"Perhaps. Or there may be an arcane meaning. Other references suggest that the Liberator is something other than a normal man."
"Are you trying to blackmail me?"
Golbfish looked around in horror, momentarily speechless. Even worse than the suggestion itself was the realization that a fortnight ago he probably would have been thinking that way. “You? When I owe you my life?"
His companion smiled again. “Sorry! I must have been consorting with that blackguard brother of yours too much. You don't really owe me anything, you know—but carry on."
"Nothing! I wish I hadn't mentioned it."
"Have you discussed this with anyone else?"
"No, sir! Sir ... you can trust me!” Golbfish was suddenly seized with a need to weep. Why had he ever blabbed all this out?
"You are implying that I am something other than a mortal man?"
"I think you have powers that others do not."
D'ward said, “Damn!” and studied his toes.
"Are you a god?” Golbfish asked nervously.
"I'm definitely human. I am probably the man mentioned in the Testament, though. Shrewd of you to work that out.” He sighed. “I don't know if I shall ever be the Liberator. I have no ambitions to be any sort of liberator. I just want to go home! Will you keep this to yourself, please?"
"Of course. I swear it."
Obviously D'ward did not want to talk about the prophecies, which was a pity, because Golbfish did. The Filoby Testament never mentioned Nagland, so he had never paid much heed to it. It did mention a prince. About half the Vales were monarchies, so there must be many princes around, but he and Tarion were certainly the only princes available at the moment.
The blue eyes were smiling again, and D'ward unrolled, stretching his bony form out on the grass. “I trust you! So let me ask you something. The day I arrived in Sonalby, I saw a family murdered by a mob."
Golbfish shuddered. “Led by Karzon's priests? It happened all over the vale."
"Because they were heretics?"
"Yes. We didn't have very many in Nagland, but the Man decreed that they must be stamped out."
D'ward raised his head and frowned at the troops in the water. “I think we'll have company in a moment. The Church of the Undivided? Tell me about that."
"It's a new faith,” Golbfish said hastily, racking his brains for the little he knew about it. “Where it started, or when, I don't know. It's fairly widespread in Randorland. It may be cropping up in other vales too—I have no idea. It preaches a new god, a single god. That sounds like Visek, but it isn't. All gods are the Five and the Five are the Parent, you know? But this god is none of them. His followers claim that he is the only true god, and all the others are..."
"Yes?"
"Demons,” Golbfish said reluctantly. It was a heresy almost too foul to repeat. Why in the world was D'ward interested in that obscure sect of deluded fanatics?
"Has he a name, do you know, this new god?"
"Apparently not.” Vague memories of drunken dinner conversation stirred. “If he has, it is too holy to be spoken. And his followers do not pray to him directly."
D'ward grunted. “This is very interesting! What are his teachings, his commands to the faithful?"
"I really don't know, sir! I wish I could be of more help! They wear a gold earring in the left ear."
D'ward turned his head and stared. “Even the men? And only one ear?"
"Apparently."
"Peculiar! That must make them very conspicuous. It will be dangerous, if they are being persecuted. Or is that the whole idea?” he added thoughtfully.
"Perhaps not all of them do,” Golbfish suggested. He had always taken the gods for granted. Philosophy was interesting, but religion he had left to the priests.
"Perhaps not,” D'ward agreed. He sat up as a mob of wet warriors emerged from the lake, eager to greet their former friend, now elevated to giddily high rank. “One last question. Quickly! If I wanted to find this church, where should I look?"
"Randorvale, I suppose,” Golbfish said. “But we're going the wrong way."
23
"WHITE TABLECLOTHS!” EDWARD SAID IN A TONE OF WONDER. “SILver cutlery! Civilization!"
Outside the dining car window, the Thames valley rushed by in a blur of hedgerows and hamlets, evening sun on woodlands and church spires. Even in the mere ten years of Alice's experience, rural England had changed, although much less than the cities, where the inrush of motor vehicles and power lines was more visible. Out here the plodding horses still hauled mountainous hay wagons, but lorries and omnibuses were proliferating on the country lanes. Tradition was a personal thing, she supposed. The landscapes Constable had painted had long since been blighted by railway lines and then telegraph wires.
The carriage swayed in hurried rhythm. Clickety-click, said the wheels, clickety-click, clickety-click...
"I think I'll try the Scotch broth,” she said. “How long since you saw tablecloths?"
"Ages. We had them at Olympus, but I didn't stay there very long."
He had been attempting to turn the conversation away from his adventures, inquiring about her life in wartime London. She kept steering him back to Nextdoor. Even then, he would obviously rather talk about Olympus than relate his experiences as a warlord. She was curious to know why. Either he had something to be very proud of and was being typically modest about it, or he had done something shameful. Which?
Was he concerned that she would think he had gone native? Julian and Ginger had both been shocked by the little they had heard, although neither had said so. In their view, the code of the English sahib did not include self-mutilation and spear-throwing. Having spent much of her childhood playing in the dust of an Embu compound, Alice had few such prejudices. As far as she could see, Edward had had no choice. Marooned on another world, he could hardly have appealed to the British Consul.
"The lamb may be safest,” she said. “Railway food is not what it was before the war. Tarion sounds like an interesting character."
Edward snorted. “He has charm, when he bothers to use it. He's a superb athlete and tough as an anvil. That about sums up his good points, I'd say."
"How about his bad points?"
"Please! That would take all night. I swear the man has not one trace of morals or ethics or scruples. Nothing is beneath him, absolutely nothing!"
"He tried to bribe you, I suppose?"
Edward looked up from the menu again and rolled his eyes. “Dozens of times. You can't imagine some of the offers he made me!"
Alice thought she could, but she knew he would not mention them in the presence of a lady.
She wondered just what it would take to bribe her idealistic cousin into doing something he felt was wrong. The Imperial Crown Jewels, perhaps, as a start? Edward had no family responsibilities; he was young enough to have few needs beyond his daily bread. He had been taught to believe that honesty and willingness to work would suffice to carry him through life. Vast estates would just seem a burden to him, and his education had armored him against depravity. He probably still took a cold bath every morning. He would be true to King and Country, decency and fair play—and seek nothing else. His education had been designed to turn out incorruptible administrators, the men who ran the Empire. Even Edward Exeter might slip in a year or two, when idealism faded in the light of experience, but at the moment he was as close to incorruptible as any mortal could be. The Tarion man must have been very puzzled by the response to his offers.
Where Tarion had failed, how could Alice Prescott succeed?