Future Indefinite (34 page)

Onkenvier produced a knife made from a piece of a rib and stabbed at something in the fire. She pulled out a charred tuber, which she proceeded to hack into three pieces. Then she skewered the largest fragment, blew on it to cool it, and offered it to Julian. His stomach heaved. He shook his head, pointed to the water and made a sign for drinking. Onkenvier said something to Thok; Thok poured another drink for the visitor.

He started to cough and almost choked on it, spilling water into his beard. Again he refused the tuber. He could not imagine eating anything, the way he felt. He had walked too far, obviously. It was not only his legs and feet that ached. Everything ached. He ached all over.

Thok and Onkenvier began chewing on the smaller fragments of the tuber, eating even the charred crust. Julian wished he could call over a waiter and order a couple of steaks for them—although meat would probably make them as ill as the sight of their normal diet was making him feel. Still, he was immensely grateful just to be here. He fumbled in his purse and found a coin. He held it out to the woman.

She stared at it as if she did not know what money was, then turned a puzzled gaze on him, meeting his eyes for the first time.

“For you,” he said. “Take it.”

She did, peering at it wonderingly.

Thok was looking at Julian. His face bore no expression at all, so it was impossible to judge what thoughts were writhing inside that undernourished mind, but Julian realized he had made a serious error. Sleeping men had no charisma. He might wake up with a bone knife through his heart.

The prospect was strangely unworrying. He made a huge effort and rolled his bundle away, so he could lie down and lay his head on it. He did not need it as a cover, certainly. Despite his shivering, he was pouring sweat as if he were in a Turkish bath.

By next morning, he was almost too weak to stand. He had to lean on Thok’s shoulder when he went out to the pit, and thereafter he just lay on the smelly heap of bedding and waited to die.

Onkenvier would not let him die. She stripped off his clothes, wrapped him in his blanket, piled ancient furs over him to keep him warm. From time to time she bathed his face and rubbed foul-smelling grease on his chest. She forced him to sip a thin soup while Thok held his head up. When he needed to relieve himself, Thok held a gourd for him.

He slid into delirium. “Fools!” he told them. “You are fools. Let him die and you can bury him and keep all the money. It isn’t much to him, but it’s more than you have ever seen in your lives.” They did not understand, so they continued to nurse him.

In his lucid moments he wept at his incredible weakness. He could hardly find the strength to cough, although the pain in his chest was unbearable and every breath rattled like a cart on cobbles. He did not want to die lost among strangers in a strange world. He would never tell Euphemia how sorry he was. She would never know what had happened to him; he would never know what had happened to her. To have lived through the Great War, to have adventured to another planet, then to die like a rat in a sewer…it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

Night came again. He faded in and out of consciousness, but always when he stirred, Onkenvier was there. Did she never sleep? Breathing was an impossible effort. He was drowning in mucus. Eventually she seemed to realize that, for she roused the boy so that together they could pull Julian up to a sitting position. They propped him there somehow, and then he could breathe. Just. He wandered away into delirium that was worse than the pain. He was a kipper in a smokehouse, being eaten alive by earwigs.

Morning at last…He was aware of sunlight streaming in at him when the door opened, which it did a few times. Onkenvier was still fussing around him with her broth, but he was too weak to swallow it. He was dying—dying nastily, messily, irrelevantly, as everything must die. King or worm, it always came to this. He had been granted more time than those poor sods at Ypres or the Somme. A lot of them had died more disgustingly even than this, but at least they’d had the consolation that they were dying for King and Country. The universe would roll on without Julian Smedley and never notice the loss. He would leave no fame, no children, no great works: Laugh all you want at this fevered, suffering relic, but your turn will come….

“
Tyika
Kaptaan!”

Julian prized his sticky eyelids open. There was nothing there but a blur. How stupid of Dommi to wander into such a nightmare! How stupid of himself not to hallucinate someone more interesting.

“
Tyika
!” Someone was shouting. Someone was trying to rub the skin off his hand. “Hold on,
Tyika
! He is coming,
Tyika
! The Liberator is coming. We have sent word for him to hurry.”

Julian tried to explain that it was too late, but he couldn’t make the words. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He wanted it to end. Come to think of it, a chap couldn’t possibly accept a favor from a man he’d accused to his face of being a murderer, so it was just as well that prophet chappie wasn’t there, couldn’t help, wouldn’t arrive in time…. He had probably died already anyway. See you when I get there, old man.

When the release finally came, it was almost sexual in its intensity. The end of all the harsh, labored breathing, the pain and striving, the pounding fever, the desperate effort—the sudden peace, the wonderful, wonderful peace…the unbearable joy.

There was a cool hand on his forehead. There were a devil of a lot of people making a damnable lot of noise outside somewhere, and the door was open again, although the sun wasn’t shining on his face anymore. He opened his eyes.

He licked his lips. He swallowed. He forced himself to meet that familiar smile. “Thank you.”

The blue eyes sparkled strangely. “My pleasure entirely,” Exeter said. “You are a thousand times welcome.”

“It was most fortuitously, was it not,” said Dommi, “that I was given assignment on the advance team to this campsite and were thus identifying you?” He was methodically going through Julian’s bundle, squatting on his heels to keep his fastidious self from coming in contact with that floor.

Julian pulled his blanket tighter around him, shivering now not because he had a fever, but because he did not have one to keep him warm. He was still adjusting to the idea of being alive. He was also trying to reconcile that miracle with the deaths he had witnessed at Shuujooby, for if Captain Julian Smedley (retd.) was now living on the avails of martyrdom, then he was as guilty as Exeter and a hypocrite as well. He wasn’t going to tell Dommi all that, though.

“I trust that
Tyika
Kisster would have come to the aid of any invalid, not just a personal friend?”

“Oh yes,
Tyika
! Many hundreds every day are succored in this wise. But I have never seen the Liberator ride any rabbit quite so hard.” He laughed. “These appear to be the best of a sad assembly,
Tyika
.” He held up a smock and breeches.

When had anyone ever heard Dommi laugh before? His flaming hair had grown perceptibly longer since leaving Olympus, and he had sprouted an impressive layer of copper beard. Now he proceeded to hand the disparaged garments to his former employer and head for the door.

“You didn’t mention where the hot tub is.”

Dommi paused in the doorway and then laughed again, a fraction too late to be convincing. “Hot tub? I barely have recollection of what this is.”

Mm? Times they were a-changing! “Then before you go, tell me of
Entyika
Alis and
Tyika
Djumbo.”

“The
Entyika
is well and keeps very busy with meritorious service. I regret to be informant that the unfortunate Djumbo has departed his recentest incarnation.”

“He’s dead?”

“Indeed so.” Dommi’s face had twisted itself into an expression of such heartrending solemnity that it looked ready to shed a few freckles for the departed. “His soul has moved to the next rung of the ladder, as the Liberator has instructed us, and because the madness into which he had fallen was a repercussion of invidious sorcery, no blame must be attached to his memory and we may be confident that his progress upward will continue. Now, if you will excuse, I have many important duties, Kaptaan.”

The doorway was then empty.

Musing upon Dommi’s strange transformation, Julian reached for the water skin. There was no sign of either Thok or Onkenvier, and the door had mysteriously been ripped from its worn old leather hinges. He was unbearably sticky and scratchy, so he proceeded to clean up as well as he could, although the clearing was now crowded with people. No one came to applaud his striptease. Everyone must be fully occupied. He could hear mallets thudding on tent pegs, axes cracking on trees, carts rumbling, and people singing hymns.

He dressed, combed his hair and beard, and stepped out into the brightness of a winter afternoon. The extent of the activity astonished him. He could see lines of tents, with more going up, makeshift paddocks holding at least a dozen rabbits and a few moas, five or six parked wagons, and the beginning of a camp kitchen—fires and spits and tables. His stomach growled wistfully. Hundreds of people were bustling around, all seemingly performing duties with eagerness and good cheer, even if they were doing nothing more than singing hymns. This was the county fair or the circus come to town, and the British Army could have organized matters no better, Exeter’s crusade was prospering, far removed now from the turmoil of Shuujooby.

Details could wait. Julian’s first duty was to find Onkenvier and give her money, all the money he had. He peered around carefully, but he could not see her. Perhaps she and Thok had fled into the forest when this unexpected invasion overthrew their world. The crisp winter air, which two days ago had been crystalline and silent, now rang with hundreds of voices. The carpet of low weeds and shrubs had been trampled flat and patterned with innumerable long shadows by the waning sun. If not terrified, she would be at least bewildered.

Another wagon rolled into camp, drawn by two rabbits. People ran to help the occupants disembark, lifting some of them out on litters, then carrying or escorting them over to the hymn singers by the pond, where Exeter in his gray robe stood ready for them. In moments the healing began, with shouts of jubilation and surges of mana that made the node tremble. The Spanish flu had met its match.

The largest group appeared to be made up of initiates; they were being harangued by an adolescent girl. On the far side of the pond, converts were being baptized. Unless Julian’s eyes deceived him, one of the officials in charge was Dommi Houseboy with a shield on his back. Well, well, well! Piccadilly Circus.

The Onkenvier business would have to wait. If she failed to appear before the Free departed, Julian would just leave his purse in her cottage. Meanwhile, he was painfully aware that he was not as fit as a Stradivarius and had not eaten in at least two days. He headed for the commissary, where people were already lining up to be fed.

He had to stop for a long line of newcomers, bent under their bundles, being led by a shield-bearer to a campsite. Then he narrowly escaped being run down by a gang towing newly felled tree trunks in from the woods. He detoured around a construction site where young men were exuberantly wielding picks, hammers, and shovels, slamming posts into the ground like nails, hurling dirt with the enthusiasm of dogs going after rabbits. Their excessive energy was clearly inspired by the presence of young women, who were officially weaving withes into makeshift screens, but also commenting back and forth about muscles and stamina and related matters. It seemed like a jolly way to build latrines.

Within fifty yards he saw a dozen styles of clothing and overheard a whole Babel of dialects. The nasal Randorian accents he could identify exactly, but the others displayed varying tones of Niolian singsong, Thargian growl, or the terse staccato of Joal, as if every one of the twenty-seven Vales was represented here already.

“Captain?” caroled a voice. “Oh, Captain Sm
ed
ley! I say! Hello-o-o!” The hand waving the lacy handkerchief belonged to Hannah Pinkney. She stopped waving it and metronomed her sunshade instead, until she saw that Julian had changed direction.

Hannah Pinkney! Muddled, twittery Hannah Pinkney? How the devil had she found her way to this battleground? There was no mistaking her, though, swathed in a spectacular robe, an Eiffel Tower-shaped sweep of white fur, plus a straw hat with pink bows. The effect was neither Valian nor European, but something disconcertingly in between—Ascot Week in Thargia or the Randorian Embassy at St. Moritz.

Then Julian thought,
Oh my ears and whiskers!
because the man at her side was Pinky himself—Pinky the gray eminence, the manipulator, sly Pinky, smooth Pinky, Pinky as greasy as a ha’pennyworth of cold chips, Pinky all dapper in a fur-trimmed leather greatcoat, unbuttoned to display the leather jerkin and heavy wool knickerbockers beneath, the knee-high boots, Pinky clutching a official-looking notebook, Pinky smiling a greeting without showing more than his eyelids.

“Captain Smedley! My word! Good to see you, Captain.”

Julian shook Hannah’s hand while he discarded all the nasty remarks lining up in his gullet:
Not good to see you!
or By Jove, I never knew a man switch sides faster! or even
How long do you think you can hide here before Exeter finds you?

He said, “Pinky, old son! What brings you here?” Possible answers would be:
Pure funk!
or Crass opportunism, old man! or If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Yet who was he to accuse Pinky of changing sides? He’d switched sides himself, and now apparently he’d switched back again, because he’d accepted a miracle cure from First Murderer himself. He was as guilty as anyone.

Pinky said, “Logistics, actually.” He waved the notebook as if he were bidding on a picture at Christie’s.

Julian said, “Oh my word! What sort of logistics?”

“Mm, the usual stuff. You know, Captain. You’d probably have set it up better than I did, you with your military experience. We can’t afford to have the Liberator wasting time shuffling around on the roads any more, can we? Can’t afford to have him waste mana doing cures in jolly ditches, either.” Pinky sighed to indicate the labor involved. “We move him from one node to the next as fast as possible. That means rabbits, sometimes relays of rabbits. It means having one camp set up before we tear the last one down, and then moving it ahead to be set up for next day. It means getting all the sick to the right place at the right time. It means transportation for the halt and the lame, so they don’t slow us down too much. It keeps us busy.” Pinky beamed modestly, displaying his eyelids again.

Pinky, in short, was all ready to take over the Free and run them as he had run Olympus. The Pinkneys of this world—or any other world, for that matter—gravitated naturally to the bridge. Did Exeter have any say in this? Did he even know who was doing what in his name anymore, or was he so intoxicated on mana that he had lost touch with his own revolution?

Why should the prospect worry Julian Smedley? He had wanted to nip the entire Liberator fandangle in the bud, but his narrow escape from death had changed his spots. Now he wasn’t sure what he wanted, except that he felt an unreasoned resentment at the thought of slippery Pinky Pinkney taking over the whole shebang.

“Us? Who’s us?”

“There are quite a few of us helping out,” Pinky agreed. “The Chases are here and the Coreys.”

Goodness! That sounded like a lot of wedded bliss all of a sudden. “Have you seen any sign of Mrs. McKay?”

“She was at Olympus when we left.”

“Don’t forget the Newtons, darling,” Hannah said without a blush.

Damn!
The last person Julian wanted to meet now was Ursula.

“Ah, the Newtons!” Pinky said blandly. He opened his book and found a page. “Yes, the Newtons are currently with advance party two. They ought to be in Lappinvale by now, getting everything shipshape for tomorrow. Dawn departure: We shall move the Liberator over the pass in one day. That is the plan. Have to wait a couple of days for the supporting cast to catch up, of course. He will have plenty to keep him occupied in Lappinvale.”

It was a good job Julian’s stomach was already empty. “I take it you now support Exeter as the Liberator?”

“Oh, he’s doing splendidly, splendidly! The mana’s just pouring in. The flu was a godsend, of course.”

“Now, now, darling!” Hannah murmured. “You know the Liberator doesn’t like you saying that.”

Pinky chuckled. “Well, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, what?”

Some winds were iller than others. “Well, it’s such fun to see you,” Julian said. “But I mustn’t keep you from your important duties. If you need a fourth for bridge anytime, just shout. Cheerio!”

He stalked off in search of food.

Hypocrite! He had been projecting his own sense of guilt onto Pinky. Healing influenza was a morally acceptable source of mana, but Exeter had begun by martyring his own bodyguard, and that was definitely not on. The martyrdom mana had been diluted by the influx of influenza mana. So what? Julian Smedley had accepted his life back, knowing where the miracle had come from. Actually, he’d had no choice at the time, but he wasn’t planning to cut his throat now, so he was just as guilty as if he had agreed in advance. When the root is evil, the plant is evil. Wear gloves, Lady Macbeth, and no one will notice the bloodstains.

He went by a makeshift log table where three husky butchers were hacking a carcase into pieces. Small wonder the Liberator’s cause was popular if he was giving
meat
to all who asked for it! At the next, two men and two women were chopping vegetables. One of the women was vaguely familiar—quite good-looking in a horsey sort of way…. As if his stare had alerted her, she looked up and their eyes met. It was Alice Prescott.

They met halfway and embraced like long-lost lovers. A trio of passing youths whooped in approval.

Then they stood back to inspect each other, holding hands, both a little breathless and flushed and abashed at having made such un-English scene in public. She was weather-beaten and faintly bedraggled, indistinguishable from any young woman of the Vales. At school, Julian had been rather awed by Exeter’s cousin—older, mature, worldly. Two years ago, he had kissed her, but only once and then only to distract her attention from something else. Perhaps he should consider making a habit of it.

She laughed. “I like your beard better than Edward’s, I think. And your hand? It’s growing back! That’s wonderful!”

“You haven’t changed a bit!”

“Crikey, it’s only been two years! How are you?”

“I’m splendid, thanks to Edward. And you?” He looked down at the work-ravaged fingers he was holding. “Scullery maid? Is that the best job he can find for you?”

She cocked her head and looked at him inquiringly. “It’s not unworthy! I can’t speak the language, so my qualifications are limited. I look after babies sometimes, help load and unload the wagons. Don’t worry about me, Julian! I’m having the time of my life.”

Was she? Her eyes were steady; he couldn’t tell if she was lying.

“That’s good. But I’m starving!”

“So am I! Let’s eat and talk.” She urged him in the direction of the queue. Side by side, they walked over the frosty scrub. “You went back to Olympus?”

“It’s in pretty bad disarray, I’m afraid.”

“Pinky told us,” Alice said offhandedly.

“Pinky! How does your cousin feel about that lot being here?”

Again she gave him an appraising look. “He welcomes anyone. Why shouldn’t he?”

“Because Pinky will try to take over the whole show, if I know Pinky.”

Alice looked away. “I don’t think anyone is going to take anything away from Edward now, Julian.”

“Good. How is he?”

They joined the end of the line, edged forward as it moved. They were speaking English, so no one could eavesdrop! yet she took a moment to answer, and then she spoke softly.