The natives spoke a version of Randorian, which was pretty much a dialect of Thargian. They would have their own names for the Cam River and Kilimanjaro and the Matterhorn. They probably did not call the tyika settlement Olympus. Edward wondered what they did call it.
The strangers spoke English among themselves. They sprinkled it with Thargian words—or even Joalian—but by and large their English would have been understood on Regent Street. Yet they always referred to themselves as tyikank. Odd, that. Why not use the English equivalent, “masters"?
They had a childish fondness for nicknames. Rawlinson was known as Prof, and he seemed to cultivate a dry, academic style. Edward was still “Exeter” to the men, “Mr. Exeter” to the women. Once his status and duties became established, he would probably pick up some informal title of his own. He already suspected it would be “Tinker.” His identity as the Liberator was officially a secret, for if the Chamber ever learned where he was, then even Olympus itself might not be safe for him.
"You know mana exists, Exeter!” Prof lowered his voice and leaned closer. “They say you've actually met two of the Pentatheon?"
Edward nodded and emptied his glass. He had not yet learned the levers and switches in Olympus; he did not know who was supposed to know what. The Filoby Testament strongly hinted that there were traitors here, in the very heart of the Service. For all he knew, Rawlinson could be one of them.
"Well, you must know that they can work miracles! They draw their power from their worshippers’ adoration and sacrifices."
Edward had been expecting questions about his own experience with mana, so Rawlinson evidently knew less than he thought he did. As for his “explanations,” they were slick enough, but they left an aftertaste of bam-boozlement. The words did not really mean anything.
"Mostly on nodes? How does that fit your picture, Prof? I can see the nodes being portals, but why do they increase the flow of mana?"
"Temperature."
"Temperature?"
"Not real temperature, but something like temperature. After all, if another world is especially close just there, then there could be a leakage of something across the gap. You must have sensed that feeling of awe we call ‘virtuality'? Imagine the nodes as being in some way hot and the rest of the world as cooler. Now suppose the shield effect is dependent on this ‘temperature.’ Sensitive to heat, or whatever the force is. That would explain why the stranger absorbs the mana best on a node and why his worshippers’ sacrifices are more potent there."
More mumbo jumbo, and yet it did have a sort of logic to it.
"What's the limit?” Edward asked. “Telepathy and prophecy—how far does it go?” He knew it could kill.
"A long way. Healing, certainly. And prophecy, as you well know. Legends tell of earthquakes and thunderbolts. Earthly myths do the same. It goes all the way to magic. Miracle, if you prefer.” Rawlinson flashed his boyish smile and laughed. He was starting to display the results of the gin. “I have no science to give you, old chap! All I can do is draw pictures."
"They fit the facts,” Edward agreed politely. He was becoming a little fizzy, too, and a long evening loomed ahead. He did believe in miracles. He had worked one himself.
Rawlinson peered around angrily at the door. “Where in the world has my wife got to, do you suppose? Carrot!"
Edward had a few more questions about keys—who had invented them and who ever dared test a new one—but his host suddenly changed the subject.
"Oh, by the way?"
"Yes?"
"The others'll be here shortly.... You hired a houseboy, I understand."
"Jumbo's cook recommended him. A grandson or nephew or something, I expect."
Rawlinson coughed. “Yes. Well, my wife was going by your place this afternoon and saw him. She suggested I drop you a quiet hint."
"I'd appreciate any help you can give me,” Edward said, having trouble not adding, “sir,” to every sentence. He felt as if he were back at Fallow and had been called into the Head's office. Consciously or unconsciously, Rawlinson was radiating mana at him now.
The manservant glided in, to wait expectantly near the tyika's chair.
Rawlinson did not seem to notice him. “Well, it's just this, old man. We don't encourage the Carrots to run around like savages, you know. That's all very well down in their own wallow, but up here we try to teach them more civilized ways."
Back in the baking heat of the afternoon, young Dommi had scrubbed every floor in the bungalow and most of the walls as well. He'd been working like a horse and sweating like a pig. Shiny shoes and white uniform?
"I'll have a word with him."
"And do see he cuts his hair, old man. Shipshape and Bristol fashion, what?"
Dommi's hair hung down his back like a flag of burnished copper. He was very proud of it.
"It seems clean enough,” Edward protested.
Rawlinson pulled a disapproving face. “They look much better with it short. More civilized. You mustn't let them get away with a thing, or you'll never get any work out of them at all. Bone lazy, the lot of them."
Edward had suggested Dommi take the evening off and go courting his beloved Ayetha. The youngster had been shocked. The tyika's house was not yet completely cleaned up. There were still many dishes to unpack and wash. There were the tyika's clothes to iron, and food to be fetched and prepared, and the garden must be dug over. His father would be horrified if he took time off while there was work waiting to be done.
Dommi was pathetically anxious to please.
"So far he had shown no signs of laziness at all! He works like a ... He works very hard."
"Just you wait!” Rawlinson said. “As soon as he's saved up a few shillings he'll buy himself a wife and that'll be the last you'll see of any work out of him.” He frowned up at the waiting Carrot. “What's the Entyika doing, d'you know?"
"She is supervising the cooks, Tyika."
Rawlinson grunted angrily. “Remind her we have a guest here, will you?” He waved the man away. “Bone lazy,” he repeated, “the whole lot of ‘em."
8
"INCREDIBLE!” STRINGER MUTTERED. HE COUGHED, STUBBING OUT a cigarette. His bulging eyes were red from the bite of the smoke that filled the little office.
Smedley's mind was spinning. Incredible did not do justice! And yet no one who knew Exeter would ever doubt his word. He spoke always with a quiet deliberation that compelled belief. Lying would be beneath him, even if his life depended on it. He had always been like that.
"These magical places?” the surgeon demanded. “There was one in Flanders?"
"Must have been,” Exeter agreed hoarsely. “There may have been a church there before the war or a cemetery."
"And another in the hospital in Greyfriars?"
"Er, no, sir."
"So someone rescued you and took you elsewhere?"
Exeter set his jaw. After a moment he said, “No names, no pack drill, sir."
Stringer let his annoyance show. Then he glanced at his watch. “By Jove! I must be gone. Dining with some bigwigs tonight! Well, it's a fascinating tale! Wish I had time to hear more of it.” His arrogant gaze settled a frown on Smedley, as if he did not belong there. “This meeting has gone on too long anyway. I think you should wriggle out unobtrusively now, Captain. Don't want anyone prefiguring your association with the escaped prisoner, do we?"
He was making sure the two of them had no chance for a private word. But that did not matter. The plan he had been told was not the one Exeter would learn from the note inside his shirt. And already Smedley was drawing up Plan Three in his mind. Other worlds!