Future Indefinite (29 page)

The implications took a moment to register. Then Julian said, “Oh my God!” and drained his glass.
Alice, what have we done to you?
“This was not planned?”

“Not at all. Zath asked who was in charge and spoke only to him. He wasn’t in the room more than a minute or two, I’m told. But Jumbo was there, and Mrs. Pearson was there.”

“You think Jumbo’s…” How could a man put it into words? “You think he’s a traitor? You think Exeter was right all along?”

Prof rubbed his eyes without opening them. “I know he was. The Jean St. John story was a blind. It was Jumbo who tried to queer Exeter by dropping him in Belgium—he admits it. The point is that Jumbo couldn’t help himself. He’s been around a long time, so he’s well known to the opposition. Zath trapped him, installed a compulsion, and sent him off to be Judas.”

Julian shuddered. Much as Exeter ought to be stopped, there was something peculiarly repellent about a trusted friend turning Brutus, even if that friend was not responsible for his own intentions. Mana had not seemed like an utter evil when he had used it to convert the troopers at Seven Stones, but Ursula had turned him into a gigolo with it, Exeter had slaughtered his friends to obtain it, then used it to unman the Niolian cavalry—and now this tale of Jumbo being bent, at least once and probably twice. No one was safe when there was mana around.

“You think Zath chose Jumbo again? Seems odd. Exeter will be suspicious this time, won’t he?” Then he shuddered a second time, feeling his skin crawl as if he had just fallen into an especially foul pit. “You don’t mean Alice?”

“I don’t know.” Prof peered Wearily at him. “Jumbo’s more likely, because Zath would know he was a senior member of the Service. He shouldn’t have known who Mrs. Pearson was—but I fear it is a great mistake to underestimate him. Hell, Captain, maybe he did come just to make threats.”

“But you don’t think so. You think he came to hex Jumbo again.”

Rawlinson struggled with a cough and took a drink. “I think one of them’s a poisoned pawn, probably Jumbo. He may not even know it himself, but I think he’s a loaded gun, and when he meets the Liberator, he’ll fire.”

“And he took Alice along to allay suspicion? As a decoy?” Just as Ursula had taken Julian himself. “Exeter’ll be so surprised to see her that he won’t pay much attention to Jumbo.”

“That would be Jumbo’s thinking,” Prof agreed in a whisper, “although not willing thinking, if you follow me. But it could have been Alice who talked Jumbo into taking her.”

Julian cringed. “Exeter has buckets of mana of his own. Whichever one of them is the hemlock, he’ll detect the hex…won’t he?”

Prof heaved himself upright with a groan. “If you’ll excuse me, old man, I’m going back to bed.” He was swaying on his feet. “Stay and finish the bottle if you want. There’s more in that cupboard. No, I don’t think Exeter will detect the trap. With the kind of power Zath has at his disposal, he won’t have left any fingerprints.”

Julian spent the night on Prof Rawlinson’s sofa and went home through a drizzly dawn to clean up as best he could. Even the water supply had failed, though. Exploring his own house in a way he never had before, he discovered that the taps were supplied from a tank in the attic, which was charged by hand-pumping from an underground cistern—how it arrived there was not clear, but he managed to fill a bucket from it without falling in. There was no firewood cut, and he could not handle an ax.

Clean but shivering, he had just conquered the last shirt button when he heard the doorbell jangle. On the veranda stood William McKay, unshaven and rumpled as a wet cat, beaming in his usual witless fashion and holding out a covered basket.

“Heard you were home, old man. Brought you some brekker.”

Julian was nonplussed. “That’s extremely kind of you.”

“Oh, don’t thank me, old son. Thank the Reformed Methodist Ladies’ Good Deed and Morris Dancing Society, Olympus Branch. They distribute gin to the needy. I’m just the messenger boy. You can tip me a tanner if you’re feeling generous. Need the basket back.”

“Come in a moment.”

McKay stepped over the threshhold and stopped. He was a tall, vapid man and the best linguist in the station, able to speak at least twelve of the Valian dialects without saying anything of substance in any of them. His only interest was fishing and he was of interest to Julian only because he was Euphemia’s husband. She swore they had not shared a bed in years, but how did one cross-examine a man about his own wife?

Lifting a corner of the cover, Julian found fruit, bread that smelled newly baked, and a stoppered bottle hot enough to contain tea. His mouth began watering enthusiastically. He thought of Prof. “You do this gin-distributing to all us worthy poor?”

“Well, it makes sense to have a central mess. Got to ration the supplies, what? All hang together. Polly organized it.” McKay’s gaze wandered past Julian and back again. “You—you’re alone?”

“Yes. Come and sit a moment. I need to talk to you.”

“Oh. Should be getting back. Just wondered if you had news of Euphemia. We’re a bit concerned, you know.”

“What? Why? Come in here,” Julian said firmly. Taking the basket, he led the way into his drawing room. It was small and rather sparse, for he had no skill at homemaking and rarely entertained, but he noted that it was at least tidy. He waved his guest to a chair and took one himself. He began emptying the basket. “Tell me.”

McKay folded himself down into the chair and stared at the floor uncomfortably. “Well, she went back Home briefly to fetch Exeter’s cousin….”

“And brought the Spanish flu back. Yes, I heard. Where is she now?”

“Don’t know. Just got back from Thovale myself yesterday. Haven’t caught it yet, but I expect I will. She’d gone already. Thought you…Well, you know. Thought you might know.”

Julian gripped the bottle between his knees and pulled out the stopper. An intriguing wisp of steam emerged. “No.” He took a swig of tea and burned his throat satisfactorily.

“Ah. Seems she managed to sweet-talk the Carrots into supplying us with some grub a couple of days ago, when we ran out. Then she did a bunk. Didn’t tell anyone where she was going. Left no note.” McKay was looking everywhere except at Julian. “Unless you…?”

“None here, I’m afraid. Look, McKay…. You know we’re lovers.”

The tall man shrugged at the fireplace. “No moss. We’ve gone our own ways a long time. You made her very happy, old man. More than—er, well, you know.”

More than half the other men in the station in their respective times? How
old
was she? Pride would never let him ask.

“We had words. I’m deucedly sorry and I want to make up. You have no idea where she’s gone?”

“Not a bally notion. She works Lemodvale, you know. She’ll have contacts there. Or—” He bit his lip. “The Carrots may know, I suppose. She gets on better with them than most of us do.”

“She told me about Timothy.”

Suddenly it was eye-contact time, man to man stuff, stiff upper lips. McKay colored, then clasped his hands together so tightly that the knuckles showed white. “Long time ago. Look, I should be getting back….”

“It makes no difference to me, what she did. Like to hear your side of it, though.”

“Dang it all, old man…!”

“Please?” Julian said, feeling his own face burning but utterly determined to see this through. “For her sake? I love her, but I hurt her feelings without meaning to. Want to make up. I want to understand her.”

“Don’t we all! Men can’t understand women, laddie. Women are a mystery in all worlds. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.” McKay stared at the empty fireplace, chewing his lip. “It may not have been entirely all her fault, actually. I suppose. One of those things…She didn’t fit in, really. The women were pretty bad to her.”

Idiot! What had he expected? How long ago? Twenty years? Fifty? Even now it was easy to imagine the ladies of Olympus snubbing the fishmonger’s daughter from rural Ireland, a pride of cats sharing a mouse. It was also easy to see that such stupid class prejudice should mean a lot less to Julian Smedley, who had been through the Great War, than it did to all those Victorian fossils. If the war had decided anything, it had brought England together. Things would be different from now on. But even if Euphemia might still be a misfit back in Cheltenham, here on Nextdoor she was his woman and that was all that mattered.

“I may not have been as much help as I should have been,” McKay said gruffly. “She went native. Moved in with a Carrot woodcutter.”

Where else could she have gone? “She—they—they had just the one child?”

“Well, yes. Then her big buck Carrot got eaten by a jugular. A year or two later she came back to me, brat and all.” He shrugged. “Took her in. Separate rooms, you know? We got along better like that. And Tim. Jolly good kid, actually. Brought him up as a gentleman. Taught him fishing. He went off Home a few years ago. Last we heard he was with Head Office. He’s a stranger over there, of course. Well, mustn’t point fingers, old man! I’m pretty sure I’ve fathered a few by-blows around the Station myself.” McKay lumbered to his feet.

Obviously it still rankled that his wife had gone native, left him for a Carrot. He probably didn’t even appreciate the courage it must have taken for her to come back to him and his precious friends. Well, what she had done or not done did not matter now to Julian. He’d rather think of the young Euphemia having a love affair with a young Carrot than of her being blackmailed into bed by slimy Pinky Pinkney. Nothing wrong with Carrots except that they were mortal. Domini, for one, was a hell of a lot better man than Pinkney or even this bat-brained William McKay.

“What news of Exeter?” McKay asked, shambling toward the door.

“All bad.” Julian told him the tale. “It’s Alice Prescott I’m worried about. Pearson, I mean.”

McKay nodded vaguely. “What are you going to do?”

Julian took a moment to digest what he had learned. If Euphemia was not in Olympus, then there was no reason for him to stay. With only one hand, he was limited even in the help he could give to the sick. “I think I’m going to head back to Exeter’s crusade again. Alice is an old friend, and Exeter may be dead. I sort of feel responsible for her. If Zath bewitched her, then she may be dead, too, or crazy by now. Or Jumbo is, if he was the poisoned pill. The flu must be all over the Vales already. She doesn’t know the language, she has no money.” That bitch Ursula might not help her.

“Better you than me, old man. I must get back to Kingdom Hall. Good luck.” McKay held out a limp hand. “Don’t count on finding much here when you come back, what?”

“No. I won’t.”

Götterdämmerung!

A quick reconnaissance of the Station confirmed McKay’s report. Polly Murgatroyd had organized meals and care for the sick, but the Carrots controlled the food supply and might cut it off at any time. There was nothing Julian could do to make things any better. He discovered that three quarters of the strangers had fled and not one of the remainder was able or willing to accompany Captain Smedley on a hundred-mile walk. All the rabbits had gone from the paddocks and when he continued on up the valley to the dragon compound, he found that deserted also. Seventy-seven must have discovered the situation and chosen the logical course of action.

He gathered a blanket, spare clothes, and some money, and walked out his front door with a pack on his back and an umbrella in his good hand. He could reach Randorvale before dark. He might be carrying the infection with him, but so many of the Service had preceded him that he was not going to make matters any worse. From Randorvale he would go by Lappinvale, Mapvale, and Jurgvale—none of those passes was beyond a man on foot. If necessary, he could carry on to Niolvale, but before then he ought to have news of the Liberator. He should also have learned just how badly the Spanish flu had struck Nextdoor. An epidemic that could circle the Earth in five months would have spread across the Vales in days.

Fifteen minutes brought him to the Carrots’ village. His approach was noticed, and a delegation of three elderly men came out to meet him on the road. Two he could not recall ever seeing before, but the third had been the Pinkneys’ butler, although Julian could not recall the man’s name. When he was still about twenty or thirty feet away, that one shouted, “Stop!”

Julian stopped and stood there in the mud, facing rebellion while rain pattered on his umbrella. “How many of you have been stricken? How many have died?”

“Too many! Let the
tyikank
attend to their own sick and leave the Carrots alone. You are not welcome.” Their green eyes were uniformly hostile.

“I do not understand. We have brought much prosperity to this valley, and done much good for your people. Just because a sickness comes, you suddenly turn on—”

“Go away, Kaptaan!” said another. “You have brought the wrath of the gods upon us. Many of us think we should burn your big houses and drive you out. Do not tempt our young men to rashness. Go!”

“I am trying to.”

“Go by the river trail, then,” said the former butler.

That was a sizable detour, but evidently charisma was not going to work.

“Is
Entyika
McKay with you?”

“No.”

“I have two letters here—one for her, if she comes back, and one from Dommi for Ayetha.”

“Leave them on that stump and begone.”

Julian did so and trudged back to the turnoff. The Carrots’ attitude was infuriating but understandable. It was only natural for them to attribute the pestilence to Zath and the anger of the Pentatheon. Perhaps the storm could have been weathered if the
tyikank
had stood their ground and not been so craven. As it was, the Service was wounded mortally. It could not blame Exeter or the Pentatheon, for it had brought
Götterdämmerung
upon itself.

No one knew how Roaring Cave had earned so inappropriate a name, for nowhere contained more silence. It was a huge cavern in a hillside overlooking Lospass, much used by travelers. Eleal had overnighted in it and explored it a few days ago on her way to Niolvale. She was greatly relieved to see it again, for her muscles were not accustomed to her new leg; they throbbed as if tortured with red-hot pincers. Old Piol seemed to be in no worse shape than she was, but they were both chilled to icicles by the rain. They scrambled up the slope to the cave mouth in the company of a dozen or so other pilgrims, being met there by one of the Liberator’s shield-bearing deputies. He wore a shabby, incongruous military tunic.

“We have just lit a new fire,” he announced pompously. “Follow me and I will lead you to it. Try not to make unnecessary noise.”

The floor was generally level, but littered with boulders of all sizes, which must have fallen in past ages from the soaring roof. The uneven path was tricky going in the gloom. At first Eleal could see nothing except Piol’s back directly ahead of her, but gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light of many fires, each one surrounded by several dozen people. The warning against noise had been given because everyone was trying to listen to D’ward himself. He was sitting with one group but speaking loudly, apparently not preaching as much as answering questions.

Led to a smoky, crackling heap—more fuel than flame as yet—Eleal huddled in as close as she could and shivered strenuously. Between the snapping of the twigs and the chattering of teeth all around her, she could not make out what was being said at all. The air smelled very strongly of wet people, but she was glad of the company. As the flames leaped higher and the heat penetrated, her bones began to thaw. It was then she realized that one of the men pressed against her was Dosh. His eyes shone in the firelight as he saw that she had noticed him.

“Are you keeping watch on me?” she whispered angrily.

He nodded and held a finger to his lips.

She looked around. More and more people were trickling into the cave. Another fire had been lit nearby, and newcomers were led to that one now. The overall silence of such a crowd was quite eerie.

D’ward had risen and was moving to another group. They cleared a boulder for him to sit on. Now he was closer, and she could hear better.

“Well?” he said cheerfully. “No questions?”

“I have a question, heretic!” The harsh voice came from a large man in a dark robe. Eleal would not have been sure of its color had she not recognized its wearer as one of the priests of Padlopan who had shared the wagon with her yesterday.

D’ward’s voice was no softer. “You waste your life worshipping a false god of sickness! I doubt that mere words can penetrate so many years of wrongful thinking, but ask.”

The priest rose to his feet, a massive dark shape against the dancing firelight. “You say you go to slay Death. Then tell us what happens after, when Death is dead! Shall we all live forever?”

The Liberator sighed. “Whatever I answer, you will not believe. Come with us and see for yourself what happens. Who else has a question?”

“I have not done,” the priest bellowed. “Nay, I have many other queries!” The reaction was a roar of fury from the audience. The priest was clearly shocked but undeterred; then D’ward said something sharply to him and he sank down out of sight.

Eleal discovered she was on the verge of sniggering. She caught Dosh’s eye and saw he was grinning as if he had heard such exchanges before.

The next query was inaudible.

“Ah!” D’ward said. “Not everyone heard that. You, priest, have an excessively brazen voice. Repeat for these good people what the lady asked.”

The priest did not rise, but he made himself heard. “Gladly, I will, gladly! The woman said her babe is dying and can the Liberator slay death in time to save it? Yes, answer that, Liberator!”

D’ward did not reply for a long moment, and Roaring Cave was very silent. Only faint crackling from the fires disturbed the hush. Then he said, “Pass me this child.”

Eleal rose up on her knees, hoping to see more, but there were too many bodies and boulders in the way and people behind her began hissing angrily until she sat down again. All she could make out was D’ward’s familiar face, framed in a narrow gap, lit from below against darkness. He looked up from whatever he had been doing.

“There!” he said. “I think that will answer your question, mother, and answer yours, too, priest. The poor mite is hungry. Has anyone a scrap of food for a hungry child? Thank you, brother—a blessing upon you. And back to your mother with you, kitten.”

Roaring Cave did not exactly roar, but a whirlwind of whispers seemed to sweep through it, and then some voices cried out, “A miracle!”

Eleal looked around, and Dosh’s expression was as mocking as she had expected. “Like me?” she said. “He cures others? He does this all the time?”

Dosh nodded. She cowered down low, thinking furiously.

D’ward waited until the reaction died away. “It was a blessing from the Undivided upon our quest. Who else has a question?”

He kept it up for more than an hour, moving around from fire to fire. In that time he apparently cured a woman’s paralyzed arm and another fevered child and gave a blind man back his sight. Sometimes he would laugh and joke, sometimes be solemn. Often his replies took the form of little stories that made a point but left no handhold for the priests wanting to contest it. He was unfailingly gracious to everyone except clerics, and to them he was scathingly rude. That was understandable, as they kept trying to trap him. None of them ever seemed to catch him out, although some of his answers were evasive, like the one he had given the priest of Padlopan.

His mastery was amazing. Eleal had seen audiences held spellbound before, but never for so long and never by an extemporaneous performance, for obviously D’ward was following no script. His progress would eventually bring him to her fire, and she waited with trembling anxiety lest he break off and go elsewhere.

By the time he arrived, dusk was falling beyond the great arch of the entrance—and not just dusk, for the rain had turned to snow. People squirmed out of the way to make a place for him. Instead of sitting, he remained standing, his arms folded. She remembered the time he had played Gunuu in
The Tragedy of Trastos
. Then he had not worn a robe, only a loincloth, and the magic of firelight had made him shine like the god he portrayed. Oh, what a triumph that had been! A lump arose in her throat, and she trembled with a fierce longing to jump up and throw her arms around him.

He glanced at her without expression, then looked around the group. “Who asks here?”

An old man beside him cried out in the loud, flat tones of the deaf. “There is a storm coming! My bones know it! My bones always tell me when there’s bad weather coming. Will you lead us onward again tomorrow, young man, or stay here and wait it out, mm?” It was a good question. He looked even older than Piol, and he was wearing no more than the legal minimum. At a guess he was just a beggar who had joined the Free for the food.

D’ward shrugged. “We’re warm here now, there’s fuel in the woods, water in the stream, meat walking in our direction—why run to meet tomorrow’s troubles?”

“Because I don’t have many tomorrows left, young man! That’s why!”

D’ward laughed gleefully and reached over to clap the man’s bony shoulder. “You have all eternity to look forward to, grandfather! But if your bones are telling us the truth, then I think we’ll have to wait out the storm. You’re not the only one without proper clothing. I don’t want to see anyone freeze. Now, if we have any rich people here who would like to contribute money or spare clothes to the Free, that would be a very meritorious deed in the eyes of the Undivided.”

He glanced over the group as if looking for another question, but it seemed to Eleal that his eyes momentarily flashed sapphire at her. Could he know about her money belt? She must have more wealth to hand than anyone else in the cave. She would not let D’ward have that money to foster his blasphemies!

But if she did, would he forget his unfair suspicions? Would he accept that she only wanted to be his friend now?

Would he even give her a hug, just one brief hug, to say that he knew he could trust her?

“May I ask?” The voice was that of Piol Poet, who had somehow become separated from her and was now on the far side of the fire. “I fear it may be an impertinent question, master.”

D’ward chuckled. “But coming from you it will be an astute one, old friend. Ask.”

“You teach things that are not written in any scripture. By whose authority do you speak?”

The Liberator’s dark eyebrows rose very high. He lifted his head to address his answer to the whole cave. “Piol Poet asks by what authority I speak. Oh, Piol, Piol, do you really put so much trust in books? You know how often a scribe will make mistakes when copying a text. You know that even the original was written by mortal hand, for gods do not stoop to writing their own scriptures. Is it not better to hear the words of the teacher at firsthand than at innumerable repeats? My authority comes from the One True God, who sent me.”

Several voices began to speak at once. D’ward nodded at the loudest, a burly, sullen-looking man who had been sitting with his arm around a girl no older than Eleal. Perhaps she was the only reason he was here, for his manner did not seem at all respectful.

“You claim to be the Liberator foretold in the
Filoby Testament
. But according to the
Testament
, the Liberator was born less than five years ago. How then can you be the Liberator?”

D’ward did not take offense, although several of the listeners growled angrily. “That is not what the
Testament
said about me, and I can call a witness to what did happen. Eleal Singer is here, the Eleal prophesied, the Eleal who fulfilled that prophecy. Rise, Eleal, and tell the people what you saw.”

Eleal had almost forgotten what stage fright felt like, for she had not experienced it since she was a child. Now she cringed away in shock, staring aghast at D’ward’s twinkling blue eyes. She could not follow an act like that!

Dosh pinched her. “Up with you! Give them the performance of your life, Singer. But keep your clothes on.”

She slapped him away angrily.

Then D’ward smiled at her. She had forgotten his smiles. The beard hadn’t changed their impact. She rose unwillingly to her feet.

“Come and bear witness,” he said. “Up here! Excuse us, grandfather.”

He meant her to stand on the flat rock the old man was now vacating. She held out a hand so he could help her up, but he ignored it. Then Dosh gripped her waist and lifted her onto the makeshift podium. A great cavern, full of twinkling fires, bright now against the evening…innumerable intent faces. She had never performed before an audience this size before, and she did not have her lines memorized. Piol had not even written her part yet. The pounding of her heart seemed to fill the cave; something was building a nest in her stomach.

“Begin at the beginning,” D’ward said below her. “Like you told Dosh.” He smiled again.

She turned to the audience and drew a deep breath. “My name is Eleal Singer.” She heard her voice echo back satisfactorily from the rocks. “Five years ago, I came to Narshvale with a troupe of strolling players. Innocent child that I was, I never dreamed that evil forces conspired to slay me, nor that I was destined to play a starring role on the stage of history….”

After that it was easy. She told everything, or almost everything. She did not describe D’ward’s hasty departure from Suss, but she included the first miracle, when he had cured Dolm Actor of his curse, and the miracle yesterday that had cured her leg. By the time she had finished, the sky outside was black. She expected an ovation, for she was sure that it had been the finest performance of her life. She was greeted by a numbing silence. Well, no matter! People did not applaud in a temple, and today this cave was a temple. Silence itself was appreciation; the cave was very still. Not a cough. She had preached for the heretic. She had no regrets—although she wondered what her father thought of her now.

She spun around on her podium, planning to jump down into D’ward’s arms for a little hug and a whispered congratulation, perhaps even a quick kiss.

But D’ward had gone.