said, “the old man spent five million stars, bribing the Clique to appoint him. I am sure he has made it all back by now."

"In his first ten fortnights here, or so he boasts."

"Well, then!” Kolgan said triumphantly. “Bribery on his scale would be well beyond your means. How did you work it?"

"Mother persuaded him."

This time the sneer was unmistakable. “That is not what I heard. I had hoped we might exchange confidences, Tarion Cavalryleader."

Tarion sighed. “What did you hear?"

"He is a notorious lecher. He hosts orgies of the foulest perversions. What his age makes impossible for him personally now, he stages to watch. I heard you participated in certain memorable performances at his residence."

Tarion had never found a smile harder. “I am no prude, but I prefer not to be reminded of those nights.” Candor!

"Understandably!” The tall man chuckled coarsely. “Great causes require great sacrifices?"

"Yes."

"Do we appreciate each other now? Do you know why I dismissed the messenger and came for you myself?"

Tarion gritted his teeth. “Of course. Kammaeman Battlemaster must be aware of your need for personal glory. A wise Joalian commander never turns his back on his deputy. By arriving with me, you are undermining my reliability in his eyes, and thus hope to enlist me to your side."

Kolgan laughed. “We do understand each other! Let us make an agreement, then. Help me come out on top in this and I shall give you Bondvaan Ambassador's privates on a plate. Interested?"

"Fervently,” Tarion said. “Fried."

The guards let the visitors pass. They came to a halt and saluted the man who was at the moment autocrat of Nagland. Kammaeman's word could stop any heart in the vale.

He was close to sixty, a seasoned warrior. He must also be one of the most successful and ruthless politicians in Joal, as he had hung on to his membership in the Clique for more than ten years. The fact that he had dared take command of the army in person and thus absent himself from the city showed how firm his grip must be. He was physically powerful, too. His armor covered his torso and shins, but his bearlike, matted arms and thighs were exposed. Dust and sweat had muddied in the wrinkles in his weathered face and in his beard. His eyes were inflamed by the sun. He nodded at the newcomers without rising or even offering them a seat, although there were stools standing unused at his back.

Beside him—silver-haired, short, and blubbery—Bondvaan Ambassador favored Tarion with a buttery smile that awakened memories to make his skin crawl.

Kammaeman was peering up at him from under grizzled brows thicker than many men's mustaches. Black hairs sprouted from his ears and nostrils.

"Did you enjoy the ceremony today, Cavalryleader?"

Kolgan alone had been bad enough. Tarion braced himself to deal with three of them. “I hope someday to wean my people from ritual scarring, sir. It is a holdover from our barbaric past and contrary to the enlightened civilization that Joal has brought us, for which we are all so grateful. However, the sight of blood excites me, and you certainly cannot doubt the young men's courage."

"I can doubt their sanity. Did you find the conclusion at all surprising?"

"Astonishing!” It would be more truthful to call the conclusion deeply disappointing. Some blood would be more exciting than others. “I never suspected my brother of such patriotism."

Without even looking, Tarion could sense the smirk on Bondvaan's suety face. Oh, he must be pleased! The Joalians still had a second string to their bow in Nag.

"That was not quite what I ... Ah!” Kammaeman gestured for Tarion and Kolgan to step aside. “Here comes the man I want to see."

Tarion watched with interest as the guards confiscated the new arrival's spear. He was a fairly typical Nagian—black haired, slender, and tall; taller than most. Still bearing his shield, he marched up to the commander and slapped a palm on it in salute. Then he stood stiffly at attention, staring over the commander's helmet. His grotesque face paint made his expression almost unreadable.

Having seen him earlier only at a distance, Tarion had not realized how young he was. He felt a stir of interest. A straight diet of Dosh Houseboy would soon pall. If rank did not suffice, a few coppers would seem like a fortune to such a peasant.

"Your name?” Kammaeman demanded, looking the youth up and down, mostly up.

"D'ward Troopleader, sir."

"And before that?"

"D'ward Roofer."

"From Sonalby?"

"Yes, sir.” He had a faint accent that Tarion could not place. He was showing no signs of nervousness, which was exceedingly curious.

"I ordered you to bring your new recruit with you."

The young man did not look down. “With respect, sir, my oath was made to another, who then transferred it to you. I take orders only from you directly."

Kammaeman's face reddened under the dust. His hairy fists clenched.

"If you order me to go and fetch him now, sir,” the youth told the tent in the background, “then of course I shall obey."

"That is exceedingly kind of you!"

Tarion detected a suitable moment to win the boy's gratitude. “If I may speak, Battlemaster? Technically he is correct. That is the way things stand at the moment. He cannot be expected to understand proper military procedures."

The youth glanced briefly at the speaker and Tarion saw with astonishment that he had brilliantly blue eyes. How bizarre! How very intriguing!

And why was he not quaking in his shoes—apart from the fact that he was barefoot, of course? This lad must definitely be investigated more closely. Nasty, fat old Bondvaan had obviously had the same idea. He was almost slobbering on his stool.

"I see!” Kammaeman growled, mollified. “Well, I can't have a dozen troopleaders pestering me all day. I have to appoint an overall commander for the Nagian infantry, do I? Someone responsible to me?"

Tarion opened his mouth and then hastily closed it. The question had been directed to the peasant.

"As I understand, sir, there are no precedents. No hordeleader has ever resigned before."

He was not speaking like an ignorant rustic. He was quite right, though, and Kammaeman's proposal was the only possible solution. Tarion had carefully not mentioned the problem earlier, but he was prepared to undertake the additional responsibilities if they were offered. Then he would command the entire Nagian army. He did not say so yet, for Kammaeman was still intent on the youngster.

"What military experience do you have?"

"None, sir."

"Who taught your squad to drill?"

"I did, sir. I asked some of the elders in the village how Joalians made war.” He was showing no pride or satisfaction or ... or anything! He was as impassive as a veteran of innumerable campaigns. His confidence was positively eerie. Tarion wondered if Kammaeman might order him flogged, just on principle. But there was nothing in the boy's manner to indicate insubordination or hidden mockery. He was being completely factual, and his manner carried conviction.

"How long did it take you?"

"Two days, sir, was all I had—I do have a request, sir."

"Yes?"

"I have nothing more to teach them. If you could send us a Joalian instructor, he could further their training."

Kammaeman snorted disbelievingly. “It has been tried before! Nagian warriors insist on fighting in their traditional fashion. They will not listen to a Joalian."

"They will listen if I tell them to, sir."

At Tarion's side, Kolgan Coadjutant chuckled. Kammaeman shot him a glance that silenced him, and then looked back to D'ward. Up to D'ward.

"Give me your oath on that, subject to a flogging if you are wrong."

"I so swear,” the boy said at once, still staring over his head.

Tarion felt a stab of alarm. What was going on here? Was the old rogue going to take the word of a raw laborer? He glanced at Kolgan and saw a scowl that mirrored his own feelings exactly.

Kammaeman said, “Kneel."

The boy knelt. That put their eyes on the same level.

"So you can make them march in step,” the commander said. “I admit that. I admit that I am surprised by that. But how do you make them remember that spears are for thrusting? In the heat of battle, they will throw their spears away! They always have in the past."

"I was planning to tie the poles to their wrists with leather thongs,” D'ward said simply, “to remind them."

"Indeed?” Kammaeman raised those jungly eyebrows. He was obviously impressed. “How long would it take you to train the rest of the Nagian contingents to the same standard you have brought Sonalby's?"

Even the youth looked startled, but he barely hesitated. “I can talk to them this evening, sir. If you will assign a Joalian instructor to each troop in the morning, I will guarantee that they will obey him and do their best."

The battlemaster scratched his beard. “On the same penalty? No, I'll raise the stakes. Make that two floggings."

The boy grinned. “Done!"

"By the five gods, lad, you're either crazy or just insane! Your new recruit? What is he doing now?"

"Digging a latrine ditch, sir."

Tarion exploded. Oh, joy! Oh, perfection!

Kammaeman shot him a disapproving glare, but he was having trouble hiding his own amusement. “Why that?"

The boy seemed surprised, as if the answer were obvious. “I told him that was the worst job I could give him. Once he has done that, then he has nothing more to fear."

The Joalians exchanged glances. Old Bondvaan ran soft fingers through his skimpy silver hair. Kolgan was chewing his lip thoughtfully. Kammaeman seemed to be at a loss. “Did your group accept him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh? What did you tell them?"

"I said we were very honored to have the prince enlist with us. That they need not show him any special favor, but they should try to be patient with him, because he has had a deprived upbringing and has everything to learn about true manhood."

This time even the commander grinned. He turned to Kolgan.

"Well, Coadjutant? Do we have a native military genius here?"

"He appears to have flair, sir."

"Stand up!” Kammaeman said, heaving himself to his feet. Even in his boots and helmet, he was shorter than the boy, but twice as wide. “Take good care of him!"

"Yes, sir."

"We don't want him to have any accidents—do we, Cavalryleader?” He favored Tarion with a threatening glare.

"I hope my brother survives to dig many, many latrine ditches, sir,” Tarion said crossly. If the Nagian rabble was to be turned into an effective fighting force, he could no longer count on Golbfish dying in the customary massacre. How annoying!

Kammaeman thrust out a hairy arm and grasped the youth's brown shoulder.

"I shall make you a wager! D'ward Troopleader, I appoint you acting commander of the Nagian infantry. Any instructors you need, just ask this man. His name is Kolgan Coadjutant. Three days from now, you will parade your horde for me. I shall then either confirm your appointment or have you beaten to jelly. Do you accept those terms?"

"Yes, sir,” the youth said calmly. “Thank you, sir."

"My pleasure! Dismissed."

With a smart salute, the new troopleader spun around and marched away. The guards gave him back his spear.

Kammaeman watched him go and then turned to his deputy with the sleepy content of a bearcat that has just eaten a band of hunters. “You are dismissed also. Give him the best men you can, all the help you can. You two gentlemen wait a moment."

Kolgan flickered anger, but he saluted and marched away.

Tarion moved forward. Bondvaan rose, looking completely perplexed. Tarion hoped his own face did not show his fury. That young upstart was doomed!

"You two gentlemen,” Kammaeman repeated as soon as Kolgan was out of earshot, “were both making slobbering spectacles of yourself. Keep your filthy habits to yourselves, do you understand? Leave D'ward alone!"

"Sir!” Tarion protested. “I don't underst—"

"You understand perfectly! He is not to be molested in any way. Any way! I think I may have found a secret weapon in this war."

Tarion decided he had better make some new plans.

22

HIS FIRST FEW DAYS IN THE INFANTRY WERE CONTINUOUS TORMENT for Golbfish. Going without shoes, he shredded the soles of his feet; his skin blistered in the sun; his ritual cut suppurated. The sheer physical exertion was worse than all of those. He dug ditches, he marched, he ran. Every muscle in his carcass throbbed and ached. He fainted and was kicked awake and told to stop slacking. Time and again he came to the breaking point, when even death seemed preferable to this unending torture.

But whenever that happened, by some curious coincidence, he would look up to see a pair of steady blue eyes watching him. He would hear a few words of encouragement and recall that this youth had saved him in the temple at no small risk to himself. Somehow, then, Golbfish would find the strength to struggle on a little longer. He owed it to D'ward, who had trusted him.

He fully expected one of Tarion's assassins to come calling on him with a thin dagger, but that never happened. He awoke every morning, never quite sure whether to be surprised or disappointed. And by the fifth or sixth day, he realized that he was going to live through this and be a warrior. Even more astonishing, he came to understand that his rough companions were sympathetic to his sufferings and approved of his efforts. Then a thin sliver of pride began to glow in the darkness.

Just when he had begun to cope with life in camp, the army moved out, almost seven thousand strong. About a quarter were Nagians, a thousand on foot and eight hundred riding moas. Their road took them east, past Sonalby, and then south into the wilds of Siopass. For three days they made a cautious ascent of the winding valley, through dripping forest and along stony watercourses. The march brought Golbfish new impossibilities of fatigue and hardship.

It also brought danger, for every military campaign in the Vales inevitably began with a contested pass. The Lemodians could not but know that the combined might of Joalland and Nagland was coming against them. Already they must have reinforced their defenses and called for help from their fearsome Thargian masters. There were very few places where an army could cross the ranges.

Fortunately, there had not been time for Tharg's assistance to arrive. The battle was fought long before the Nagian contingent reached the summit. Word was sent back down the line that the pass was cleared and Lemodvale lay open before the invaders. Then the warriors cheered and sang songs as they marched. Golbfish saw the bodies as he stumbled past, but he was not involved in the fighting. He had no breath for singing, and he did not know the words of those songs anyway.

Thereafter the road led downward and the pace quickened. Two days later, the army camped by a shallow lake in the foothills of Lemodslope. The talk now was all of conquest and the joys of loot. The warriors assured one another that Lemodian girls were famous for their beauty.

Eventually the Sonalby troop received its turn to bathe in the now very muddy lake. The warriors stashed their arms, but did not bother to strip. They charged into the water with whoops and set about making it even muddier. Golbfish avoided the horseplay, but he enjoyed the soak and the chance to reduce his personal population of vermin. What small things could please him now!

He limped out to dry off in the sun. A gangly young man was sitting on the grass, leaning his head and arms on his bony knees, his bright blue eyes watching Golbfish with amusement. He must have been in the water also, for his hair and beard were wet.

"Congratulations, warrior!” he said. “You've done it, haven't you?"

"I think you deserve most of the credit, sir.” One thing Golbfish had certainly learned, and that was humility. He knew he could not have managed without D'ward's help and inspiration.

"Nonsense! Sit down here and relax a minute. I said I could show you how, but you did it.” D'ward chuckled, shaking his head at Golbfish's tattered appearance. “You just need to grow a new skin and you'll be done. How do you feel?"

Golbfish considered the question. It seemed like centuries since he had held a real conversation with anyone—meaning anyone with intelligence. “Surprised, mostly."

"But proud?"

"Yes,” the new warrior confessed. “I wouldn't have believed that a fortnight ago—but, yes."

"You should be proud. Even the men are proud of you, you know! They were laying bets on how long you'd last. Nobody won—or rather you won! They admire courage. Anything you need?"

Golbfish smiled, and it was a long time since he'd done that, too. “Ymma or Uthinima or Osmialth."

The blue eyes blinked. “Who?"

"My concubines."

D'ward laughed. “You are better, aren't you! Sorry, I can't help there. Well, I just thought I'd congratulate you and tell you how much I admire what you've achieved. It would have broken most men. Well done!"

He moved as if about to rise.

"Sir?"

The hordeleader settled back with a wary look. “Yes?"

"May I ask ... No. May I make an observation?"

"Observe away."

Golbfish turned his head to watch the splashing mob in the lake. “This is impertinent and rash of me, but I have overheard enough to know that you are not a native of Sonalby."

There was no reaction, just a terrible stillness that was more eloquent than a scream or a string of oaths.

"Sir! ... I am sorry...."

"I'm not originally from Sonalby, no,” D'ward said, very quietly. “The Joalians don't know that, though. At least, I didn't tell them, and I don't think they know. Carry on."

"No. I should not have—"

"Carry on!"

"Sir!” Why had he been such a fool as to bring this up? “You arrived there in early summer. I suspect it was soon after the seven hundredth Festival of Tion, in Suss."

There was a long pause, and then the young man said, “Who says so?"

"Nobody. I worked it out. Very few of the lads can read. If they have ever heard of the Filoby Testament, they certainly know none of the details."

D'ward sighed. “But you do, of course. What details do you have in mind?"

"Oh ... just that it implies the Liberator will be born then, but that isn't what it actually says. It actually says that he will come into the world naked and crying. Not quite the same thing!"

The piercing blue eyes raked the prince's face, then suddenly began to twinkle. “How else does one come into the world?” D'ward demanded with a grin that washed away the guilt and tension.

"Well...” Golbfish felt a twinge of nostalgia, remembering table talk in Joal, the long philosophical debates when every word must be combed for subtleties of meaning. He gazed for a moment at the peasants roistering in the water. “Those who enter convents or monasteries are said to leave the world. So I suppose a man who was, say, evicted from a monastery might be said to enter the world again?"

"You believe that is what is meant?"

"Perhaps. Or there may be an arcane meaning. Other references suggest that the Liberator is something other than a normal man."

"Are you trying to blackmail me?"

Golbfish looked around in horror, momentarily speechless. Even worse than the suggestion itself was the realization that a fortnight ago he probably would have been thinking that way. “You? When I owe you my life?"

His companion smiled again. “Sorry! I must have been consorting with that blackguard brother of yours too much. You don't really owe me anything, you know—but carry on."

"Nothing! I wish I hadn't mentioned it."

"Have you discussed this with anyone else?"

"No, sir! Sir ... you can trust me!” Golbfish was suddenly seized with a need to weep. Why had he ever blabbed all this out?

"You are implying that I am something other than a mortal man?"

"I think you have powers that others do not."

D'ward said, “Damn!” and studied his toes.

"Are you a god?” Golbfish asked nervously.

"I'm definitely human. I am probably the man mentioned in the Testament, though. Shrewd of you to work that out.” He sighed. “I don't know if I shall ever be the Liberator. I have no ambitions to be any sort of liberator. I just want to go home! Will you keep this to yourself, please?"

"Of course. I swear it."

Obviously D'ward did not want to talk about the prophecies, which was a pity, because Golbfish did. The Filoby Testament never mentioned Nagland, so he had never paid much heed to it. It did mention a prince. About half the Vales were monarchies, so there must be many princes around, but he and Tarion were certainly the only princes available at the moment.

The blue eyes were smiling again, and D'ward unrolled, stretching his bony form out on the grass. “I trust you! So let me ask you something. The day I arrived in Sonalby, I saw a family murdered by a mob."

Golbfish shuddered. “Led by Karzon's priests? It happened all over the vale."

"Because they were heretics?"

"Yes. We didn't have very many in Nagland, but the Man decreed that they must be stamped out."

D'ward raised his head and frowned at the troops in the water. “I think we'll have company in a moment. The Church of the Undivided? Tell me about that."

"It's a new faith,” Golbfish said hastily, racking his brains for the little he knew about it. “Where it started, or when, I don't know. It's fairly widespread in Randorland. It may be cropping up in other vales too—I have no idea. It preaches a new god, a single god. That sounds like Visek, but it isn't. All gods are the Five and the Five are the Parent, you know? But this god is none of them. His followers claim that he is the only true god, and all the others are..."

"Yes?"

"Demons,” Golbfish said reluctantly. It was a heresy almost too foul to repeat. Why in the world was D'ward interested in that obscure sect of deluded fanatics?

"Has he a name, do you know, this new god?"

"Apparently not.” Vague memories of drunken dinner conversation stirred. “If he has, it is too holy to be spoken. And his followers do not pray to him directly."

D'ward grunted. “This is very interesting! What are his teachings, his commands to the faithful?"

"I really don't know, sir! I wish I could be of more help! They wear a gold earring in the left ear."

D'ward turned his head and stared. “Even the men? And only one ear?"

"Apparently."

"Peculiar! That must make them very conspicuous. It will be dangerous, if they are being persecuted. Or is that the whole idea?” he added thoughtfully.

"Perhaps not all of them do,” Golbfish suggested. He had always taken the gods for granted. Philosophy was interesting, but religion he had left to the priests.

"Perhaps not,” D'ward agreed. He sat up as a mob of wet warriors emerged from the lake, eager to greet their former friend, now elevated to giddily high rank. “One last question. Quickly! If I wanted to find this church, where should I look?"

"Randorvale, I suppose,” Golbfish said. “But we're going the wrong way."

23

"WHITE TABLECLOTHS!” EDWARD SAID IN A TONE OF WONDER. “SILver cutlery! Civilization!"

Outside the dining car window, the Thames valley rushed by in a blur of hedgerows and hamlets, evening sun on woodlands and church spires. Even in the mere ten years of Alice's experience, rural England had changed, although much less than the cities, where the inrush of motor vehicles and power lines was more visible. Out here the plodding horses still hauled mountainous hay wagons, but lorries and omnibuses were proliferating on the country lanes. Tradition was a personal thing, she supposed. The landscapes Constable had painted had long since been blighted by railway lines and then telegraph wires.

The carriage swayed in hurried rhythm. Clickety-click, said the wheels, clickety-click, clickety-click...

"I think I'll try the Scotch broth,” she said. “How long since you saw tablecloths?"

"Ages. We had them at Olympus, but I didn't stay there very long."

He had been attempting to turn the conversation away from his adventures, inquiring about her life in wartime London. She kept steering him back to Nextdoor. Even then, he would obviously rather talk about Olympus than relate his experiences as a warlord. She was curious to know why. Either he had something to be very proud of and was being typically modest about it, or he had done something shameful. Which?

Was he concerned that she would think he had gone native? Julian and Ginger had both been shocked by the little they had heard, although neither had said so. In their view, the code of the English sahib did not include self-mutilation and spear-throwing. Having spent much of her childhood playing in the dust of an Embu compound, Alice had few such prejudices. As far as she could see, Edward had had no choice. Marooned on another world, he could hardly have appealed to the British Consul.

"The lamb may be safest,” she said. “Railway food is not what it was before the war. Tarion sounds like an interesting character."

Edward snorted. “He has charm, when he bothers to use it. He's a superb athlete and tough as an anvil. That about sums up his good points, I'd say."

"How about his bad points?"

"Please! That would take all night. I swear the man has not one trace of morals or ethics or scruples. Nothing is beneath him, absolutely nothing!"

"He tried to bribe you, I suppose?"

Edward looked up from the menu again and rolled his eyes. “Dozens of times. You can't imagine some of the offers he made me!"

Alice thought she could, but she knew he would not mention them in the presence of a lady.

She wondered just what it would take to bribe her idealistic cousin into doing something he felt was wrong. The Imperial Crown Jewels, perhaps, as a start? Edward had no family responsibilities; he was young enough to have few needs beyond his daily bread. He had been taught to believe that honesty and willingness to work would suffice to carry him through life. Vast estates would just seem a burden to him, and his education had armored him against depravity. He probably still took a cold bath every morning. He would be true to King and Country, decency and fair play—and seek nothing else. His education had been designed to turn out incorruptible administrators, the men who ran the Empire. Even Edward Exeter might slip in a year or two, when idealism faded in the light of experience, but at the moment he was as close to incorruptible as any mortal could be. The Tarion man must have been very puzzled by the response to his offers.

Where Tarion had failed, how could Alice Prescott succeed?

Whatever had happened to her patriotism all of a sudden? She recalled the recruiting posters of the early months of the war, before conscription: THE WOMEN OF BRITAIN SAY “Go!” She had been horrified when D'Arcy enlisted, and yet proud of him. Like everyone else, she knew the war must be fought and must be won—she just did not think that it was Edward's war. He had been called to other duties. The very laws of nature seemed to bend around him. But if she could not justify this feeling even to herself, how could she ever convince him? What would it take to change his mind?

"You declined, of course?"

"Alice, darling! What do you think I—Don't answer that! Of course I did. Even if he'd come up with anything really tempting, Tarion's promises are mere wind and always will be."

"Did you tell him so?"

"Of course. He would just laugh and agree. In a day or two he would try me again."

Edward smirked. He knew what she was thinking. He knew he was good. Well, she could deflate him. She could still make him blush.

"You're young and winsome,” she mused. “I assume he also made indecent advances?"

He blushed an unbelievable scarlet. “How did you guess?"

"From things you didn't say. Golbfish was no pillar of virtue either, I gather."

"Not by our standards,” Edward said primly. “But he was merely debauched, whereas Tarion was depraved. There was a real man inside Golb-fish's blubber. He'd just never had reason to call that man out before."

"Oh, cut it out!” Edward said testily.

"So you turned a frog into a prince? And then—"

The waiter appeared beside them as if condensing out of the air. They ordered dinner. Up ahead, the engine came into view, snaking around a curve, smoke pouring from its funnel. Some poor devil of a fireman was shoveling his heart out there. The dining car rocked unevenly as it reached the bend.

They sat for a while in silence, Alice reviewing a mental list of things she should be asking. Talking was difficult in the crowded train; when they arrived at Greyfriars they would have Julian for company again, possibly Ginger, and also the formidable Mrs. Bodgley. Mrs. Bodgley would probably demand Edward's story from the beginning. She would certainly want an account of what had happened to her son. Alice must put this brief dining-car privacy to good use.

The waiter slid soup plates in front of them and departed.

"This is not bad at all!” Edward announced.

"But look at this awful wartime bread!"

Everything went black.

"Don't eat it!” he said over the racket. “It makes you go blind.” The acrid reek of coal began to foul the air. Then the train burst out of the tunnel, gradually shedding its cocoon of smoke.

"You are still the idiot I used to know,” Alice said affectionately. “Tell me. You want to get in touch with the Service? You said you had three ways in mind."

Edward nodded glumly. “They're all very flimsy leads, though. One of them is that letter I asked Ginger to post for me. Do you remember Mr. Oldcastle?"

"I remember you talking about him."

"He wrote to me just after—after the news.” His bony face seemed to grow even thinner for a moment, remembering the bad times, when Cameron and Rona Exeter had died in the Nyagatha massacre. “Claimed to be with the Colonial Office. He wasn't, of course. He was with Head Office."

Alice had known only that Oldcastle had been an absentee father to Edward. In retrospect, he had been too good to be true. His Majesty's Government would never take so much interest in the orphaned son of a very minor official.

"When you disappeared, I wrote to Mr. Oldcastle."

Edward grinned, popping a crust in his mouth. “What address?"

"I tried Whitehall, and I tried the one Ginger had, at the school."

"Whitehall had never heard of him and the GPO had never heard of Druids Close?"

"Right on."

"There is no Druids Close. There was no Mr. Oldcastle. He was a committee, or so Creighton told me, although he always wrote back in the same hand. Head Office were keeping an eye on me, you see, as a favor for the Service. The Blighters were after me then, too."

Clickety-click, clickety-click, clickety-click...

"So if Oldcastle doesn't exist, how do you get in touch with him now?"

"I do what I always did—I write him a letter! I already have, and Ginger will have posted it by now."

"I thought Julian had already tried this for you?"

Obviously she had been expected to ask that.

"Ah! But this one has my handwriting on the envelope, which may be important, and it's going in the right box.” Edward smirked like a schoolboy demonstrating his first card trick. “I know a little more about magic now, you see. It would take a great deal of mana to bewitch the entire postal service, but not much to do one pillar-box."

"That is certainly logical."

"And as soon as I worked that out, I remembered several times when Mr. Oldcastle warned me that he would be away—at about the same times I was going to be away from Fallow! So any postcards or letters I sent him, from anywhere else, might reasonably not get answered! Simple, isn't it?"

"And you think the magic is still on that box?"

"Well...” He frowned. “I have no idea. It may not be. I warned you all these ideas were dishwaterish."

"Let's hear the next one."

"The next one is even dicier. The, er, man who rescued me from the hospital was a numen. He used to go by the name of Robin Goodfellow, a fairish time ago."

Blue eyes studied Alice solemnly, waiting for her disbelief. The waiter removed the soup plates and served the roast lamb.

"Puck?"

"The same. One of them. A local representative of the old firm, was how Creighton put it. Forgotten now, and ignored, but still residing on his node, amid the bracken and brambles and the standing stones—husbanding scraps of the mana he received back in Saxon times or the Middle Ages, when people still believed in the People of the Hills."

Gods on a storybook world were one thing. In modern England they took more believing. “What was he like?"

"Nice enough old boy. At least, he was nice to me. Mad as a rabid bat, really, I think. He can't have had anyone to speak to in centuries."

"He's with this Head Office bunch?"

"He's a neutral, but he must know how to find them."

"And where do you find him?"

Edward shrugged, struggling to cut an extra tough slab of mutton. “Not sure exactly. I was half out of my skull with pain that morning, but not far from Greyfriars, on a little hill. I'll know it when I see it."

This sounded even weaker than the first idea. It would take time and transportation to inspect all the hilltops around Greyfriars. The police must be after Edward Exeter now. The ominous Blighters might be. Looking at him, it was hard to believe that he was twenty-one and a man of two worlds. She felt a motherly obligation to dispatch her hopelessly idealistic young cousin off to Nextdoor as fast as possible, whether he wanted to go or not. Details to be arranged.

"Will Puck help you again?"

"I can only ask. He's a stranger here, of course. Originally from Nextdoor. From Ruatvil, in Sussland. I could sacrifice a bullock, perhaps."

He was being remarkably generous with her money.

"A bullock? You'll get thrown in jail if you waste food like that, these days. There's a war on, my lad!"

"Oh. Well, I shall think of something."

"Tell me the third lead.” Alice forked up some well-named string beans.

"I think I still remember the key I used with Creighton, the ritual. Anyone who goes to the same portal and does that dance will arrive at the Sacrarium—that's the ruined temple in Sussvale.” He gave up on the mutton and poked angrily at a soggy potato. “But that's a fair way from Olympus, and who could I ask to risk it? Arriving naked, not knowing the language?"

"You'd have to go yourself!” Now they were making progress!

He must have sensed her approval, because he scowled. “No. It would take too long, and I'd have to find my way back here all over again."

"It would only be a flying visit, surely? There and back.” Another three years and the war would be long over.

"I don't trust the Service! They wouldn't let me come Home before, and they might try to hold me again. You think Smedley really wants to cross over?” he added hopefully.

"I don't know. I don't know if he knows. He's pretty badly shaken, Edward. Don't think any the worse of him for that! He's got enough medals to start a pawn shop and lots of fellows have been—"

"Shell-shocked. Yes, I know. I saw some of them, remember.” Again he hacked angrily at the meat. “Smedley's a brick, I don't doubt it. But I can't send him over alone, not knowing the language. I damned nearly died myself, and I would have done if I hadn't had Eleal to help me."

"Suppose none of these plans work?"

"Then I can't warn the Service about the traitor, that's all."

"So you just stay here and enlist?"

"Enlist or hang. Or both."

"Where is this portal you mentioned?"

"Stonehenge.” Edward peered out the window. “What town is this we're coming to? Swindon already?"

Alice laid down her knife and fork. “Edward, Stonehenge is on Salisbury Plain."

"Of course I know.... Why? Why does that matter?"

"The Army has taken over all of Salisbury Plain now. There's an aerodrome at Stonehenge itself. There's even talk of knocking down the stones because they're a danger to planes landing and taking off, it's so close."

He stared at her in frank dismay.

Clickety-click, clickety-click, clickety-click...

"You were counting on that one, weren't you?” she said. “Stonehenge was your trump card?"

"Final stand, more like."

"You won't get near it,” she said.

"After the war?"

"Perhaps after the war, whenever that is."

He pushed the remains of the meal to one side of his plate and laid down his knife and fork. “Damn!"

Damn indeed!

Then he grinned. “So I can't go back! Clear conscience. Good!"

"Do you wish to try the sweet, madam?” the waiter inquired. “Dundee pudding and custard?"

"Cheese and biscuits, please,” Alice said, suppressing a shudder, “and coffee."

"The same for me,” Edward said, not even looking up.

Waiter and plates disappeared.

Edward poked at some crumbs. “Let's just hope the letter works."

"Yes."

"And let's hope that the Blighters don't get it instead."

"What! Is that possible?"

He smiled bleakly. “Definitely possible. Head Office suffered a major defeat. I don't know what their English equivalent of Olympus is, but it may have fallen to the enemy since I was a kid. If that's the case, then I just wrote to the enemy, saying where I am."

"Oh."

"I should have warned you."

Disbelief swirled around her like a sudden squall. Two days ago Ginger Jones had walked into her life and now she was a character in a John Buchan thriller. The Black Stone is after you! Flee, for all is lost....

"In fact,” Edward said sternly, “I should never have let you come. You had better catch the first train back to town."

"Not Pygmalion likely!” Alice said. “Tell me more about your experiences as Chief of the Headhunters."

He frowned.

"Sorry,” she said. “That was a cheap shot. So what happened when the old queen died? Who got the crown? The reformed Golbfish or the unrepentant Tarion?"

Edward sighed and turned to look out the window.

"The news arrived early one morning, just after we reached Lemodvale, before we got trapped. Old Kammaeman called me in to ask my opinion—which brother should he send back? I couldn't help feeling flattered, although I knew it was nothing to do with me personally, just my charisma at work. I told him any man who trusted Tarion ought to be chained in a padded cell."

She could guess what was coming from his disgusted expression.

"But by then it was too late?"

Edward looked up with rueful surprise, spoon poised. “Right on! Tarion had taken his Nagian cavalry and gone. Deserted in the middle of a war!"

She sipped coffee. “You expected better of him?"

He tried to laugh and swallow at the same time, and shook his head. “No! It was perfectly in character. He got the news even before Kammaeman did, so he must have bribed somebody somewhere. Personally, I was glad to see the back of him, but it left us seriously short of cavalry. Moas are one-man beasts. They fix on one owner when they're only chicks—calves I mean, I suppose. They're closer to mammals than birds. English doesn't have the right words. Anyway, it takes fortn—months, that is, to imprint one to a new rider. The Joalians hadn't been able to bring very many over Thordpass—it's too high—so they'd been depending on Tarion's troop. He upped and left, and that put us in the soup."

24

"WAKE UP, BEAUTIFUL,” SAID A WHISPER.

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

"Awake?"

"Yes, master."

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

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

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

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

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

"Roll over!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am sorry, master."

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

"But how—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who brought him the news?"

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

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

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

"I agree."

"Hordeleader?"

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

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

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

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

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

Kammaeman grunted agreement. “But it'll be much worse if I detach a troop to follow him.” The Joalians moved away, to sit on the stools at the other end of the tent.

The Liberator was peering at Dosh's face. “Why did he cut you up like that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am very grateful, sir."

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

"I suppose so.” Kammaeman sounded displeased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Me? Nothing! Nothing at all!"

"Somebody made a man of him!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Run, sir?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

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

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

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

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