Future Indefinite (11 page)

“A—a relative.”

“What relative?” He jerked on her wrist.
“Answer me!”

“All right with you, then!” she shouted. “I’ll tell you and you’ll wish you’d never asked. It’s Tim—Timothy Wood, my son!”

“Son?”

He always thought of her as being younger than himself. His rational mind knew that was nonsense; but his emotions went by appearance and behavior. She had never seemed any more than eighteen to him, and often less, but staring at him now, green eyes awash with tears, inflamed with weeping, red blotches of anger burning on her cheekbones, she was much more than eighteen, much much more.

“He’s older than you, Julian Smedley.”

“Your son is? Not William’s son?”

She shook her head, eyes searching his face. “Big, strapping broth of a lad, he is. Has red hair. Like his mother.”

He guessed from her eyes.
Don’t say it!
he thought, please don’t say it.

But she did. “And like his father.”

She did it with Carrots.

Julian’s world collapsed.

It wasn’t just that Carrots were natives. At least they were white. They were rustics, primitives, uneducated…. But Mrs. McKay was working class herself, wasn’t she? No, the snake in the grass was that Carrots were mortal, and romance between mortal and immortal was simply not on. Inexcusable. Exeter had discovered that.

“You see why you should go now, Julian? You go and have a brave holiday in Joalvale with dear Ursula, and I’ll go and be nice to darling Pinky.”

Still he hesitated. She pushed him roughly. “Be gone with you. I tried to save you, and you so innocent, but now you know I was breeding Carrot bastards before you were even born, my lad. So be off with you.”

He stared. How old was she? How many dozens or hundreds of men had gone where he had gone? Some trick of the candlelight made her a nightmare hag.

“If that’s what you really want.” A gentleman could hardly stay around a lady’s bedroom when he wasn’t welcome. He stalked over to the window, climbed out, and went home, feeling about a thousand years old himself.

The fair city of Jurg was just awakening for business as Eleal Singer came limping along Market Street, weaving between the carts, being jostled by fresh-scrubbed apprentices hurrying to their labors and maidservants out buying fresh bread for their masters’ tables. A few late-rising roosters still crowed in the yards and alleys.

She labored under the weight of a pack that held all her worldly goods: spare clothes, three books, two spare pairs of boots, and a few keepsakes. She was also suffering from some very painful bruises, although her face was unmarked, fortunately. To compensate, she was buoyed up by a strange exhilaration, a sense of destiny, a conviction that her life was about to turn an important corner. The sunlight seemed strangely bright, the day itself sweetly scented. Cynical inner voices told her that she was merely suffering from lack of sleep, for dawn more usually marked the end of her working day than her time for rising. That was all behind her now, though. She was a new woman.

A new life beckoned. She had resigned, retired, absconded. Last night she had gone for a stroll and returned late for her gig, something she had never done before. Tigurb’l Tavern-keeper had been unreasonably annoyed. He had not struck her himself, but he had an infinite number of ways to punish, and he had chosen to send some very nasty customers to her dressing room. After the second one, she had packed up her valuables and departed by way of the window.

Here was the place she sought. A garishly painted sign in the shape of a book hung from a bracket above the leaded windows:
Balvon Printer, maker of edifying tomes, texts, & tracts
. The wide door stood open, so she marched right in.

She had never been in a print shop before. It was surprisingly large, with seven or eight people already hard at work. The heavy brass contraption in the center must be the press itself. The air bore an aromatic tang of mingled dust and ink. She glanced around, trying to figure out what everyone was doing so busily at tables and benches around the walls. Two men seemed to be setting type, fishing letters out of rows of boxes. One boy was spreading ink, another carrying away freshly done sheets to dry, another cutting the dried sheets into pages. An old man was pushing a broom around. Three men seemed to be sewing, and one with a mallet was pounding leather on a bench. Fascinating! All this fuss to produce silly little books?

A heavyset man swept forward to greet her. His arrogant demeanor and domineering eyebrows suggested that he might be Balvon Printer himself. She braced herself to meet his inspection. She had shed all her paint and perfume. She was a respectable woman again and need not let this artisan bully her. What if she did carry her own luggage? Her cloak was a great deal grander than his ink-stained apron, even if he did have a jewel in his turban.

His bow was peremptory, but it was a bow. “How may we be of service to my lady?”

Not bad! She savored the respect. Then she wondered if that was suspicion glinting in his eyes—or recognition, perhaps? Could he be a patron of Cherry Blossom House? Might he have recognized her? Might he even have been one of her admirers? She could not recall his face.

She would not consider such a possibility. She must be the daughter of a wealthy landowner, a patron of the arts. She assumed a suitably ladylike manner. “Good morning, my man. I am sorry to disturb you at your labors. I merely wished to speak for a moment with…”

The old man holding the broom was staring at her in rank dismay.

Before she could prevent it, a very unladylike blast of laughter erupted from the patron of the arts. “Piol!” She composed herself. “I wish to have a quick word with an old friend.” Seeing a glower of disapproval compressing fat old Balvon’s heavy features, she raised her chin again and hid her amusement.

“I shall not keep him long from his duties, master. Surely your janitor’s time is not so valuable that I need buy a library to earn the privilege of a moment with him?” That seemed like a good exit line, so she turned and swept out into the street.

Piol followed her out, trailing his broom, and blinked at her ruefully in the sunshine.

“Good morning, Piol!” She could not keep her mirth from her voice.

He looked even frailer in daylight than he had under the lamps two nights ago. His straggly white hair was awry, his skin yellow as old parchment, his wrinkles were deeper than Susswater Canyon. His robe was a shabby, dusty thing, and he was barefoot.

“Good morning, Eleal.”

“Now we share each other’s dreadmost secret, don’t we?”

He nodded, smiling without much conviction. “I’m afraid we do.” He made a few desultory strokes with his broom, as if he had come to clean the doorstep.

“Oh, Piol!” Where had that terrible lump in her throat come from?

He glanced around, perhaps afraid his employer might be standing at his back, glaring at him. “What is it, Eleal? Be quick, please.”

For a moment she could hardly remember what it was she wanted. Piol Poet, who had won the playwright’s rose at the Tion Festival an unprecedented twelve times! Piol Poet sweeping floors!

“I want you to come with me.”

“What? Where? It is not much of a job, Eleal, but even old men must eat. I don’t need much, but I do need a dry, warm place to sleep.”

“You shall have it!” she said hurriedly. “Piol, I have decided to go for the big time! Joal beckons! I shall seek to further my art in the artistic capital of the Vales!”

He smiled uncertainly. “Well…well, that is wonderful news, my dear! I am sure you will prosper there. Joalians appreciate talent.”

“But I need company on my journey. You!”

His toothless jaw dropped, and he stared at her as if he had taken leave of his wits or thought she had lost hers.

“I am on my way to Joalvale, Piol. It was your mention of the Liberator that gave me the idea. It will be fun to see D’ward again, so we shall contrive to meet him there. But I need a companion, and you are the only one I can trust. Besides, I feel my career requires a manager. Come with me!”

“The Liberator?” He shook his head in disbelief, then made an effort to straighten his bent shoulders. “But that isn’t necessary! The Liberator is coming here. All you need do is wait in Jurgvale. He will come. No need to go to Joalvale. In fact, he probably isn’t even there anymore.”

She felt an inexplicable stab of dismay. “Not there? But you said he was in Joalvale!”

“He was. He will certainly have moved on by now. And what use can I be? I am old. I am not very well, Eleal——”

“Nothing a good meal or two won’t fix! If D’ward isn’t in Joalvale, then where is he? And how do you know?”

“From the prophecies, of course. He is on his way here, I am sure of it.”

That would not do at all! “Then we shall go and meet him in Fionvale.”

Piol’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt he will be coming that way. He will be coming around by Niolvale, I’m sure. Are you especially eager to leave Jurg, Eleal?”

She laughed and glanced around nervously. The bouncers were not usually operational so early in the day, but Tigurb’l must be very, very mad. She had no time to waste. “You’re still as sharp as ever, you old rascal! Yes, I do believe a change of scenery would be beneficial and absence thereof detrimental. Let us head for Niolvale, then. There will be opportunities for an artist there, too. I shall require a good manager—I see now that that was where I made my mistake. How do you know D’ward will come that way?”

Piol blinked his rheumy eyes. “Verse six sixty-three: ‘In Niol’s shadow, by the silver waters, multitudes shall flock to hear him, and the sharp swords shall drink, spilling blood into the sands. Young men leave their bones where the Liberator has passed.’”

Oh! “Well, we’re neither of us young men, are we? Please, Piol! I am carrying quite a lot of money. I do need someone with me, and who else can I trust?”

“Not me! Eleal, what are you planning? Who has put you up to this?”

She had expected him to leap at her offer, but he seemed ready to flee back into his cage.

“No one except you! I’ll explain all that when we’re on the road.” Some of it, anyway. “I need you, Piol. Surely you’d rather come adventuring with me than stay here sweeping dirt? It’ll be like old times, Piol! A little like old times, at least. The trader caravans leaving at noon from…”

Piol was shaking his head. “I can’t leave, Eleal,” he whispered.

“Can’t? Why not?”

He glanced behind him again, having to turn his whole body in the manner of the aged. Then he looked back to her, his face crumpled with shame. “It costs money to print a book. I still owe rather a lot of it, I’m afraid.”

She reached for the money bag under her cloak. “How much?”

“I can’t take your gold!” He recoiled from her.

“Piol! Whatever do you mean? Are you implying there is something shameful about my money? I earned this with my singing.”

Still he hesitated, shaking his bony head.

“How much do you need? I have lots of money! On a long journey I need a man to accompany me. Go back in there and shove that broom down old Balvon’s throat, then gather up your things and come with me! Meet me over there in that bread shop. We’ll have some fresh hot rolls and plan our journey. Please, Piol?”

The bakery was hot and rather dark. It was thronged with servants and housewives impatient to acquire their daily bread, but it did have a few rickety tables and chairs. Eleal sat in a corner and fidgeted. She ordered rolls and some of the weak, sweet beer that Jurgians drank in the morning, although she was neither hungry nor thirsty. She had spent the night at a very fine inn, a hostel patronized by gentry, and had eaten well this morning.

Tigurb’l did not own her, but he behaved as if he did. Furthermore, in a few frantic minutes just before leaving her dressing room, she had achieved a remarkable amount of destruction—it was quite amazing what could be achieved in complete silence with a sharp knife. The thugs would be trying to find her to take her back. Definitely a change of scenery was called for.

And it would be fun to see D’ward again. Perhaps he had a very good explanation for running out on her in Suss. She should not judge until she had heard his excuses.

She stifled yawns. What little sleep she had achieved had been broken by strange dreams of an admirer she could not place, a chunky, raggedly handsome young man with a mustache. It was odd that she could not remember his name or anything more about him except his face and his very hairy chest.

Piol appeared at last, staggering under the weight of a bulky bag. His robe was a threadbare rag, well patched and faded until its original color could not be guessed at. He had wrapped up his head in a whitish turban, which was a Niolian custom, but not uncommon in Jurgland. He tucked in to the buttery rolls with his scanty teeth and ample enthusiasm as if he had not eaten for two fortnights.

He showed much less enthusiasm for her project. “By all means try your luck in Joal, my dear. I shall be happy to help in any way I can. I probably still have friends in the artistic community there, and as you say, it is the greatest of them all. But D’ward…I was wrong to mention him to you. Now I think you should avoid opening old wounds.”

Whatever could be worrying the old coot?

“Oh, bygones are bygones. It will be fun to see him again.”

“You didn’t seem to think so when I told you about him.”

“Nonsense! I was merely surprised. Tell me why you think he is coming here.”

“He must,” he mumbled with his mouth full, “go to Thargland, right? That’s what the
Testament
says. You can work it all out from the places named.”

“Tell me.”

He glanced down at his bag. “I have a copy…but I think I can remember. You have to fit them together in the right order…. Verse one thousand and one: ‘In wrath the Liberator shall descend into Thargland. The gods shall flee before him; they shall bow their heads before him, they will spread their hands before his feet.’ Tharg is where Zath has his temple, the temple of Karzon, so that’s where D’ward must seek him out.”

“But if he’s in Joalvale, then the quickest way for him to go is through Nagvale and Lemodvale.”

“He isn’t going the quickest way!” Obviously Piol had been giving much thought to the prophecies. However old and sick he might be, his brain was still working. “Verse two twenty: ‘In Nosokslope they shall come to D’ward in their hundreds, even the Betrayer.’”

She forced herself to meet his stare. “Who’s the Betrayer?”

“I don’t know.” He was wondering about it, though.

She shrugged uneasily. “Then let’s not go to Nosokvale. What’s next?”

“Then the one about Niol—the sharp swords and the young men leaving their bones.”

She did not think that could apply to her. She certainly had no sharp swords to hand. “Niol won’t get him any closer to Thargland.”

“Then Verse fifty-six: ‘The Liberator shall hail the Free in Jurgland.’ There’s a lot more about him promising to bring death to Death and being acclaimed by the multitude. But that one must come next. There’s a verse about the king of Randoria and one about hunger in Thovale.”

Eleal took a large bite of bread and chewed busily to keep her face occupied. “Prophecies aren’t inevitable, though, are they?”

Piol sighed and took a gulp of his beer. “No. If you can break one link in the chain, all the rest must fail. If I were Karzon, I would be trying to kill D’ward before he killed me.” He watched carefully for her reaction.

She laughed gaily. “You don’t look much like a god to me!”

“You know what gods look like, Eleal?”

“Well of course—I mean, no. Only in general. Why mention Karzon? It doesn’t say D’ward will kill Karzon! Only Death, and Zath is just one of the Man’s aspects. Of course I don’t know what gods look like, except on stage.”

“Where did you get so much money, Eleal?”

“I earned it, of course.” At least, she thought she had. In her hasty flight, she had emptied all the little caches where she kept her savings hidden. When she went to count it this morning, she had discovered that her money belt contained about four times as much as she expected. It was odd but certainly nothing to complain about. She could live for a year on it.