Future Indefinite (4 page)

Investigating the secret compartment in the desk, Dosh found a bulky purse he estimated must hold fifty or sixty stars. Unfortunately the jewelry he had seen there on earlier inspections was absent. He considered the possibility of running back upstairs to collect Amorgush’s, but concluded reluctantly that the old cow might be awake by now. Hanging the bag on his belt, he headed for the door. Jilvenby lay to the northeast, near Joalwall. A fast moa ought to make that in a day, and despite his earlier disclaimers, he was now extremely skilled at handling Swift.

He was skilled at many things.

The sun hung low over the snowy peaks of Randorwall as Julian Smedley headed back to Losby through a green jigsaw of paddy fields and orchards, divided by winding hedges of bloodfruit bushes. Here and there between the trees, he could see small groups of the faithful making their way homeward. Randorvale was very lush, vaguely reminiscent of the south of France if one did not look too closely at the vegetation or question what mountains those were.

His stump ached fiercely—the finger stubs were already visibly longer than they had been this morning—but all in all he felt as if his feet were barely touching the ground. His dander was still up, a fizz of mana. The old spice merchant trudged along at his right in triumphant silence, while on his left, young Purlopat’r ambled with gigantic strides that would not have shamed a moa, prattling shrilly about the glorious miracle the One had vouchsafed his believers.

It had been quite a good show, actually. Before setting out from Olympus three days ago, Julian had equipped himself with two dozen gold earrings for converts he might bring into the fold during his two-fortnight circuit. He had thought he was being grossly optimistic, but he had used up eighteen of them already. Eighteen in one day was certainly a Service record—he had heard of Pinky Pinkney managing twelve. Seventeen of the troopers, including Captain Groud’rart himself, had also clamored to join the church on the spot, but the rales required them to take a course of instruction first. Some of them would change their minds, of course, but some would not. To have believers within the royal army could be a tremendous advantage for the Undivided, perhaps leading to infiltration of the Randorian government itself. When Julian Smedley returned to Olympus and submitted the usual report, it was going to be a very unusual report. The new boy had scored a stunning success. It was too bad that he had done so by flaunting his personal miracle cure, and there would be whispers about that. Shag ’em! The alternative had been martyrdom, and the Service did not demand that of its agents. He had not used the trapdoor like Pedro Garcia. He had turned certain disaster to pure triumph. He had even outscored Jumbo Watson.

There was Kinulusim’s cottage now, on the outskirts of Losby, flanked by his storage shed and the paddock. There were two rabbits in the paddock.

“Someone has come,” Purlopat’r squeaked.

The someone would be from Olympus, almost certainly, and Julian’s first thought was that now he had an audience to brag to. His second was that of course a fellow didn’t brag, and his third was perverse annoyance that whoever it was would get the story in spades from Purlopat’r and Kinulusim. Dammit! He wanted to slip his miracle into his written report without comment, not make a great shemozzle out of it.

Their approach had been observed. The man heading out to meet them was short and stocky, wearing brown breeches and tunic—Joalian garments that were well suited to riding but which at once made Julian acutely conscious of his own absurd Randorian draperies. In a moment he identified the newcomer and his mana fizz flared close to anger.

Alistair Mainwaring was a plumpish, brown-haired man of indeterminate age. His English bore a faint Highland brogue that showed up even when he spoke Joalian and quite strongly in Randorian. He was one of the most effective missionaries the Service possessed, known around Olympus as Doc and to the natives as Saint Doc, although his degree was in anthropology, not medicine. He was also head of the Randorian section, thus Julian’s boss, and a sanctimonious twit. Had he come all this way just to check on his most-junior assistant’s progress?

They met, and Julian raised his gloves overhead to make the circle—thereby demonstrating that he had no fears of unfriendly onlookers and had the district under control. The other three copied him instantly. Kinulusim and Purlopat’r would be much impressed to have two holy apostles honoring Losby at the same time. The old spice merchant would also be frantic with curiosity to know why.

Disturbingly, Doc looked about fifty. Strangers’ apparent ages were defined by their current mood, and the fatigue of the journey alone should not be so evident. He was also grimy and windswept, so he must have just arrived. He spoke curtly. “Blessings upon you, brothers, and greetings, Saint Kaptaan.”

“Your Holiness is most welcome at my humble abode.” Kinulusim rubbed his hands eagerly. “May we hope to be honored with your company for an extended period?” He would expect to prolong the greetings with flowery phrases for at least ten minutes, but Doc was clearly in no mood to soft-soap the natives.

“Possibly—that will indeed be a pleasure—but it is likely that Saint Kaptaan will have to leave very soon. I need a quick word with him.”

Failing to hide his affront at this summary dismissal, Kinulusim assured the honored apostle that of course he understood and would at once see about preparations for refreshments, and so on. He stumped angrily off along the road, accompanied by the titanic woodcutter, who peered back in juvenile curiosity at the guests.

Alistair sank down on the grass with a weary sigh. “How did it go, old man?” He looked as if he expected a string of excuses.

Still tipsy on mana, Julian felt absolutely no need to sit and was quite certain he had nothing to excuse. “Not bad.”

“I hear there have been peelers seen in the area—no trouble, I hope?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Doc dismissed the matter with a shrug. “I’ve got some queer news. Your chum Exeter is reported to be on the loose up in Joalvale, marching up and down telling everyone he’s the Liberator of the
Filoby Testament
.”

Julian was too astonished to say anything but, “I beg your pardon?” Exeter? Come out of hiding? Parading around in public? Godfathers! He was going to be frightfully dead frightfully quickly if Zath heard of it. Somebody would have to do something. Oh, it couldn’t be! He interrupted Doc’s explanations. “There’s been a mistake! That would be suicide! I mean, he would never—”

“Sorry, old son. No bally doubt about it.”

“It can’t be!”

“It is. Seventy-seven says so, and he knows him as well as any. It’s definitely Exeter and he’s definitely calling himself the Liberator, quite openly.”

Julian felt sick. “Zath will fry him.”

“The tough one, old chum, is why Zath hasn’t fried him already.”

“What does that mean?”

Alistair raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Our information is that Exeter started a week ago or longer. It’s old news, of course, but if he’s still alive, then he must have made himself reaper-proof, mustn’t he?”

“I fail to follow you.” Julian would gain nothing by losing his temper. Nor could he defend Exeter’s behavior when he did not even know what it was.

“You’ve been here long enough to know the rules. If Exeter can protect himself against Zath’s killers, then he must have picked up some jolly powerful mana. I mean, little things like the trapdoor are fine if native bullyboys come after you, but you’d need a sight more heft to take on Zath. How can he have done that?” Doc’s upper lip was very close to a sneer.

Julian caught his temper just before it escaped. So that was what was in the wind, was it? The Service had never done a damned thing for Edward Exeter, although his father had been one of the founders. It had kidnapped him, ignored him, hindered him, and tried to kill him. Now, apparently, he was going to be maligned as a turncoat. That would be a good excuse to give him even less help in future.

“Mana? Human sacrifice or ritual prostitution. Like the Chamber does. He took the medal in sixth form for human sacrifice.”

A long ride on a rabbit was not the best sauce for humor, and Doc’s eyes glinted angrily.

Julian pressed on. “I haven’t heard a word from him, if that’s what you’re wondering. I don’t know what he’s up to any more than you do.” Almost two years ago, right after the massacre at Olympus, Exeter had walked out of the station and disappeared. Perhaps he had gone insane. That felt like a very disloyal thought. “So why come to me?” Was he going to be tarred with the traitor brush, too?

Doc shrugged. “Committee wants you back at Olympus. For consultation. I’ll take over your tour here.” He did not add that he would do a much better job of it, but his manner certainly implied that.

Dammit! The Committee was probably chasing its tail, trying to decide what to do. Because Julian had been at school with Exeter they would assume that he knew him better than anyone else did, but that had been a long time ago. Rivers of blood had flowed since those days. Still, orders were orders, and he couldn’t deny any call that involved Exeter, however unlikely the story sounded at the moment.

“Then I’d better scoot.”

Doc blinked. “Tonight, you mean?”

“It’s a fine night. Should be lots of moonlight. Why not?”

“It’s your arse.” Doc hauled himself painfully to his feet. “I’m going to stagger down to the village bathhouse and thaw mine out.”

“Then I’ll see you when the nabobs have done with me,” Julian said cheerfully. With luck he could disappear over the horizon before anyone told Alistair about the eighteen converts. That was a pleasing thought.

It was close to midnight, and Cherry Blossom House was having a poor night. Half the tables were empty, the roar of conversation was so muted that Potstit Lutist’s playing was audible at the far end of the big dark room.

The true artist, so Grandfather Trong had always said, regarded a poor audience as a challenge to excel. Thus Eleal Singer was working the crowd, making her way from group to group, smiling, laughing, chatting up the clientele. The paying customers were all men, of course, a galaxy of hairy, flushed faces under the hanging lamps—young men, old men, just men. The women beside them or draped over them were staff. The air stank of cheap wine and stale cooking, lamp smoke and unwashed bodies.

The tables were very close together, by design, but that let her lean on chair backs or men’s shoulders as she moved, concealing her limp. She wore a black leather bra and a short leather skirt, both studded with brass. It was not the sort of outfit a normal girl would wear outside a nightmare, but an actor dressed as the part demanded, and this was the only costume that could justify the heavy boots she needed. Her hair hung lush and raven dark around her shoulders. Apart from her short leg, her body was the best in the house, which explained the deadly stares from the harlots at the tables. And they couldn’t sing.

Eleal could. She was going to sing in a few minutes.

She knew most of the regulars by sight, but they were not what she was looking for. She flirted and taunted them a little, relishing the wistful lechery in their eyes, but she was not for them. They knew she was not one of the whores. Suddenly she had a chance to prove it. A calloused hand slid up her thigh. She swung around on her good leg and struck as hard as she could. Fingers almost fell off his chair, and the slap was clearly audible over Potstit’s lute playing. So was her roar, professionally projected to reach the farthest reaches of Cherry Blossom House.

“If that’s what you want, there are those here who sell it. I do not!”

Fingers’s companions yelled with laughter and pulled him down on his chair as he tried to rise. If he got out of hand, Tigurb’l Tavernkeeper would send in his notorious bouncers.

Under the cluster of lamps hanging over the little stage, Potstit ended his solo and reached for the bottle beside his stool. There was no applause. Tigurb’l appeared beside him—a gray, lizardy man like something dreamed up after drinking too much perfumed wine. He rubbed his long thin hands together and flicked a pale tongue over his lips.

“My lords!”

His customary salutation was met with the usual hoots of derision. He proceeded to give a long buildup, introducing Yelsiol Dancer—the
great
, the sensuous, the seductive Yelsiol Dancer, and the audience responded with drunken whoops. Yelsiol was a great, sensuous, seductive barrel of grease with the wits of a cockroach. Her legs looked fat as full-grown hogs, but they must be solid muscle to stand the pace. Tonight was a real stinker if Yelsiol had to come out again so soon.

Potstit struck a chord and began the beat. Eleal Singer started heading for the front. She was on next, and she still had not found one single friend. Most nights there would be half a dozen of her admirers scattered through the audience, those who came here especially and only because of Eleal Singer, and on a good night…Wrong! There was one, sitting alone at a table next the wall. She changed direction. What
was
his name again? It was only four or five nights since he had been here. A perfect memory is the absolute first requirement of an artist, Trong had always said, but she couldn’t remember.

“Darling!”
She slid gracefully onto the next chair and pecked his cheek. “Darling, how
wonderful
to see you again!”

He was fiftyish, flabby, and vaguely frail, as if his health was poor. His mustache was silvered and his face lined, but he would have stood out in Cherry Blossom House just from the quality of his attire. He was obviously a very successful businessman, which explained how he could afford to patronize the arts so expansively.

He smiled and squeezed her hand and they exchanged pleasantries. In the background, Yelsiol dropped a veil and the audience cheered and yelled for her to get on with it. Fat rolled and pulsed.

Potstit flubbed a few notes and recovered. Potstit had played at court when he was younger, long before Eleal was born. When on form, he was still good, but he was rarely on form. His pay and the rare tips he received, he converted at once to wine. His fingering was very shaky early in the evening, became reliable or even inspired around midnight, and went into eclipse before dawn. Tonight the tempos seemed to be deteriorating faster than usual. Time to go.

Ah! She had it—Gulminian Clothier.

“
Darling
Gulminian, I really must rush! I’m on next. But it’s been
ages
! Don’t you dare run off without a word. Do come and see me
right
after my number, won’t you? I shall be heartbroken if you don’t.”

Gulminian promised. Greatly relieved, Eleal heaved herself up with a friendly hand on his shoulder and resumed her journey toward the front. She would be so humiliated if not a single admirer came to congratulate her after she sang! It had never happened yet. It would certainly give Tigurb’l Tavernkeeper ideas if it did.

She reached for another chair back and lurched to the next table, turning on her smile. Again, only one man…

“Eleal?”

Oh, by all the gods! For a moment she turned away, as if to flee. Then she forced herself to meet his eyes, while her innards curled up in knots.

It was Piol Poet. How he had aged! A thousand years old—tiny and shriveled. His face was as white as his hair and as thin. He hunched over a beaker clasped in both spidery hands, with no bottle in sight. Normally he would not rent his chair for long at that price, but the house was so poor tonight that he was welcome decoration. He stared up at her with a strange appeal.

She forced the smile again. “Piol!” She squeezed down on a seat beside him, too shaky to stand. “It’s been a long time! How are you?”

“I’m well.” He wheezed. He did not sound well. He did not look well. “And you?”

“Oh—I’m very well!”

The audience screamed enthusiasm and hammered on the tables as more of Yelsiol came into view. Potstit lost the beat and then found it again.

“What are you doing these days?” Eleal said hurriedly. “Who’s performing your plays now?” She wondered if he was eating regularly.

He blinked a few times. “No one at the moment. I have several being considered. I hope to hear shortly on two or three of them. You may be confident that my name will appear at the Tion Festival again next year.”

“That’s wonderful!” Wonderful hogwash. Piol’s plays needed Trong to direct them, and Trong was no more.

The old man fumbled inside his robe. “And I had a book published. Here—I brought you a copy.”

She took it, thanking him, congratulating him, remembering how Piol had always despised printed books. Like its author, this one was notably thin. “I shall enjoy this. Will any of them make songs?”

“Possibly. Feel free to use any of them that take your fancy.” His wizened lips smiled uncertainly. “And you?”

“Oh…It takes forever to get one’s name known. But I have had quite a few auditions in the last fortnight.” More hog, more wash. She dismissed Cherry Blossom House with an airy wave. “This is just to keep my hand in, you understand. I get so bored otherwise.” Unless old Piol had lost every last wit in his head, he knew that the only money in music was in dramatic roles and a crippled singer had no real future.

“I remember you singing in the king’s house,” he quavered.

“But only as a member of the troupe. I plan to win my way back there on my own merits.” That would certainly be the day water ran uphill. “Er…Have you heard any news of the others recently?”

He sighed and shook his head, a skull balanced on crumpled parchment. “You know that Golfren went back to farming? Sharecropping, of course. And Uthiam gave him a son at last? Klip joined the Lappinian army.”

None of that was new. To think of Uthiam, that beautiful, wonderful actor, working in fields, probably as fat as Yelsiol now, nursing babies! Gartol had died. Eleal had even heard a rumor that young Klip had been killed in a minor mutiny, but she would not pass on such tidings. She wondered how much bad news Piol was keeping from her.

“Those were the good old days!” she said brightly.

It had been the Trong Troupe, but it had not been her grandfather who held it together. None of them had really appreciated that fact until Ambria had been carried off by a sudden fever and the troupe collapsed like a puffball. Trong had died of a broken heart. The troupe had been Eleal’s family, the only life she knew. They had never had money, even in the good times, but they had had fellowship and good cheer.

“At your age, the good days are still to come, dear Eleal.”

She laughed. “I certainly hope so.” It wasn’t the good days, it was the bad nights….

Yelsiol was working up to a frenzy now, thumping around the stage, raising clouds of dust and yells of encouragement. Only two wisps to go. Eleal must get up there and wow the fans. No time for finesse.

“Are you eating regularly? Where do you live now? You need money, Piol?”

He shook his head violently, pulling back his lips in a grimace. “No, no! I’m very comfortable.”

“Look, this isn’t much of a scene, but it pays well. Are you sure—”

He continued to shake his head, pointing at the chapbook she held. “I have a room above the print shop…help set type, proofread sometimes.”

A deafening howl…Yelsiol was down to the last wisp. Eleal pushed back her chair.

“That’s my cue, old timer! It’s wonderful to see you again, Piol.” It was, too, however unwilling she was to be seen in a place like the Cherry Blossom House. She wondered how Piol had found her, and how many of the other survivors of the troupe knew. “I want to have a long talk with you, I really do.”

He smiled eagerly. “I look forward to hearing you sing again, Eleal. Come back here after you’re done?” For a man who had been a literary genius in his day, Piol had always been blessed with an astonishing streak of naivete.

“Er, not tonight, I’m afraid. I—I promised my boyfriend. Sorry. One afternoon, maybe?”

Whatever he tried to say was lost in the roar as all of Yelsiol came into view. A couple of her admirers rose and hurried forward through the storm of applause—hoping to visit the star’s dressing room and congratulate her, of course, as admirers did. As Gulminian Clothier and hopefully some others would come to visit Eleal. Tigurb’l Tavernkeeper’s terms would be reasonable tonight.

Eleal patted Piol’s bony, blotched hand and stood up. “Come back one afternoon!” she shouted. She began to hobble away, heading for the stage.

He twisted and reached out to her. “Eleal!”

She looked around. She should be up there by now.

“Eleal,” Piol quavered. “I forgot to tell you. Have you heard the news about the Liberator?”

She staggered as if he had struck her with a rail.
“Who?”

Piol blinked rapidly and beamed. “There’s rumors in town that the Liberator’s appeared in Joalvale. I wondered if you’d heard.”

“D’ward?”

“I assume it must be D’ward.”

She stood frozen, barely aware that Tigurb’l was already onstage, introducing her. D’ward! After all these years! The floor rocked under her boots. D’ward! That
slime
?

Piol had not noticed her reaction. “It’s very strange! I can’t imagine how he would dare to flaunt that name when he knows about the
Filoby Testament
. I mean, Zath is certain to hear. So maybe it isn’t D’ward at all, just an imposter, although even an imposter would be very stupid to call himself the Liberator. But just in case it really is D’ward, I thought you might like to know, because I remember how fond you were of—”

“
Fond!
Fond of D’ward you mean, you old fool?”

Piol’s face fell. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d like…What’s wrong?”

He was so stupid that she wanted to grab his stringy neck and shake him. She tried to scream and her throat produced only a whisper. “Nothing’s wrong, Piol. Nothing’s wrong at all! I’d love to meet D’ward again!”

And I will tear his lungs out and make him eat them and then there will be even less wrong than there is now. It’s all his fault that I work here as a harlot in a brothel.