Future Indefinite (26 page)

Some of the places D’ward chose to pitch camp were bizarre, but Dosh could not have faulted the knoll at Joobiskby. It was a natural theater, for the little ruin at the top made an excellent stage and the slopes could have held even more thousands than had turned up. The problem was not the campsite but the wind and the size of the multitude. Loud as D’ward could be, he could not make his voice carry upwind. Those who had heard the first sermon—a necessarily brief one—were reluctant to move away and make room for others who had not. The lower slopes were muddier than the top, an unsavory place to sleep.

Patience. Understanding. Tact. Above all, patience.

Even with a manageable crowd, the shield-bearers would have had trouble, for they were all new at the job, other than Dosh himself and the two surviving Nagians. D’ward had appointed the shield-bearers the previous evening to replace the Warband, naming four women and six men, promising to add more soon. He had chosen well, Dosh believed, but dedication was no substitute for experience. Even Prat’han and his brothers would have been out of their depth shepherding this multitude. In retrospect, the band that had followed the Liberator through Nosokvale and Rinoovale seemed like a family on an outing—already those were the good old days, fond memories shining through golden haze. Now the greater burden had fallen on shoulders unprepared to take it. Dosh had not been off his feet since dawn; Tielan Trader and Doggan Herder were doing their best, but they were still numb with grief and shame at being alive.

Dosh had shame to bear also, for he had not believed in the Liberator until their audience with Visek, so he had never had a chance to tell most of the Warband that they had been right all along and he had been wrong. He had not appreciated their courage and loyalty. Now, for the first time in his life, he knew what guilt was.

Patience: “I know you are tired, brothers and sisters. There are many down there who have come just as far as you and have not yet had a chance to hear the Liberator. It would be a demonstration of the understanding he described if you were to give them a chance….” And so on and so on.

As he repeated the same carefully phrased and reasoned request for the thousandth time, Dosh wondered where he had learned patience. Not just patience, either. If the Dosh who had left Joal a fortnight ago were to meet himself now, they wouldn’t know each other. They wouldn’t like each other much, either. Fortunately, he was too accursedly busy to wonder whether he enjoyed being this sort of person. He supposed he would eventually weaken and revert to lechery. Meanwhile, he must keep on being a good boy, because there were whiffs of riot in the night air. He had broken up three fights already.

The sun had set. There was not a single moon in sight, and D’ward had just begun his second speech. The wind was still rising, snatching his words away. The clouds that had been gathering at sunset over Niolwall portended the start of the winter rains—that would thin out the crowd in a hurry.

Dosh began to work his way up the knoll. He had done all he could down here. He moved quietly and with exceeding care, literally stepping between people’s legs, being careful not to bang any heads with his shield. A shield was a great honor, but a demoniacally heavy and awkward honor. In his case the honor was especially great, because he had been granted Prat’han’s. The hole in it marked the blow that had felled the big man and the stains were his life’s blood. To carry such a relic was honor and privilege.

Dosh wondered if Queen Elvanife had obeyed the Liberator’s edict and gone to Shuujooby to do penance. He wondered if D’ward would move on again tomorrow, as he usually did. He wondered how many of this horde would choose to join the Free and march with the Liberator. They would have to be fed, but his satchel was quite empty, although the collectors would soon have money for him. He wondered when he would get a chance to sit down.

He reached the crumbled walls of the old shrine just as Kirb’l flashed into view in the east, shedding a welcome yellow light on the hundreds of upturned faces paving the sides of the knoll. D’ward stood on the highest corner, lit from below by a bonfire, casting his message to the night air.

Amazingly, Kilpian and the others had managed to keep the crowds out of the shrine itself. Most of the walls had long since collapsed into heaps of stones, but even those were a barrier and gave a sense of privacy. Dosh climbed over a low spot and slithered down inside, spilling onto the grass. He detached himself from his shield and relaxed with a long sigh of wearied contentment.

A portly, gray-haired woman came to him, offering a gourd of water. He accepted gratefully, trying to remember her name. She was a friend. D’ward had appointed shield-bearers and friends. The friends were supporters not yet quite ready profess their faith or to assume authority, he had said, but they were to be admitted to the evening meetings.

Dosh drained the gourd and muttered thanks. The Liberator’s voice rang out overhead.

“Food?” she asked, smiling at his woebegone manner. Hasfral, that was her name, Hasfral Midwife.

“Food? What’s that? Has D’ward eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll wait till he does.”

She shook her head as if puzzled. “That’s what you all say.”

“Because we know there wasn’t enough for everyone out there today.”

“Lots of them brought their own.”

“But some will go hungry, and D’ward won’t want to eat if he knows that. The only thing that will make him eat then is if the rest of us haven’t eaten either and he knows we’ll do whatever he does.”

“Will you? Will you go without if he does?”

Dosh sighed. “Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.”

He glanced around the little group. Quite a few missing still. Doggan Herder was brooding in a corner by himself. No sign of Tielan Trader. Kilpian Drover and Kondior Thatcher and Bid’lip…Bid’lip Soldier had been one of the troopers who had defected in Nosokvale. He was a bear of a man, with the thickest eyebrows Dosh had seen since Bandrops Advocate’s. He wasn’t Prat’han, but he would be a strong arm for the Liberator. Half a dozen others…A red-haired youngster sitting close by the fire was writing so busily that he must be trying to take down the Liberator’s words verbatim.

“Who’s he?” Dosh whispered, pointing at the scribe.

“Dommi Houseboy. A friend.”

It was becoming hard to keep track of everyone.

And there was Ursula Teacher. Dosh disliked her without quite knowing why. Perhaps it was a relic of his old days of lechery, when he had preferred women pliant and muscles on men. Her jaw was too square, her hair too short, her manner too domineering, but none of that should matter to him now. Or perhaps he just wasn’t sure what to make of her—she spoke with the Liberator in a language unlike any he had ever heard. At least her insolent male friend had departed, heading out at dawn yesterday on a dragon; good riddance, whoever he was.

The sight of Ursula suddenly reminded Dosh of Eleal Singer. Bother! Well, it would be useless to go and look for her in that mob out there. If she really was the fabled savior mentioned by the
Testament
, then she would find her way here somehow. Must remember to tell D’ward about her…Screw it, but he was tired…!

The sky was clouding over. No matter—no deluge would keep Dosh from sleeping tonight. He eyed the baggage heaped in one corner. With a groan, he sat up and prepared to rise.

“Bid’lip? Give me a hand putting up the tent.”

The soldier shook his head. “D’ward said to leave it. Said we can all use it as a cover when the rain starts.”

Dosh sank back to where he had been before. He suspected that the Liberator rarely slept in the tent and it was only a decoy to deceive the reapers. There had been no reapers for several nights. What was the enemy up to now? While worrying about that, he almost dozed off. A jingling sound roused him when Kondior Thatcher dropped a cloth poke at his feet. The Liberator had just finished his speech and was clambering down from his vantage point, being steadied by Kilpian Drover. More shield-bearers and friends had arrived. The crowd on the slopes of the knoll rumbled like a great beast as it tried to make itself comfortable for the night.

Hasfral Midwife and Imminol Herbalist were handing out the evening meal: beans and tubers and some pieces of fruit. D’ward accepted his gourd, looking around his followers, studying each in turn. When everyone had been served and no one had begun to eat, he smiled as if he knew what they were thinking.

“Praise the food the Lord sends; may it give us strength to serve Him.”

A chorus of amens became a fanfare of crunching.

D’ward made himself comfortable and nibbled on a pepperroot. “Well done, all of you! You’ve had a brutal day, and I appreciate how hard you’ve all worked. I think it will get easier now. Not many of those city folk will follow us over Lospass. Who has anything to report?”

Dosh remembered Eleal, but others spoke up first, complaining about problems sharing out food equitably, assigning toilet areas, dealing with troublesome delegations of priests.

Nothing to be done about any of those now, D’ward said cheerfully. Let tomorrow look after its own afflictions. Had everyone met Dommi Houseboy, a new friend? The youngster blushed in the firelight and beamed toothily.

More shield-bearers and friends came scrambling in over the walls. D’ward made more introductions, announced a couple of promotions. People brought money to Dosh and he began dumping it into his satchel. Even so, there would not be enough to feed everyone tomorrow unless the crowds thinned out considerably.

Then a loud, clear female voice cut through the mutter of conversation like lightning through a cloud: “D’ward?”

The Liberator looked up. He started violently, dropping his gourd.

Tielan Trader had arrived at last. He had brought the girl who claimed to be Eleal and the little old man who had been with her, who now carried her pack.

“D’ward? Slights live long in memory, but debts die young?”

“Eleal!”
D’ward scrambled to his feet. “Eleal Singer! And Piol!”

She lurched forward a few steps to meet him. Kondior Drover moved to block her and she stopped.

Dosh had expected the stunned expressions on the rest of the faces, but why did the Liberator look so strange? There was something odd here. What did it take to bring such a pallor to D’ward? Everyone knew the prophecy about Eleal and the coming of the Liberator, but the
Testament
did not mention anyone called Piol. Was the old man the problem?

Eleal was a pretty enough young piece, certainly. Had he still been that sort of man, Dosh could have gone for that sort of woman. In fact…It takes one to know one…. Just what grade of woman was she? Studying her in the uncertain flicker of the firelight, he decided that if he had still been that sort of boy, he would have been prepared to gamble that she was that sort of girl. No blushing virgin, certainly. Younger than he would have expected, for
“Eleal shall be the first temptation.”
…It was almost five years since the seven hundredth festival, when the Liberator had come into the world. She would have been only a child then.

“Eleal!” D’ward repeated. He shook his head as if breaking a trance. “I forgot how long it’s been. The years have blessed you greatly.”

“They haven’t changed you.” She smiled and held out her hands in greeting. “Aren’t we still friends?”

D’ward did not order Kondior to move out of the way. “You are very welcome. Sisters, brothers, this is Eleal Singer, the Eleal named in the
Filoby Testament
. Piol, it is good to see you also. What news of the others?”

“Time enough for prattle and idle gossip later,” Eleal said with a toss of her head. Her eyes were flitting around, appraising the group. “I doubt that your entourage would be interested in our bygones. Are you going to offer us hospitality or not?”

D’ward laughed. “You are still Eleal! And I am a boor. Come and join our feast by all means, both of you. Make room there for Eleal Singer and Piol Poet. Welcome to the Free.” His laughter had not rung true, though. Dosh was very intrigued. He had studied the Liberator long enough to sense a mystery here.

Then the girl walked to the place cleared for her and her lurching gait drew all eyes down to her feet. The sole of her right boot was built up. Hasfral and Imminol moved apart to make a place by the fire. Eleal sat and the old man eased himself down beside her, wriggling out of his pack straps.

D’ward picked up his gourd and held it out to Bid’lip Soldier, his neighbor. “Pass that to our guests. We live simply, Eleal, as you see.”

Bid’lip tipped in what was left of his own meal and passed the gourd.

The sharp-eyed Eleal had noticed. So had the old man, and he began fussing with the tie on the pack.

“Pray do not let us deprive you,” she said haughtily. “As it happens, we have some provisions of our own remaining.”

D’ward sat down without a word, and perhaps only Dosh noted his smile, for it was a brief and private smile. When his gourd returned, he shared out its contents with Bid’lip and began to eat again, without taking his eyes off Eleal.

“Excuse us if we talk business at mealtimes. Has anyone else anything to bring up?”

Bid’lip said, “I heard a rumor tonight, Liberator. I was told that Queen Elvanife remains in her palace.”

“I’m not surprised.” Still D’ward studied the girl, as if every mouthful she took was a revelation. “She is not our concern. The One God will deal with her—probably through her courtiers, would be my guess.”

“Tomorrow, master?” asked someone else.

“Tomorrow we keep going. We can’t inflict this torture on Joobiskby any longer. I hope the weather holds for the pass.”

Fornicating scorpions!
Where was Dosh going to find provisions for several thousand people marching over Lospass? It was at least a two-day trek to Jurgvale, so he could not run ahead and buy there. He would have to accost the Joobiskbians on their barricades. They might demand totally unreasonable prices to compensate for the damage the crowds had done, but he could argue that the alternative was to have the Free stay where they were, starving. That ought to convince them…. The Liberator had spoken his name.