Jones scratched his beard. “Normally, of course, the Home Secretary's sacred weekend would never be disturbed by anything as petty as willful homicide. But I'm afraid times are not normal. The Cabinet is in almost continuous session because of the crisis. On a weekend? Incredible! On August Bank Holiday weekend in particular? Epochal! It may take a little time for Whitehall to catch up on routine matters, you realize?"
Leatherdale had not even thought of that. What the damned Frogs and Huns and Wops got up to on the Continent was their business, and he hoped His Majesty's Government would keep the country out of it. Let them all kill one another off, as far as he was concerned. But he realized that this snotty French master had made a good point. If Bodgley continued to behave like an idiot, then London might not crack the whip over him as fast as it normally would.
"I expect you're right, sir. Now—"
"If you had evidence of an intruder, you would not have come here today!"
"I really am not at liberty to comment further, sir."
Why was the schoolmaster smirking?
"Are you familiar with our burglary, Inspector?"
"Your burglary, Mr. Jones?"
"At Whitsun there was a burglary—here, in Tudor House. Any criminal who attempts a break-in where there are a hundred sets of young lungs available to sound the alarm is excessively rash, wouldn't you say, Inspector? Besides, what could there be worth stealing beyond the odd illicit packet of Gold Flake?"
Behind the spectacles, Jones's eyes were gleaming bright.
Leatherdale felt a hint of uneasiness. “I fail to see how this is relevant, sir.” A break-in at Fallow would not have been reported to Greyfriars—wrong county.
Jones showed his teeth in a snarl of frustration. “Perhaps not. Yet the coincidence ... I believe—” His smile vanished as if a new idea had struck him. He sprang to his feet with surprising agility. “Inspector, where is Exeter now?” he demanded shrilly.
"Albert Memorial Hospital in Greyfriars."
"Under guard, Inspector? You said no charges had been laid, but you do have someone there to guard him, don't you?"
7
STILL THINKING CRAZY OLD MAN! ELEAL SINGER LIMPED OUT through the city gate. How could she possibly be in danger? Why should death seek her out?
Here in the open, the wind blew like an avalanche. She pulled her hat down firmly and wished she did not keep thinking about avalanches. The low sun shone on a scene of hubbub and bustle. Traders were erecting stalls; ranchers were arriving with herds of llamas, brought down from Narshslope for sale. In the distance stood the ominous, ice-cloaked peaks of Narshwall. From them the land descended in bare hills and grassy ridges to the plain of Narshflat. Narshwater was the color of dirty milk, its banks still bearing grubby remnants of winter ice floes among the reeds.
A wide space of muddy grass separated the river from the city. Here the mammoths were kept during the summer and fall, when the pass was open. Here the farmers and herders came to trade. Most cities would hold festivals and games on a common like this, although Eleal doubted that the dour folk of Narsh were capable of appreciating either, any more than they appreciated theater.
Soon she was clear of the market and could see the mammoths, a dozen great gray-brown mountains with tusks. They would step over the puny rail fence around them with no trouble, so it must be intended more to keep people out than mammoths in. Mammoths were bigger and stronger than anything, and their little eyes gleamed with intelligence. As she hurried through slower-moving knots of people, one of the bulls curled up his trunk and trumpeted. She decided to take that as a welcome.
But the crowds! She had never seen so many people here before, milling around the rickety flight of steps where the travelers paid their fares and mounted. She scanned the group urgently. If everyone she could see was hoping to leave today, then there would simply not be room! A dozen mammoths and ten or twelve passengers per howdah meant ... meant ... well, not enough seats to empty the meadow, certainly. Where was the troupe? Loading had not yet begun, so they could not have left yet, but where were they?
Not everyone was there because of the mammoths, though. A troop of men drilled with pikes, another squad practiced archery. She also noticed a camp of three or four tents and a small herd of dragons. They were too far off for her to be sure, but that was probably T'lin Dragontrader's outfit. T'lin was her special friend. He trekked around the Vales with his herd, so she often ran into him, but this year she had not seen him since winter, in Jurgland. It was a pity she would not have time to speak with him before the mammoths left, because she had information for him.
The first mammoth was plodding over to the steps to load. The old mahout astride its neck looked like a doll, he was so high. There was still no sign of the rest of the troupe. Eleal began to feel seriously worried. Had they waited for her at the temple? Had they sent someone back to the hostel to look for her?
The seven hundredth Festival of Tion was attracting a far larger attendance than usual. All about her, people were making weepy farewells, issuing instructions and warnings. A surprising number were priests and monks, their colored gowns peeking out from under drab llama fleece robes added for warmth. Some were merchants, accompanied by bearers to carry their wares and even by armed guards. Others were athletes, large young men heading for the festival, receiving last-minute instructions from the fathers or uncles or friends who had trained them. She noted the usual cripples and invalids and blind people, going to seek a miracle. The remainder, men and women, could be assumed to be just pilgrims.
She squirmed through the crowd, hampered by her pack and her limp.
"Eleal!"
She spun around with a gasp of relief. It was Uthiam Piper—all alone, and without her pack. Uthiam was Ambria's daughter. She was eighteen, and the most beautiful actor: her looks, her voice, her grace. At the moment she looked cold as ice in her woolen robe, but she was still beautiful—and so welcome!
"You little chump! Where did you get to?"
"Oh...” Eleal said airily. “I went to pray to Kirb'l.” Then she realized that she hadn't. “Where is everyone? What's keeping them? So many people—"
"And more to come! The temple is packed."
"But the festival starts on Thighday!” And this was Ankleday! “If we don't—"
"The portents were bad!"
"Huh?"
Uthiam's face was grave. She bent to whisper, for the crowd had closed in around them. “Trong Impresario offered a white cockerel as usual. When the priests went to read its entrails, they discovered that it had no liver."
That was ridiculous! How could a cockerel not have a liver? What a terrible omen! Eleal's vision of a journey over Rilepass today suddenly dimmed. The goddess must be very displeased about something.
"So what is happening?"
"We have to wait until the priests have dealt with all the others. We shall have to offer a greater sacrifice."
The look on Uthiam's face gave Eleal cold shivers. “You don't mean..."
"Oh, no! At least, I don't think so.” She obviously wasn't sure, though. “The priests suggested a dragon foal."
Eleal gasped. “Ambria will have a foaming fit!” A dragon foal would cost more money than the troupe would take in in weeks. This was going to be a very expensive day. Hard times for the troupe meant thin eating.
Uthiam smiled. “But they'll probably settle for an alpaca."
Old Ambria was still going to have a fit. Even an alpaca would cost several nights’ take, especially the take in tightfisted Narsh, but the big woman would bridle her tongue for fear of upsetting the goddess further.