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24

They are no gods, they are imposters! All that lets them act like gods is that fools worship them. I tell you that they are mere enchanters, fakes, evil people masquerading in the guise of gods . . ."

D'ward was nearing the end of his evening sermon, building to the usual climax where he would promise to bring death to Death and invite his listeners to join the Free and follow him.

Dosh had heard it all before. "Time to take up your stations, sisters and brothers!" His helpers looked around in surprise, some of them seeming to start out of a trance. Then they scrambled to their feet and moved off in pairs.

The Free had come to Niolvale. The sun was setting behind the ragged summits of Niolwall, painting the sky in lurid reds and orange, turning the leafless trees into arabesques of shadow and silhouetting the tall figure of the Liberator. He stood on one dominant rock with a thousand people huddled together on the grass below him, all spellbound. As he so often did, he had chosen a curious place to camp, a boulder-strewn slope. There was a much better site half a mile away, a level meadow alongside a river. Perhaps he had thought the noise of the water would drown out his preaching or that he would be less visible there.

As soon as he finished, Dosh's helpers would start moving through the throng, taking up the collection. Dosh had selected them all with care and always sent them out in pairs to keep watch on each other. He believed that nine tenths of the money the pilgrims contributed was being turned in as it should be. Set a thief to catch a thief! Tonight's take should be better than usual, for a large part of the congregation were newcomers, Niolians who had heard of this latter-day legend and wanted to see him with their own eyes.

Yes, the crowd had grown during the day. Just from where he stood, Dosh could tell that it was also becoming more varied. The ragtag poor were still there in droves—the old, the crippled, the penniless, women with too many babies, convicts snatched from the Rinoovale mines—but he could see sturdy, healthy farmers. He could see artisans and merchants from the city, escorting plump, well-dressed wives. Some had come by carriage or on rabbits. Mingled among them, of course, were the weird. Always the weird: the lost, the dreamers, the lonely, the failures, unworldly intellectuals, fanatics. Especially fanatics. At least ten members of the Free claimed to be reformed reapers who had been sent to collect the Liberator's soul for Zath but had changed their minds when they came into his presence. In Dosh's view those were the weirdest of the lot.

Or perhaps the Niolian soldiers were. Of the troop that had so dramatically failed to stop the Free entering Rinoovale, almost half had then enlisted in it themselves. Most of them were more fanatic than anyone, even the Warband. At least the Warband mostly demonstrated its loyalty with actions, not floods of words, while the Niolian deserters went around all day babbling their wonderful new vision of life and the universe to anyone who would listen. They seemed to have a need to justify their change of allegiance to every mortal in the Vales. Or were they just trying to convince themselves?

Most interesting at the moment was a nearby dozen or so men and women wearing the gold earring of the Church of the Undivided. They were taking a risk in flaunting their allegiance here in Niolland, but perhaps they felt safe within this multitude of heretics. Huddled in a circle on the grass, they were arguing in fierce whispers, and Dosh could guess why—the Liberator had his own brand of heresy. His theology was not Undivided orthodoxy. It was still all heresy to Dosh, though. He was D'ward's friend and a senior helper, but he was not a believer, and if D'ward chose to change his dodge and start touting Gramma Oriilee's homemade herbal impotence potion, that would be all the same to Dosh.

"Now you have heard!" the Liberator proclaimed. "You have heard the truth, you have heard the call. Now is the moment when you must decide . . ."

This was the finale. Many of the listeners would hurry home now, but some would adhere. More followers would need more to eat, and that also was Dosh's responsibility. It was a sign of the Liberator's continuing success that Dosh now needed assistants, and the Warband was run off its feet trying to keep so large a throng organized. Prat'han had begun enlisting locals to help with the crowd control. Niolvale was large and heavily populated; the numbers could only continue to grow in the next few days.

Unless the queen intervened. Monarchs did not approve of mass gatherings raised by anyone but themselves. The court in Niol must be hearing tales of invasion and uprising, which it could never tolerate, and D'ward had not only spurned Elvanife's warrant, he had subverted half her army. No official welcoming party had graced the mouth of Thadrilpass this morning as the Liberator led his band into Niolvale. There had been no phalanx of warriors, either. Possibly the military had learned its lesson, but more likely it just needed time to muster larger forces.

The sharp swords shall drink, spilling blood into the sands. Young men leave their bones where the Liberator has passed.

Who needed the dread forecasts of the Filoby Testament to know that trouble must be brewing? Think of the gods and the priesthood] So far they had ignored this rampant heresy, but he was preaching rank blasphemy not a dozen miles from the temple of Visek, greatest deity of all the Vales.

The sermon ended as the Liberator touched his hands together overhead in the benediction of the Undivided. The crowd sighed like the sound of wind in a distant forest.

Dosh's bagmen moved in. He watched to make sure that they were following the drill D'ward had stipulated—no entreaties, no harassment. Just hold out the bags and keep smiling. If asked, explain that the money goes only to feed the pilgrims. Above all, give thanks for every coin, no matter how small. If offered only rags or scraps of food, accept them as gratefully. Strange man, D'ward!

The Liberator departed, heading for his tent within a group of the Warband. The congregation was rising to its feet, stretching, muttering incredulously at what it had heard. Dosh was about to scramble up on a rock to gain a better view of his collectors, when he saw Prat'ban approaching, towering over heads.

He waited.

"What're you grinning at?" he demanded.

"You. You're smiling."

Dosh was disconcerted. "What's unusual about that?"

"Lots. You never used to."

"Well, I'm planning to run off with the loot tonight." He felt himself grin as widely as the big lout. "You think I'm lying?"

"Not seriously." The big man leaned on his shield and glanced around. He lowered his voice. "The Liberator wants you to meet him at the pulpit rock when Trumb rises."

An odd thrill of surprise. "Why?"

"He didn't say. Just you, so far as I know. Said to leave the purse with one of us." Prat'han glanced down narrowly at Dosh; his mouth twisted. "I wouldn't get my hopes up too high if I were you."

Dosh pulled back an angry retort as he noted the twinkle in Prat'ban's eye and recognized that the mockery held no real intent to hurt. Even stranger, his own face returned the grin. "A man can dream, can't he?"

Prat'han laughed and jabbed a friendly punch at his shoulder, then turned and stalked away. Fornicating porcupines! Where had that big ox learned sympathy for others' problems? Or had Prat'han developed a sense of humor? The Liberator had certainly taught him a thing or two.

And Dosh also, perhaps. What did he want with him tonight?

 

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