Future Indefinite by Dave Duncan Read Free Book Online

standing not a mile away. In her avatar of Olfaan, she was patron goddess of soldiers. If a Joalian trooper was sworn to any deity, it should be Astina, but Ø was the symbol of Eltiana, the Lady. The label was so inconspicuous that the cult must be a very secret one. The Lady was goddess of such things as passion, motherhood, and agriculture. None of her aspects was especially threatening, so far as he could recall; a few of them demanded ritual prostitution from their worshippers, but Dosh had no quarrel with that.
    He patted the dead man’s cheek. “You rascal! You’re a spy—or even an assassin, perhaps? I misjudged you!” But the evidence was clear—the Lady was after D’ward and could be assumed not to have his best interests at heart.
    He rose and surveyed the carnage. Moments ago those two had been rich and powerful, and he a lowly flunky. Now they were dead while he was still alive. Such is life. Situations change, though—having slain a prominent citizen and a soldier, poor Dosh would soon be as dead as they were if he lingered long in Joalvale. All he would have left to look forward to would be a prolonged and very public death.
    Besides, whatever D’ward was doing in Joalvale, the lunatic ought to be warned of Eltiana’s concern. It would be an hour or two before anyone thought to interrupt the master at his business. That was long enough for him to get well out of town. Amused by a sudden inspiration, he took the time to undress Bandrops’s corpse also—that should confuse the issue a little.
    Investigating the secret compartment in the desk, Dosh found a bulky purse he estimated must hold fifty or sixty stars. Unfortunately the jewelry he had seen there on earlier inspections was absent. He considered the possibility of running back upstairs to collect Amorgush’s, but concluded reluctantly that the old cow might be awake by now. Hanging the bag on his belt, he headed for the door. Jilvenby lay to the northeast, near Joalwall. A fast moa ought to make that in a day, and despite his earlier disclaimers, he was now extremely skilled at handling Swift.
    He was skilled at many things.

5
    The sun hung low over the snowy peaks of Randorwall as Julian Smedley headed back to Losby through a green jigsaw of paddy fields and orchards, divided by winding hedges of bloodfruit bushes. Here and there between the trees, he could see small groups of the faithful making their way homeward. Randorvale was very lush, vaguely reminiscent of the south of France if one did not look too closely at the vegetation or question what mountains those were.
    His stump ached fiercely—the finger stubs were already visibly longer than they had been this morning—but all in all he felt as if his feet were barely touching the ground. His dander was still up, a fizz of mana. The old spice merchant trudged along at his right in triumphant silence, while on his left, young Purlopat’r ambled with gigantic strides that would not have shamed a moa, prattling shrilly about the glorious miracle the One had vouchsafed his believers.
    It had been quite a good show, actually. Before setting out from Olympus three days ago, Julian had equipped himself with two dozen gold earrings for converts he might bring into the fold during his two-fortnight circuit. He had thought he was being grossly optimistic, but he had used up eighteen of them already. Eighteen in one day was certainly a Service record—he had heard of Pinky Pinkney managing twelve. Seventeen of the troopers, including Captain Groud’rart himself, had also clamored to join the church on the spot, but the rales required them to take a course of instruction first. Some of them would change their minds, of course, but some would not. To have believers within the royal army could be a tremendous advantage for the Undivided, perhaps leading to infiltration of the Randorian government itself. When Julian Smedley returned to Olympus and submitted the usual report, it was going to be a