Four of them went into the temple, for Dosh was barely capable of standing on his own, let alone going anywhere. He gave the abbot some very snappy orders to look after “his” men, then called on Progyurg Lancer to dismount and help him walk. He hobbled inside with one arm draped over the Thargian's shoulders and the other on D'ward's. Ysian followed.
No one had said she shouldn't.
Her experience with temples was limited. This one was small and dark, no more than a barren stone box, chilly and dusty smelling. It was not nearly as impressive as the temple of Eth'l in Lemod. As the lancer brought the lantern closer, the image of the god emerged from the gloom. Being an aspect of the Youth, Prylis was depicted in the nude, but he held a scroll of learning in a strategic position. Progyurg and D'ward lowered Dosh to his knees.
"Good lad,” Dosh whispered. “Leave the light here."
"Sir!” The lancer departed. He was a nice-looking boy, not much older than Ysian herself, she thought. Not as handsome as D'ward, of course. The door thumped closed behind him.
She knelt and was surprised to see D'ward still standing. He had his arms folded and seemed to be shivering. The temple was cool but not as cold as that.
"Holy Prylis!” Dosh proclaimed. “I have done as you commanded."
Silence.
The flame in the lantern danced. Highlights squirmed on the shiny surface of the statue, but nothing else happened.
"I am the Liberator,” D'ward said. “You summoned me."
More silence.
"Perhaps he's asleep,” D'ward said.
"Gods don't sleep!” Ysian protested.
"I'll bet they do!"
"This is annoying!” D'ward added, but she could tell that he was more angry than that. “I have an army to look after and a war to fight. We must get back before dawn. How do you waken a god, Dosh?"
"Nibble his ear?"
"I'd break my teeth. No better ideas? What's behind that door?"
"A little room with a table. Nothing else. It doesn't go anywhere."
"Prylis!” D'ward shouted. “We've come!"
Even more silence.
"What if you try your ritual? No, I suppose not."
"Definitely not!” Dosh groaned and eased himself down into a sitting position. “Looks like we'll have to wait for morning."
"Damned if I will ... Ah!” D'ward walked over to the door in the corner. He opened it, went in, closed it behind him ... and again there was silence.
After a minute or so, Dosh said, “Go and look for him, Viks'n."
"That's not my name! Only D'ward calls me that!"
"Then, my lady Ysian, will you go and look for him—please?"
She clambered to her feet and walked over to the mysterious door in the corner. Behind it there was only darkness. She went back to Dosh and fetched the lantern. Shadows leaped around the edges of her vision as she carried it. As Dosh had said, there was a little room there, with a table piled high with books. Apart from that, there was nothing at all—no other door, no window, and no D'ward.
Ysian and Dosh waited. After half an hour or so, she realized that she could hardly keep her eyes open and he was unconscious, or at least he could only groan when she tried to rouse him. So she went out and asked the abbot to send some monks in to get Dosh—he should be put to bed and cared for, she explained. She told Ksargirk Captain that he and his men could stand down; she asked the abbot, very politely, if she might have something to eat and a place to sleep. She thought nothing more was going to happen before morning.
VII
Revealed Check
40
SMEDLEY CAME DOWN VERY LATE FOR BREAKFAST. HE HAD A SOUR, sandy feeling behind his eyes, and he had cut himself twice while shaving. Worst of all, the underwear he had rinsed out before going to sleep had not dried completely in the night. He would not be able to hire a valet until the war was over. Of more immediate importance were adequate clothing and some fags.
The great Victorian dining table would have seated at least a dozen. Exeter sat alone at it, poring over a thick book propped amid a field of dirty dishes. He looked up wryly.
"Morning,” Smedley grunted.
"Good morning! Beautiful morning! Lovelier now for your presence, of course."
"Put it where the monkey put the nuts. Any tea in the pot?"
Smirking, Exeter removed the cozy and swished the teapot. He removed the lid and peered inside. He pulled a face. “Lots, but I think someone's been washing boots in it."
"Just what I need!” Smedley sat down.
Exeter poured. “The ladies have gone off to shop and call on the erudite Nathaniel Glossop. There's a couple of congealed eggs there and some petrified bacon. I'll warm it up for you—seems there's laws about not wasting food...."
"Just the tea will do, thank you."
Mercifully Exeter said nothing more for a while. He closed his book and carried it out of the room. When he returned without it, though, he was still infernally cheerful. “Looking up Prylis. Not the one I met."
Smedley ended his contemplation of the heap of soggy toast. “Prylis?"
"Chappie who invented the wooden horse. Didn't take out a patent, though, and Odysseus swiped the idea. Probably spoke much better Greek than the one I met. Sure you don't want eggs and bacon?"
"Quite sure."
"We both need our shirts ironed. I'd try it, except I don't know how."
"Me neither,” Smedley lied. To avert further small talk, he said, “Tell me about Olympus."
Exeter crossed his legs and hugged one knee with both hands. He stared for a moment at Smedley with his impossibly blue eyes.
"Told you, old man. It's very much like a station in the colonies somewhere, an outpost of civilization in the bush. The tyikank and entyikank live in nice houses, the natives are the servants. Like Kenya, India, or all those other places. Main difference is the natives are as white as we are. Redheads, most of them. The tyikank are a mixed bunch, but a lot of them are English originally. Recruited here. Some aren't. A couple are from other worlds altogether. Some of them have been on Nextdoor a deuce of a long time, but the Service itself isn't all that old. The guv'nor was one of the founders."
"But what do they do?"
"Argue. Plan. Squabble. Go out on missionary work.” Exeter continued to study Smedley as if watching his brain cells twitch. His own face was illegible as the Sphinx. “One committee's still working on the True Gospel. Another runs an intelligence branch, tracking what's going on—politically and theosophically both. Anything that may help overthrow the Pentatheon."
That steady gaze was starting to get under Smedley's skin. “You make it sound as if you don't approve."
"Oh, it's a wonderful idea. A worthy cause. The strangers are definitely parasites. Some of them do a little bit of good in passing, like Tion and his festivals. A lot of them are ... well, horrors."
Smedley poured another cup of tanning fluid. “I suppose if you're going to live forever you don't rush at the hedges?” He looked up, and the blue eyes were still boring into him. “If it's such a wonderful idea, why are you being so shifty about it?"
Exeter sighed, put his foot back on the floor, and turned to stare out the window. “It's just not that simple, old man. It's not like Dr. Livingstone and the witch doctors. It's not Saint Eggbeater burning down the druids’ grove. These Johnnies have power! Real power. Start blaspheming in their temples and you're liable to drop dead. Nothing like a public thunderbolt to impress the masses—and then the mana just pours in to replace what's been spent."