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.