Future Indefinite (Round Three of The Great Game) Read online

  Julian liked Randorians, who were mostly simple peasants, working the land in the ways of their ancestors. Their dialect was more tuneful than those of vales closer to Tharg, whose harsh, guttural tongue seemed to have infected all their neighbors. They were taller than most Valians and laughed a lot when they were not engaged in solemn activities like worship, and they had wonderful folk music.

  Having been allowed to choose between Randorvale, Thovale, Narshvale, and Lappinvale for his missionary work, Julian had selected Randorvale and proceeded to specialize in its dialect. He was happy with his choice, perhaps because most of the natives had faces a tone darker than his. Preaching to them, he could almost convince himself that he was back Home, in some remote colony of the Empire, enlightening the heathen, bearing the White Man's Burden. With people the same pale pink he was, he would lose that illusion. Then he might wonder about historical accidents, the possibility that some flip of a divine coin might have gone otherwise and resulted in Narshians and Randorians saving souls in England—a discomfiting thought.

  Like most of the Service, he had little faith in souls anyway. He did not promote the Church of the Undivided for theological reasons, but because it was the only possible way to undermine the tyranny of the Pentatheon. Only when the Five had been overthrown would the Vales ever progress to true civilization. It was the worldly lot of the natives he sought to promote, just as the European powers bettered the economies of their colonies. Here in Randorvale, Julian Smedley would preach with a clear conscience, doing what he did for the good of the natives, the lesser breeds without the law.

  Already he could feel mana flowing. As the spice merchant worked up to his thunderous peroration, his listeners’ veneration for the Undivided god was becoming infectious, magnified by the virtuality of the node like organ music reverberating in a church.

  Purlopat'r had been silent for thirty or forty seconds. The strain must have become unbearable, for again his whisper came from somewhere above Julian's head. “Was it not most wonderful what miracle the most holy Saint Djumbo performed in Flaxby two fortnights ago?"

  Julian craned his neck. “I don't think I heard about that. Flaxby, in Lappinvale? What happened?"

  The boy's eyes widened. “It was a mighty miracle, Holiness! The laws in Lappinland now proclaim that all the faithful are to be rounded up and punished most barbarously."

  "Yes, I know. That, too, is the work of the demons. But what about Saint Djumbo?"

  "A magistrate sought to arrest him, Holiness! He had two soldiers with him, and he accosted the holy apostle as he was leaving a prayer meeting like this one. But Saint Djumbo called upon him to repent and instructed him, and lo! the magistrate and his companions fell upon their knees and heard the word of the True Gospel. Then all present departed in peace, singing the praises of the Undivided!"

  The devil they did! “Saint Djumbo has true modesty, brother. He has never reported this to us, and I thank you for bringing it to my attention."

  Purlopat'r beamed. He was no more pleased than Julian was, although Julian interpreted the story differently. Obviously Jumbo had used his stranger's charisma—and perhaps a shot of mana as well, because even for Jumbo, those three together would have been a tough egg to crack. He had not abandoned his flock, a bloody sight better performance than Pedro's craven desertion! But to hear of persecution in Lappinland was bad news. The Pentatheon's pogrom against the Undivided heresy had begun in Thargland half a year ago, then spread to Tholand and Marshland. Today Kinulusim had reported troopers in the vicinity. Had the poison now reached Randorvale, too?

  Ah, the old windbag had run out of steam at last. He wiped his hairy face with a corner of his wrappings and drew breath.

  "We are most blessed today, brothers and sisters! Come among us to honor us is one who can speak to you with true authority. I am but a humble merchant, no better than any of you, perhaps worse than some. Most of you have known me all your lives. How can this man have wisdom of holy things? you ask, and you are right to ask. But now I give you one of the blessed apostles themselves, one chosen by him whose name may never be uttered, chosen to lead the rest of us into righteousness and save us from damnation. He is already one of the saved. He can speak to you with authority. He can teach you holy matters with the voice of perfect truth. Brothers and sisters, hearken unto the words of the most holy Saint Kaptaan.” He raised his hands overhead to form the circle. Then he stepped down from the pulpit rock.

  Julian straightened his shoulders, confirmed that his long sleeves hung straight, and walked out from behind his tree. As he came into the worshippers’ view, he felt the rush of mana like a tingle of electricity, a surge of exaltation. He sprang up on the stone and smiled benevolently at all the earnest faces.

  This was always the moment when he wondered what his father would say if he could see him now—bearded, dolled up in a long robe like an illustration from a children's Bible, a Moses from Hyde Park Corner. Actually, he had a fair idea what his father would say. Sergeant-Major Gillespie of His Majesty's Royal Artillery would be even more explicit. What of himself? What did he say? Did he really want to spend the next few centuries like a horoscope huckster, touting nostrums and panaceas like a monkey up a stick?

  No time for doubts; he was here to do good. He raised his arms briefly to make the circle. The congregation bowed their heads for that blessing, so the chances of his maimed hand being noticed were slight. He had already settled on sermon six, but before he got into that, he would have to correct Kinulusim's minor theological error.

  Standard opening first: “Brothers and sisters in the true faith! To be here with you all today gives me wondrous pleasure and a great sense of humility. The first time I visited Seven Stones, there were only three of you.... “He droned his way through that, and yet his stump was already aching by the time he had done.

  Then to Kinulusim's slip. He slowed down, wrestling his thoughts into singsong Randorian. “Our virtuous brother Kinulusim spoke well, revealing many great truths to you. Carry them with you in your hearts when you leave this place. He is a worthy servant of the Undivided. In his humility, he may have given you the impression that I am in some way more worthy than he is. Do not let his modesty deceive you into believing so. I am one of the apostles, yes, but this does not make me any better than Kinulusim—or any of you—in the eyes of God. The Undivided chose me to bear his word to the world, but not because of any great virtue of mine. I am a sinner, too. I am only a man as Kinulusim is.” And so on.

  Having spread that little fiction, he began the sermon. He had rehearsed it many times and the dialect came readily. Number six was his favorite, straight plagiarism of the Sermon on the Mount. The Service's synthetic theology always made him feel hypocritical, but the ethics were fine. He had believed in these ethics all his life.

  Blessed are the poor.... Blessed are the meek.... It worked. Of course it worked! Fascinated bright eyes stared at him out of brown faces.

  Soon the mana was pouring in. His stump burned as if it were dangling in molten lead. He could feel the fingers of his right hand, which had rotted away in the Belgian mud, back in 1917. At least the pain reminded him to keep his arms at his sides. He need not draw his audience's attention to the fact that he wore gloves, and hopefully few of them would notice or guess why. There was nothing in doctrine to say that apostles must be perfect human specimens, although in practice their steady diet of mana kept them ageless and healthy. He would not create theological paradoxes if he displayed his mutilation. He would if he cured it.

  Many of these worshippers had seen him before, and he hoped most of them would see him again in future. A visible miracle of regeneration would not fit the Service's definition of sainthood. If such a miracle became known, Julian Smedley would be promoted in the eyes of the people into a supersaint or even acquire godhood, and the Service was very much on guard against that. It had lost too many missionaries to the opposition already, most recently the mealy-mouthed Doris Fletcher, who was now the
divine Oris, avatar of Eltiana and patron goddess of the newfangled art of printing.

  He was hitting his stride. “Murdering chickens in a temple will not save you from the wrath of the Undivided, brothers and sisters! He does not judge you by what you sacrifice to the demons but rather by every moment of your daily lives. Virtue and kindness are the offerings he demands of you...."

  It was hackneyed stuff to a man raised as a Christian, but to many of his listeners it must be startlingly new and unexpected. They had been brought up to respect the rich and powerful, not to pity them. The Pentatheon did not teach compassion or humility. The Five demanded only obedience, for that brought them mana.

  "Not great temples!” Julian thundered. He liked this bit. “Pouring your alms into stones and gilt does not honor the Undivided! Rather use that money to feed a starving child or ease the lot of a cripple. This is the road you must take to find your place among the stars...."

  That was pure bunkum, but for centuries the Pentatheon had bribed their victims with a promise that the obedient would dwell evermore amid the constellations. To remain competitive, the One True God must offer nothing less, and it had seemed safer to adopt the local faith than invent a new afterlife. Potential converts might hesitate to accept an unfamiliar heaven.

  The words drifted, away through the steamy glade; sweat streamed down Julian's face. Then a flicker of movement caught his eye. And another. In the patchy shade at the out skirts of the wood, sunlight glinted on metal. All around the grove, soldiers were moving in, pushing their way through the shrubbery. They held naked swords in their hands.

  Oh damnation!

  His audience was waiting, puzzled by his sudden silence. He had lost his place. Where in Hades had he got to? He smiled comfortingly at his frightened flock and jumped a few mental pages to be certain he did not repeat himself. Meanwhile his mind was racing.

  So was his pulse. He had not felt terror like this since the day a Boche shell had buried him alive.

  He was not Jumbo Watson, who could preach a magistrate and two soldiers to their knees, and there must be thirty armed men out there, maybe more. He was not Pedro Garcia, who had magicked himself out of danger in similar circumstances. Julian Smedley could not save himself with mana, even if he wanted to. Every scrap of mana that came his way went into healing his hand—that was not a conscious decision, it just happened. When he had come to Nextdoor a year and a half ago, his arm had ended at the wrist. Now he had a palm. On his last circuit, it had begun to sprout five stubs. He assumed that one more tour would give him recognizable beginnings of fingers and thumb.

  Wrong! This tour was going to kill him. He was likely to die on the wrong end of a bloody sword unless he could do something dramatic.

  Right. The first thing was to keep control of the meeting. So far the congregation had been too intent on his words to notice the intruders. If they leaped up in panic and tried to flee, they would undoubtedly be hacked down in a bloodbath.

  He stopped preaching. He raised his arms in the sign of the circle.

  "Brothers! Sisters! We are greatly honored. We have visitors. See the noble company of His Majesty's brave soldiers come to join our worship. Nay!” he shouted over the sudden screams. “Do not be afraid!"

  In one simultaneous surge, the worshippers were on their feet. Damn!

  "Stay where you are! Welcome these worthy men; admit them to our fellowship in the name of the True God! Enter, friends!"

  The captain, distinguished by a scarlet plume on his helmet, was emerging from the undergrowth almost at Julian's side. A grizzled boar of a man, in leather and steel, he was showing his teeth in a gloat of triumph at having cornered his prey so easily. “Desist in the king's name!” he bellowed, raising his sword.

  Julian bellowed right back at him. “God save the king!” He turned to his cowering, paralyzed flock again. “God save the king!” he repeated.

  Wily old Kinulusim echoed him at once: “God save the king!"

  "Long live His Majesty!"

  This time the response was stronger. “Long live His Majesty!” The congregation had huddled in around Purlopat'r and his uncle, with the young giant towering head and shoulders over everyone else. All those frightened eyes stared at Julian in mute appeal.

  "Let us pray, brothers and sisters. Let us pray that good King Gudjapate be granted long life and wisdom to reign over his people. Let us pray that he be granted health and prosperity and true counsel, that his beloved queen ... that the noble young prince...” And so on and so on.

  The captain was nonplussed, unwilling to interrupt these patriotic sentiments. His band had come to a halt, all in full view now, a ring of dangerous young men waiting for the word to begin the roughhousing.

  Julian roared on. He prayed that the king might continue to be a beloved father to Randorland. He prayed that the king be saved from the wickedness of evil demons. The faithful would know that he referred to Eltiana, the Lady, patron goddess of the vale, but he was careful not to mention her by name nor any of the other local deities either, not even the Undivided. He gave the captain no excuse to interrupt. Gathering words from the wind, he gradually edged his prayer into a sermon again, and this time he used number three.

  Julian disliked sermon three more than any other of the current year's issue. He had spent little time studying it, because he had not truly believed that he would ever use it. Just to read the words made him feel more than usually hypocritical, although he had known that three would be a good crowd rouser, pure hellfire: The Five promise you an afterlife of bliss among the stars—they lie! The Pentatheon and all their avatars are not gods at all, they are foul demons, who will be destroyed by the One True God at the Day of Judgment, and all who worship them and serve them here will be similarly wiped out. Solid stuff. Solid balderdash! Who could know what happened after death? Certainly not Prof Rawlinson or the other scribblers of the Service who had written the True Gospel. At least they had not designed a god so malicious that he would torment sinners forever. An eternity of black and solitary boredom was the Valian concept of hell, and the Service had been content to stay with that.

  Julian tossed in a little brimstone for good measure.

  What he could not remember, he improvised, ranting and roaring. With one small, unoccupied corner of his mind, he registered that it was working. He was holding his own. Sheep and wolves alike, his listeners were rooted to the spot, intent on the torrent of words. Three cheers for charisma!

  But it was not enough. He could not go on forever. As soon as he stopped, the captain and his men would snap out of their trance and remember their duty.

  He was starting to repeat himself.

  His stump had stopped hurting. He was soaked in nervous sweat, but he was also soaked in mana, loads of it—this was a node, after all, and a powerful one. He could feel mana like crackling static in the air, and he must be spewing it right back at the worshippers so fast that his mutilation had no chance to steal it on the way.

  There was the answer! For the first time since he crossed over to Nextdoor, he was capable of working a little magic. If he were Pedro Garcia he might use the trapdoor, but he was a true-blue Englishman, who would never desert the ship.

  "You ask for proof?” he demanded, although no one had spoken a word. “You want evidence of the powers of the Undivided? Then behold and I shall show you.” He thrust out his arm. “You—Purlopat'r Woodcutter! You have known me for a year now, have you not?"

  The big youth nodded, eyes wide as soup bowls.

  "Then tell your brothers and sisters why I wear a glove!"

  "You have only one hand, Holy One,” Purlopat'r cried out squeakily.

  "Wrong! I did have one hand. My right one was cut off at the wrist, wasn't it? See now what is there!” He ripped off the glove. “My hand is restored to me. My fingers are coming back. Next time I visit you, brothers and sisters, I shall have a hand here as good as the other. This is how the One Who Cannot Be Named rewards those who serve him."
/>   The Service would disapprove thoroughly. The Service would accuse Julian Smedley of promoting superstition, raising false hopes, seeking self-aggrandizement. Under the circumstances, he could not care less what the Service might think. He just wanted to keep on breathing.

  "A holy miracle!” yelled old Kinulusim, falling to his knees.

  "A miracle!” chorused the faithful, copying him. Young Purlopat'r actually prostrated himself full-length, like a falling cedar. Only the soldiers remained standing.

  The captain stood openmouthed and irresolute. Julian swung around to flaunt his maimed—his partially unmaimed—hand at him. He gathered up all that crackling sense of mana and mentally hurled it at the man in desperation. Kneel, damn you! Kneel! It was doubtless a very tiny ray of mana by the standards of the Five or their avatars, but it was enough to overpower one crusty, intractable old veteran. Repent! Repent!

  Slowly, reluctantly, the captain sank down on his knees, and all around the glade, his followers followed his example.

  Jesus!

  "Let us pray!” Julian barked. “Let us give thanks for the evidence of mercy and goodness—"

  He gasped as flames of agony enveloped his hand. Then he caught his breath and plunged ahead. The mana was boiling in now, not just from the already overawed believers, but from another thirty converts also. He had worked a miracle. He was a holy man. The captain was weeping and half his men had thrown away their swords.

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  4

  Amorgush had gone to sleep on Dosh Coachman's arm, but he managed to slide it free without waking her. She rolled over on her side, breathing loudly. He slid out of the bed and wriggled his toes in the thick rug.

  Sunlight streamed in through the windows, gleaming on silk sheets, marble walls, and furniture polished to a glassy luster. Just one of those gold-framed paintings would keep him in luxury for the rest of his days, or possibly get him hanged. Outside, acres of manicured garden swept down to the shores of Joalwater. A small fortune in jewelry lay scattered on the dressing table, making his fingers itch.