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44

THE NEXT TIME HE AWOKE THERE WAS LIGHT BEHIND THE GRATING and birds were creating a damnable racket outside. Dawn. What morning? It had been Heelday when he first came to the monastery. Had it been Ankleday when Ysian came? This must be Shinday at the least. The army was either well out of Thargland by now or all dead. If the gods dispensed justice, though, ex-troopleader Dibber and his bullyboys were just settling in to a long, hard lifetime in the silver mines.

Dosh stretched. He sat up with a jerk. He fingered his ribs and detected only a trace of soreness under the bandages. He pulled down the blanket and looked at his knees. Not a mark. Not one bruise on him. His fingertips went to his face. It was smooth.

He leaned his chin on his arms and pondered. In among the litter of forgotten dreams, he found vague memories of voices in the night. Two men? He was able to raise no details, but he knew who one of them must have been, and could guess at the other. Well! So what about breakfast?

He swung his feet to the floor and saw that someone had been leaving him presents: on the solitary chair lay a brown Thargian tunic, a sword, sandals, a belt pouch with an intriguing jingle. The sword annoyed him, but he knew that Thargian law required freemen to go armed. He had no skill or experience with a sword. His weapon of choice was the concealed knife. He was quite good with that.

He had just finished counting the money—sixteen silver marks—when the door creaked open and a Thargian stalked in. No, it was D'ward, with his face clean shaven and his hair cut short, wearing a tunic and a sword. He even had the mean Thargian scowl—or at least an icy glitter in his eyes. When he saw that Dosh was awake, it thawed a little.

"Sleep well? Feeling better?"

"Did you come calling in the night?"

"Yes."

"With a friend?"

The angry glint returned. "You could call him that. I . . . He paid you for services rendered."

"I'd better go and thank him, I suppose."

"I suppose so too, but don't make an epic of it. Some merchant's just donated a very rare book to the temple, so the god is undoubtedly too engrossed to hear you. We're not wanted in the refectory for the same reason—the abbot's entertaining the wealthy gent, trying to squeeze an endowment out of him to enlarge the scriptorium. There's grub in the kitchens, cold water in the washhouse. You'd better shave off your beard if you want to pass as a local. Prylis removed your scars. I expect you'll want to thank him for that, too." He turned to the door.

Too much too soon! "Wait a minute!" Dosh caught his breath. It sounded as if D'ward was extremely knowledgeable about the workings of the monastery and the habits of the resident deity. What had been happening? "Where are we going?"

D'ward drummed fingers on the door before he looked around. "I know where I'm going. You can please your own sweet self, as far as I care. Pick a direction and start walking. If you want to come with me, we can chat on the way, but I won't loiter. I plan to eat on the hoof."

Dosh bit back a snappy retort and asked, "Any news of the army?"

"Yes."

"Well?" What was gnawing at the Liberator? Dosh had never known him to be crabby before.

"They're safe."

"Safe!?"

"I'll tell you later. Jump to it!" D'ward pulled the door open.

"Wait!"

He looked back with a glare. "Now what?"

Dosh smiled cherubically. "Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful legs?"

D'ward could slam a door even louder than Ysian.

 

Chewing on hard bread and hunks of cheese, three wayfarers strode along the track in the dewy dawn. D'ward was in the middle, setting a murderous pace with his (beautiful) long legs. Despite his considerable handicap in height, Dosh was prepared to take him on at distance sprinting any day, but Ysian was struggling to keep up. To look at, they were a trio of young men, with no packs, one long dagger, two swords, three money pouches. Dosh still had his favorite knife, which didn't show. All in all, Holy Prylis had done them proud.

Apparently the war was over, at least so far as they were concerned. The future shone much brighter without a massacre in it. There seemed no obvious explanation for D'ward's vile mood, unless he was concerned about getting safely out of Thargvale, which certainly might pose problems. By law, strangers were spies unless they could prove otherwise.

"Where are we going?"

"Down to the river," D'ward said. "Thargwater. There I'm going to catch a boat. It's downhill all the way—I should be in Tharg in a couple of hours."

Tharg itself? "And what are we going to do in that city of celebrated boredom and illustrious ugliness?"

D'ward wrinkled his nose. "You please yourself. Ysian and I are going to the Convent of Ursula."

"We are going where?" Ysian screeched.

"Goddess of justice. I have been assured that her convent is a worthy sanctuary, and the sisters will take you in and care for you. I have a letter from the abbot."

Dosh strode along in silence as the ensuing altercation waxed loud and long.

Seemingly D'ward regarded Ysian as a child and felt responsible for her. Some child!—Dosh had known women who had borne two children by her age, but apparently the Liberator had other standards. He had sacked Lemod. One result of that act had been to brand all women remaining within the walls as ruined, harlots beyond all hope of marriage. For that reason, he had allowed Ysian to accompany the flight and guide the fugitives to Moggpass. He had then accepted her word that her family would put her to death for treason if she went home. Dosh suspected that she had been exaggerating there. But D'ward felt responsible, and now he had decided to hand his burden over to the stern nuns of Ursula. In a few years she would be old enough to make up her own mind what to do with her life, he said.

Ysian's rebuttal began quietly, but his stubborn responses soon had her yelling, interrupting the last of the birds' dawn chorus in the branches overhead and scaring the leafeater lizards in the ditches. She was a mature woman, she screamed. She would make her own decisions right now. He would have died in Lemod without her help. He was utterly heartless and she hated him. She loved him more than life itself. The nuns of Ursula were notorious sadists. She would follow him to the corners of the world. She would sleep on his doorsteps forever, anywhere he went, and haunt him for the rest of his life, and she was going to kill herself before nightfall and him soon after.

There was more, but suddenly both she and D'ward collapsed in helpless, hysterical mirth. Dosh was shocked to realize that she had been putting on an act and it had fooled him completely. Admittedly she was on the far side of D'ward, so he had not been watching her, nor listening very closely either. Yet he felt peeved at being fooled. He felt like an outsider in the presence of lovers—which was exactly what he must be. Jealous, my lad? He had never really seen these two together except in very public settings. Observing them now—leaning on each other for support, gasping for breath, tears of laughter streaming over their cheeks—no one could ever doubt that they were hopelessly in love. Ysian knew. D'ward was apparently not ready to admit the obvious.

The nervous release did not last long. Soon he returned to his angry urgency, and the three of them resumed their progress. Abandoning the argument, D'ward turned to Dosh. "Where are you headed?"

"I want to stay with you."

"Why?"

Interesting question! Dosh debated several answers, and then decided to tell the truth, just for once. What was the truth, though? The silence dragged out for half a mile before he found it.

"I want to learn from you. You're different."

D'ward said, "Hmm?" The river was in sight in the distance, a line of trees twisting along the valley floor. "How does it feel?"

"How does what feel?"

"Telling the truth."

"Dangerous. Like being naked in a crowd."

Ysian laughed.

"Have you a trade you can take up?" D'ward said. "Or a skill of some kind?"

"I'm good at massage."

He winced, misunderstanding. "Where are you from? Where was your home?"

Dosh decided to push the experiment in veracity a little farther. "Never had one. My people were Tinkerfolk."

"What are Tinkerfolk?" Apparently the query was serious and he really did not know.

"They're nomads. Wanderers. They mostly live in tents or wagons, although every city has a tinkers' hole somewhere. They do odd jobs, poach, steal. Most people think they're all liars, whores, thieves, and spies."

"What are they really?"

"Spies, thieves, whores, and liars."

The others both laughed at that, which felt good. The road led to a hamlet with a jetty. There were boats there, waiting for hire.

"Listen," the Liberator said, serious again. "You can't come where I'm going. You've got the same problem Ysian has. I'm sorry, but I can't help either of you. I have a potent sort of charm that I can't control and I really can't explain to you, either. You saw how it worked on the army—I began with a spear and ended up as battlemaster. I had five thousand men all wanting me to scratch them behind the ears. Ysian thinks she's in love with me, and so do you. I like both of you, but I can't return the sort of love you want and I am promised to another woman, so I can't help her, either. I'm truly sorry, but that's the way things are. Viks'n, you're better at this local snarl than we are. See if you can hire a boat to take us to Tharg."

"How many?"

"Two."

"Three," said Dosh.

 

Marg'rk Ferryman was not much more than a boy, built of sticks and string as if he had not eaten in several fortnights. His skiff was a smelly, leaky little hulk, and its sail bore innumerable patches. He toadied and groveled for passengers rich enough to pay him a whole silver mark for a half-day's work. He addressed each of them as "Warrior," which was the correct honorific for Thargian freemen. Had he known Ysian was a woman, he would properly have called her "Mother." That said a lot about Thargian values.

Propelled much more by the current than the forlorn breeze, his boat drifted out into Thargwater and headed southward. Marg'rk clutched the tiller with a bony hand, smiling obsequiously whenever anyone looked in his direction. Wide, swift, and smooth, the river oiled through a rich countryside. The banks were ornamented with fish traps and jetties, water mills and multicolored trees. High-horned kudus plodded along towpaths, hauling barges. Cargo boats crawled upstream under the muscle power of slaves. The hills beyond were figured with vineyards and orchards, or fields being plowed and sown. Here and there, grand aristocratic mansions graced the landscape.

Ysian sat amidships, being unusually quiet. Even cropped short so barbarically, her hair shone with red-gold highlights. She was brooding ominously. Dosh suspected the convent would have to survive without a new postulant, whatever D'ward might think.

The Liberator sat beside her, the mast between them, crouching to see under the edge of the sail. He scowled, fidgeted, and squirmed. He had not yet explained why he so urgently wanted to reach Tharg. Impatience was out of character for him.

Dosh sprawled in the bow with his feet in a stinking litter of nets and baskets, pots and bilge. After a while he removed his tunic and leaned back in his breechclout to soak up some spring sunshine. His two companions carefully avoided looking at him. Prudes! He had all the essentials covered. They wouldn't care about anyone else; they just knew he would accept any reasonable offer and were frightened to look in case they were caught window-shopping.

"Warrior D'ward?"

"Yes, Warrior Dosh?" D'ward had developed an intense interest in the reflections of windmills.

Dosh peered past Ysian at the boatman, who leered back nervously and mawkishly. That lout would not understand Joalian. "Are you going to Tharg to bring death to Death, as has been prophesied? And when you have that one stuffed and mounted, will you do Tion too, as a favor for me?"

"That's not why I'm going to Tharg." D'ward straightened his long back, and the sail hid his face.

"You told me our former comrades-in-arms are now safe. You promised to say how."

D'ward sank back into a slouch, and his scowl became visible again. Why was he so edgy? "Prylis told me. The Thargians gave them safe conduct back to Nagvale."

"More miracles? The Thargians did? You're serious?"

"They sent emissaries, a couple of the ephors in person. That alone is unprecedented. Golbfish did the negotiating. He demanded the whole world and they gave it to him: food, hostages, formal oaths sealed with sacrifice. The Thargians will hold back the Lemodians to let the Nagians go by. They groveled, they implored. Anything he wanted."

That ought to be unbelievable or else hilariously funny, and yet D'ward was disconsolate. Obvious question: "Why?"

"Plague," D'ward said, staring blankly at the left bank. "People are dying by the hundreds all over Thargland. They take ill in the night, and they rot for three days and then die. Funeral pyres bejewel the night and sully the sun by day—Prylis's words, not mine."

"Padlopan's the god of sickness, but—"

"This is Zath. The people think it's an epidemic, but Prylis says Zath's called in his reapers from all over the Vales, brought them here into Thargvale, and he's taught them a new form of sacrifice. A reaper death used to be quick. Now it's slow and even more horrible. And they're working overtime."

Zath was an aspect of Karzon, the patron deity. Why would a god destroy his own people? Dosh caught Ysian's eye; she looked away quickly. She was frightened about something.

"Human sacrifice?" he said with disgust. "You're saying that what reapers do is human sacrifice?"

"What else would you call it?"

"I don't know. I just never thought of it that way. Human sacrifice is something done by the savages in the southern jungles or read about in old, old history. Uncivilized. We don't do that anymore!"

"Reapers do," D'ward said grimly. "Zath does."

"I suppose you're right. What has this plague of reapers got to do with—Oh, my god!"

"Not your god, I hope. But you've got the idea. Karzon—or Zath—the distinction seems to be getting blurry . . . One of them has sent a revelation, telling the priests how to turn aside the divine wrath and end the epidemic."

"Deliver the Liberator's head?" Dosh said.

Ysian's face was sickly pale.

D'ward's mouth twisted in a mirthless grin. "That's not what he said. Gods have pride. Everyone knows what the Filoby Testament prophesies about the Liberator and Death, although most people believe that the Liberator is still a year-old baby somewhere in Sussland. For Zath to name the Liberator would be a confession of weakness. He might have named D'ward, but even that would draw attention to the prophecies. He didn't have to name names. He knew I was responsible for the fall of Lemod. He knew I would be acclaimed leader—that was inevitable, although you won't understand why. So the revelation just demanded the leader of the Nagians, no name mentioned."

"That's why the Thargians stopped killing us?"

"That's why. They didn't want to kill me by mistake. The leader of the Nagians must be brought to the temple and sacrificed there. Death in battle will not suffice. The ephors were willing to let the whole Joalian army go—willing to feed them and escort them home, do anything they asked. They demanded only one thing in return."

Dosh rubbed his oddly smooth cheek—no stubble, no scars. "So Golbfish gave himself up?"

D'ward nodded miserably. "He's on his way to Tharg right now. We should arrive about the same time he does."

"He's going to die by mistake?"

"No. Well, a Thargian mistake, but the prince is quite smart enough to have worked this out for himself by now. He must know that he's the wrong man, but his captors don't. He was in command and he has Nagian merit scars on his ribs—that would be enough for them. Zath may guess when he gets a look at him, but a god can hardly back down at that stage. So Golbfish will die, and the plague will end, and meanwhile his men are on their way home already, escorting enough hostages to make sure they get there."

D'ward licked his lips. "It's a good deal from Golbfish's point of view. He dies, but he would likely have died anyway. This way his entire force gets home safely. No honorable leader would refuse such an offer. I'm sure he didn't even argue."

"You don't seem very satisfied by the arrangement."

"Prylis pulled me out of the trap and put in Golbfish instead." D'ward bared his teeth.

"You enjoy being bait?"

D'ward did not deign to answer. For a while nobody spoke. Dosh registered vaguely that the boat was tacking and the river had turned to the west already. The city might be coming into view. He did not look around—he was too busy trying to work out why D'ward should be so upset.

Baffled, he finally asked.

The Liberator looked at him oddly. "What don't you understand?"

"He's going to the temple," Ysian said bitterly, "to give himself up, tell them they got the wrong man!"

"But that would be utterly insane! D'ward . . . ? Really?"

"Aren't you?" she demanded.

"I must, Viks'n." He was looking at Dosh, not at her, and there was a curious appeal in his cerulean eyes, as if he wanted approval or reassurance. "A man's got to have honor. Right, Warrior?"

"No!" Dosh said. "No! No! Not right! What you're planning won't work, and even if it would, I'd still think you're bloody crazy."

 

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