"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."
45
"I THINK YOU'RE CRAZY!” ALICE SAID ANGRILY. “IT WON'T JUST BE Boche bullets you'll have to avoid. All those hundreds of boys who knew you at Fallow are all out there now, subalterns, mostly. It will only take one: ‘By Jove! That fellow looks just like that cricketer chappie, Exeter. I say! Wasn't he the one who murdered old Bagpipe Bodgley?’ And then, my lad, you'll be in the—"
"You're nagging,” Edward said.
They were in Ye Olde English Tea Shoppe in Vicarsdown. The village was bigger than he remembered, he said, and she had retorted that it would still fit inside Piccadilly Circus, which was not true. But the tea shoppe was an authentic Elizabethan building and delightful, although it must have had some other purpose originally, because authentic Elizabethans had drunk ale, not tea. It was tiny, cramped, and rather dark—pleasantly cool. They were drinking tea. They were eating homemade scones spread with strawberry jam and cream thick as butter. It was too precious a moment to waste quarreling.
Edward's eyes were cold as a winter sea. “Furthermore, those hundreds of boys are not all out there now. Half of them are dead. And you persist in treating me as your baby brother, which I'm not, anymore."
She lifted her cup. “Yes, you are. You always were my baby brother to me, and you always will be. When we're both a hundred years old, with long white beards, you will still be my baby brother.” She took a sip of tea, watching to see if he would accept the olive branch.
"I don't think I'll like you in a long white beard,” he said reflectively. “Promise me you'll dye it?"
She laid down the cup and reached across for his hand. “I promise I shall stop thinking of you as a baby brother if you'll tell me about Ysian."
"What about her? I didn't take advantage of her. I hope that doesn't surprise you."
"Not in the slightest.” She knew it would surprise most people, though. “Did you love her?"
He pulled his hand away and began heaping cream on a scone like a navvy loading a wheelbarrow. “I've told you everything. She's a very determined young woman—I have rather a weakness for those, you know. She was sixteen and I was a stranger. She fell for me like a ton of bricks, naturally. It wasn't me, just the charisma."
"You haven't answered the question."
"No, I didn't love her."
"What happened to her? When did you last see her?"
"About a year ago. Mrs. Murgatroyd took her on as cook, at Olympus. She's a good cook, although of course she knew only Lemodian recipes."
Romance cracked and shattered into fragments. “But not educated? Just a native wench? Not good enough?"
He stared at her in disbelief, face flaming cruelly red. His knife clattered down on the china plate.
"Oh, Edward, I'm sorry!” she said quickly. “That was abominable of me! I'm sure you behaved like a perfect gentleman. Oh, I mean—"
"I was a stranger,” he said in a very quiet, tight voice. “Strangers never die, except from boredom or violence. I know I don't look any older than I did when I left here. Ysian is eighteen or nineteen now, I suppose. Ten years from now she will be twenty-nine, and ten years after that, thirty-nine. Had I stayed on Nextdoor, I would still be much the same as I am now. Why do you think the Service sends people Home on leave—especially bachelors? One reason is that they have to marry other strangers! Love between stranger and native is unthinkable. It leads to unbearable heartache. It leads to ... to abominations. The Chamber—Never mind."
"I hadn't thought of that. I'm sorry. You didn't let yourself fall in love with her, you mean?"
He went back to destroying scones. “I did not tell her I loved her. I never gave her any encouragement whatsoever. I used you as an excuse, actually. Hope you don't mind. Had I been free to react to Ysian like a normal man, I'd have thrown my heart at her feet and rent my garments and piled ashes on my head and writhed in the dirt until she promised to marry me. That wasn't possible, so nothing was possible. Just friends."