Future Indefinite (7 page)

Why did he speak of Zath as if he were someone completely different, not just another aspect? She had thrown away her savings, angered a god, probably angered Tigurb’l Tavernkeeper, too, because she was going to be late—and she still had to get out of River Street without being raped. But at the moment none of those things mattered. “Kiss me again. Please!”

“No. I need you with some wits about you. Here’s what you’re going to do, Eleal Singer. You’re going to go and find this D’ward Liberator, you hear? You’re to go up to him and put a hand—”

Black panic cut through the pink fog like a sword blade.

“No, no!”
She writhed and struggled. “You’re not to turn me into a reaper!” A reaper like Dolm Actor, with all those horrible rituals he had known—to slay people with a touch, to walk through locked doors, even to summon Zath himself…

“By the Five, you do have resistance, don’t you? Tough as marble!”

“Not a reaper! I won’t, I won’t!”

“I couldn’t make you a reaper. That’s Zath’s speciality. But I have a trick or two of my own. Don’t I?” Ken’th smiled and removed her hand from his belt. He spread her arms wide and leaned on her, bringing his lips to hers again.

The world danced for her. She soared into heavens of delight. She melted. But it was all too short, only seconds. When he pulled back from her, she could see his big brown eyes appraising her calmly. She was gasping for breath, soaked all over, quivering violently. More, more!

“Now, Eleal Singer. I shall give you money and have the priests escort you safely back to the whorehouse. Tomorrow you will go and find the Liberator. Get very close to him, touching him. In his bed would be best, but a hand on his arm will do. Then you will sing that song you sang for me. You must never sing it again until you are touching D’ward, you understand? And when you come back, I shall heal your leg for you. I’ll find you a nice rich husband—rich, anyway, the two together are rare.”

He released her hands, which immediately reached for her bundled dress, to push it off her completely.

He chuckled. “No! Put it on again. Do as I say, and I’ll give you what you want when you come back. Truly, I look forward to it! But now you will leave here at once and you will not remember this conversation. When the priests deliver you to your door, you will forget ever coming here. But tomorrow you will do as I have told you.”

Dosh knew most of the official passes in the Vales and a few unofficial ones also—the secret “back doors” patronized by smugglers and Tinkerfolk, who were frequently the same people. Although he had not crossed Ragpass in years and had only vague memories of it, he remembered it as soon as he saw it. The Nosokvale end, he now recalled, was quite gentle, but the Joalvale side angled up a sheer cliff. In many places the trail had been notched into the buff-colored rock like a half tunnel, and those artificial parts were too narrow to let two men pass. The natural ledges were mostly wider but often canted unpleasantly toward the scenery. The only good thing to be said about the ascent was that it zigged and zagged so much that anyone who blew off could have some hope of flattening a fellow traveler or two as he bounced his way down.

Convinced now that his continued survival depended on leaving Joalvale with haste and as few witnesses as possible, Dosh had not paused to talk with any more natives. His Tinkerfolk childhood had given him skill in tracking, but any fool could have read the footprints in the dust, and they would have been erased by the wind if the Liberator and his gang were more than a few hours ahead of him. When he drew near the base of the cliff, he could see small groups of people like mites, trailing upward, far above him. In the warm glow of a setting sun, he proceeded to ride his moa up the nightmare.

The first third or so went comparatively easily. All he need do was urge his mount on and resist a temptation to close his eyes. Being suspended seven feet above the path was much worse than having one’s own feet on it, and he had to curl into a knot at the overhangs, but at least he need not exert himself. Joalflat began to expand below him like a painting. He caught up with some of the stragglers and passed them. They were mostly old folk or families with children—not the normal run of travelers at all—so he assumed that they were the tag end of D’ward’s army. He did not stop to speak with them, merely shouting at them to stand aside and let him pass.

The moa repeatedly battered his knees and ankles against the rock. As he drew higher, the wind flapped at his clothes and ruffled his curls.

The rule of thumb in moary was that moas would go no higher than the tree line. Swift must have read the rule book, because she suddenly concluded that the total absence of trees hereabout meant that she was excused from further effort. She stopped dead and tried to bite him.

Dosh kicked hard, winning another few minutes’ progress. Then Swift stopped again. Wishing he had thought to wear spurs, he pulled out his dagger and gave the brute a jab in the shoulder. The result was a hair-raising tantrum of leaping and bucking, followed by a serious effort to run back down to Joalvale. Pebbles flew over the edge and rattled away into space. Dosh wrestled the beast around and jabbed again. Swift took off like a Nagian warrior’s spear. Warned by his yells, other travelers cleared the way, and he went by them in a blur.

It could not last, of course. Eventually they reached an impasse. Swift absolutely refused to budge any farther. Concluding that more jabbing would merely exacerbate her already vicious temper, Dosh dismounted.

Moas could be led, in which case they tended to bite. Their teeth were blunt and rarely drew blood but could certainly hurt. Moas might also be driven, in which case they would kick with their sharp hooves. Dosh elected to drive, untying the reins and using the thong as a tether. As he had hoped, Swift was too winded and too unsure of the footing to do much serious kicking. They proceeded up the hill at a reasonable pace.

The sun was drawing unpleasantly close to the horizon. Joalflat stretched out to infinity, vanishing into haze to the west. Moa or not, Dosh was determined to reach the top of this accursed ascent before dark.

He passed a few more of the Liberator’s rabble, which was a fair description of them. A majority seemed to be women, and none of them looked prosperous. Obviously no one with a good living would throw it up to follow the Liberator, although why anyone at all should want to follow the Liberator just because he was the Liberator escaped Dosh completely. D’ward had been a superlative leader when he was battlemaster of the combined Joalian and Nagian armies, but these derelicts were no army. And who was the enemy?
Zath?
That seemed like a war to avoid at all costs. Dosh wished wholeheartedly that he had washed his hands of the Liberator and headed west to Fithvale.

As the sun swelled to a scarlet cushion on the skyline, he reached the top of the ascent. Suddenly there was no more cliff above him, only trees and two great peaks flanking the pass. A gale was howling through the gap. As far as he could recall, though, from here the road wound gently downward all the way to Nosokflat.

“There, you brute!” he told the moa. “Trees! You’re back on duty.”

She kicked at him and he dodged.

He paused to catch his breath and look back, letting his sweat cool. Half of Joalvale was visible, its shadowed landscape a tapestry of green and gold fields, woodlands, blue waters. The rivers were silver ribbons, the roads red threads. If the light were better, he would probably see Joal itself.

He saw dust. Something was raising a smudge of dust on the road he had come. It might just be a caravan of wagons, but his instinct for self-preservation told him not to bet on that. Far more likely it was a troop of Joalian cavalry. They probably would not attempt the ascent in the dark—he hoped. They might not be after him or the Liberator.

Pig puke! His lifelong motto had always been to assume the worst, and it had never failed him yet. He should have heeded it sooner.

The sky was cloudless. Trumb had risen, almost full, and could be counted on to bathe the world in bright green light until dawn. Dosh turned to give battle with the moa. “You,” he said grimly, “are going to ran as you have never run before.”

Swift expertly kicked him on the shin, hurling him to the dirt, and then landed another kick on his ribs as he rolled away. Fortunately it broke no bones and he did not let go of the tether.

Who owned a pass was a question that had started many a war, but the ultimate answer depended on the relative strengths of the parties involved. When the neighboring states were Joalia and Nosokia, there was no argument. The Nosokian rulers were Joalian puppets and would not talk crossly to Joalian troopers if they pursued a fugitive into Nosok itself and hacked him to bits on the main street. When the fugitive spoke no Nosokian and knew of no back doors out of Nosokvale, his only option was to head east as fast as possible. If he could reach Rinoovale, he would be into Niolia’s sphere of interest, safely out of Joaldom.

All four moons graced the night. Although Kirb’l, Ysh, and Eltiana combined could not match the green glare of Trumb, they did help lighten the shadows, and Dosh rode swiftly along the valley. Mainly the track clung to the banks of a chattery stream, avoiding the head-smashing branches of the forest. He passed more of the Liberator’s followers. If the Jilvenby peasant’s numbers had been anywhere near correct, there could not be many more of them ahead.

After a mile or two, Dosh rounded a bend into a section of the valley that was more open. Its walls rose steeply from a flat floor, carpeted by shrubs but few trees. He saw the flicker of fires ahead, a cluster of fallen stars among the bushes. There were many more of them than he would have expected.

There was nothing to stop him riding right on by. He could be in Nosokland by morning, whether or not it killed his moa. That was what he should do. On the other hand, he must have at least an hour’s start on the Joalians, even if they risked the ascent in moonlight. He had come this way to warn D’ward, so he might as well do so.

His sentimentality would be the death of him.

He even decided as he turned Swift off the trail that, if he were to be completely honest—not something he encouraged in himself—he would admit that he would dearly love to spend a friendly evening with D’ward beside a campfire, chatting of old times and finding out just what all this Liberator racket was about.

He headed for the fires and the sound of crying babies. He noted people moving around in the shrubbery and guessed that they were gathering berries. How many berries would it take to fill a hundred empty stomachs?

A man appeared as if from nowhere, right in his path. He wore only a leather kilt—chilly covering in the mountains at night—and he carried a spear and a round shield. He said, “Halt!”

Dosh halted. The spear was a serious matter.

“State your business!” The sentry had a familiar accent, and suddenly his face was familiar also.

“Doggan! Doggan Herder! It’s me—Dosh!”

“Five gods! I mean,
Bless me!
It’s the faggot himself! What you doing here, slime?”

“I could ask the same of you.” Dosh considered dismounting, but he was more worried now by Swift’s teeth than Doggan’s spear. He wondered how many more of D’ward’s old Warband might be around and concluded that there would probably be quite a few of them. Nagian age groups were fanatically loyal and did everything in bunches. “Where’s your face paint, warrior?”

“Face paint is out!” Doggan said firmly. He was a short, broad man, more notable for muscle than brains. He seemed unaware that what he had just said was rank heresy to a Nagian. “I asked you what you wanted.”

“I came to see D’ward.”

Doggan thought about it. Then he gestured with the spear. “Follow me. And if you let that brute bite me, then it’s cutlets.”

“Lead on.” Dosh began rethinking strategy. A troop of Nagian warriors would be a fair match for the Joalians. If D’ward was willing to protect him, he might be out of danger.

A few minutes brought them to a campfire. Having hobbled Swift, he limped wearily forward into the light, his leg throbbing like hammers where the moa had kicked it. Half a dozen shivery-looking Nagians squatted around the flames, apparently listening intently to D’ward, who was sitting on a rock, expounding. He broke off what he was saying, his teeth flashing in a smile.

“Well, see who’s here! Our old messenger! Welcome, Dosh!” He was dressed in a dark, long-sleeved priest’s gown. He wore a close-cropped beard and hints of black curls showed under his cowl, but he would look more like a priest if he shaved both his face and his head. That would be a pity.

“Thanks.” Dosh moved closer to the fire and the others quickly made room for him, lots of room, as if he carried some contagious disease. He crouched down to warm himself, registering that these men were all from the old Sonalby troop—Prat’han Potter, Burthash Wheelwright, Gopaenum Butcher, and the rest. Every one of them would cut himself into small cubes if D’ward asked.

Silence alerted him; he looked up and saw that D’ward was waiting for him to speak.

“I heard you were at Jilvenby. A trooper in Joal told me. Thought I’d come and warn you.”

Even in the flickering firelight, D’ward’s eyes showed blue, twinkling with amusement. “That was very friendly of you, Dosh. The Joalians were no threat to me—but it was a kind thought.”

He had not changed at all. If he wanted people to think of him as a leader, he ought to let his beard grow longer. No, that might be true of other men, but it wasn’t true of him. He seemed too young, yet he was completely calm, absolute master of the group and of himself. Dosh felt the old magic at work again. This was a man who commanded respect and loyalty without ever asking for it. He talked with gods. He was foretold by prophecy. He elicited trust—and also confidences.

“He wasn’t quite what he seemed,” Dosh said. “He bore the mark of the Lady.”

Big Prat’han grunted, but what he meant remained unclear.

D’ward pursed his lips. “The only male Eltiana cult I know of is the Guardians of the Mother. They’re said to wear her symbol in a very intimate place.”

“That’s it.”

The smile faded. The stare seemed to sharpen. “And how did you discover that, Dosh?”

A couple of the men muttered inaudibly.

“No,” D’ward said. “If he was sworn to Eltiana, then he wouldn’t be doing that. Well?”

“I killed him.”

D’ward sighed. “Why?”

“He wanted me to betray you.” Dosh looked around the group hopefully. If he expected approval, then he was disappointed. These lunks had never approved of him. They had let him continue breathing only because D’ward had told them to. He cared nothing for their opinions, but he would like to think D’ward appreciated what he had done. He had felt that way about very few men in his life…no others at all that he could think of just at the moment.

D’ward said, “I suppose it explains why you ride by night. How did you ever get a moa?”

“Stole her, of course.”

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

“No, I just got better at it.”

D’ward scratched at his beard, seeming more exasperated than anything else. “I appreciate the news about Eltiana. The Guardians are her doers of dirty work—not as bad as reapers, but they can be dangerous. I just wish you hadn’t gained the information the way you did. Will you spend the night with us or are you in a hurry to admire new scenery? ’Fraid we can’t offer much in the way of hospitality.”

All the eyes turned toward the intruder, waiting for his reply. The Nagians were hoping he would leave very soon and thus clean up the neighborhood. He could not tell what D’ward wanted.

Wearily, he held out his hands to the fire again. The air was cooling off, leaving the night cold and dark. And lonely. “There’s a troop of Joalian cavalry—”

His tongue was not usually so eager to run away with him, and he reined it in.

Gopaenum threw more brush on the fire. Smoke and sparks billowed up to the stars.

“Not after us,” D’ward said. “I doubt they’re even coming to make sure we’ve left, because our safe-conduct runs for three more days yet. Are they on their way up the pass now or waiting for daylight?”

“Don’t know.” Dosh rose stiffly, wincing at the pain in his leg. “Well, I’ve told you my news. I’d best be going.” He thought of the long, lonely ride to Nosokvale.

“We welcome recruits,” D’ward said quietly. “You’re welcome to join us.”