Future Indefinite by Dave Duncan Read Free Book Online Page A

very unusual report. The new boy had scored a stunning success. It was too bad that he had done so by flaunting his personal miracle cure, and there would be whispers about that. Shag ’em! The alternative had been martyrdom, and the Service did not demand that of its agents. He had not used the trapdoor like Pedro Garcia. He had turned certain disaster to pure triumph. He had even outscored Jumbo Watson.
    There was Kinulusim’s cottage now, on the outskirts of Losby, flanked by his storage shed and the paddock. There were two rabbits in the paddock.
    “Someone has come,” Purlopat’r squeaked.
    The someone would be from Olympus, almost certainly, and Julian’s first thought was that now he had an audience to brag to. His second was that of course a fellow didn’t brag, and his third was perverse annoyance that whoever it was would get the story in spades from Purlopat’r and Kinulusim. Dammit! He wanted to slip his miracle into his written report without comment, not make a great shemozzle out of it.
    Their approach had been observed. The man heading out to meet them was short and stocky, wearing brown breeches and tunic—Joalian garments that were well suited to riding but which at once made Julian acutely conscious of his own absurd Randorian draperies. In a moment he identified the newcomer and his mana fizz flared close to anger.
    Alistair Mainwaring was a plumpish, brown-haired man of indeterminate age. His English bore a faint Highland brogue that showed up even when he spoke Joalian and quite strongly in Randorian. He was one of the most effective missionaries the Service possessed, known around Olympus as Doc and to the natives as Saint Doc, although his degree was in anthropology, not medicine. He was also head of the Randorian section, thus Julian’s boss, and a sanctimonious twit. Had he come all this way just to check on his most-junior assistant’s progress?
    They met, and Julian raised his gloves overhead to make the circle—thereby demonstrating that he had no fears of unfriendly onlookers and had the district under control. The other three copied him instantly. Kinulusim and Purlopat’r would be much impressed to have two holy apostles honoring Losby at the same time. The old spice merchant would also be frantic with curiosity to know why.
    Disturbingly, Doc looked about fifty. Strangers’ apparent ages were defined by their current mood, and the fatigue of the journey alone should not be so evident. He was also grimy and windswept, so he must have just arrived. He spoke curtly. “Blessings upon you, brothers, and greetings, Saint Kaptaan.”
    “Your Holiness is most welcome at my humble abode.” Kinulusim rubbed his hands eagerly. “May we hope to be honored with your company for an extended period?” He would expect to prolong the greetings with flowery phrases for at least ten minutes, but Doc was clearly in no mood to soft-soap the natives.
    “Possibly—that will indeed be a pleasure—but it is likely that Saint Kaptaan will have to leave very soon. I need a quick word with him.”
    Failing to hide his affront at this summary dismissal, Kinulusim assured the honored apostle that of course he understood and would at once see about preparations for refreshments, and so on. He stumped angrily off along the road, accompanied by the titanic woodcutter, who peered back in juvenile curiosity at the guests.
    Alistair sank down on the grass with a weary sigh. “How did it go, old man?” He looked as if he expected a string of excuses.
    Still tipsy on mana, Julian felt absolutely no need to sit and was quite certain he had nothing to excuse. “Not bad.”
    “I hear there have been peelers seen in the area—no trouble, I hope?”
    “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
    Doc dismissed the matter with a shrug. “I’ve got some queer news. Your chum Exeter is reported to be on the loose up in Joalvale, marching up and down telling everyone he’s the Liberator of the Filoby Testament