When they reached their destination, Edward could feel virtuality from the node, but the shrine seemed to be on the edges of it. He was now fairly confident that a shrine, unlike a temple, would contain no resident numen. This one was only a shabby—and smelly—leather tent enclosing an altar and a carved image of a young woman in armor. The figure was about half life size and surprisingly well made; he wondered if it had been looted from somewhere, sometime. If there was no numen present he was probably in no danger from Astina or any of her vassals.
But directly adjacent stood the temple of Krobidirkin the Herder, an aspect of Karzon. He was a definite threat. Kalmak Carpenter's auto-da-fé had been organized by priests of the Man, and the timing was too slick to be a coincidence. Either Karzon or Zath had guessed that the Liberator would seek out the Service, and might suspect he was in Nagvale. Edward had a strong hunch that a stranger would be able to detect the presence of another on his own node.
Yet he could think of no way to avoid the ordeal his classmates had planned for him. Merit marks were awards, a source of pride, recognition from his peers. His newfound brethren cheerfully inked lines on his ribs for him to cut along. They provided the stone knife; they offered the salt he had to rub in to stop the bleeding and create a lasting scar. Then they watched critically to see how he would perform. It was a sacrifice to the goddess, of course. It was a demonstration of his manhood. It was a damnable risk, because he was a stranger. The mana that should flow to Olfaan might stick to him and be detected by Krobidirkin Karzon, or he might be drained of the little he had collected that afternoon, or ... or all sorts of things.
But he had no choice, so he cut and rubbed and shook away the tears before they could smudge the paint on his face. He felt nothing except anger and extreme pain. The first touch of the salt was the worst shock he could remember. The second time his hand shook so much that he cut too deep and the salt hurt even more. But nothing miraculous occurred. He was probably too exhausted and too intoxicated by the rotten beer to notice mana now.
His brothers carried him back shoulder-high to the barracks and cheerfully informed him that it was his turn to be cook.
Still, he had found a home and without it he might well have been facing starvation or execution. A few weeks to polish his skill with the language and he could hope to set off in search of the Service somewhere else.
If the Service was still worth finding, that was.
The only Service personnel he ever met always died very quickly.
13
"THERE'S A HORSE TROUGH!” GINGER WAS BRAKING. “HE CAN GET a drink there."
Smedley had admitted to feeling thirsty. Mostly he was feeling very foolish, and everyone kept pestering him, asking if he was all right. The gash on his calf was not serious. He did not think he had lost very much blood, he had just lost it rather quickly. They had bandaged his leg with strips of blanket, but he was respectable again, keeping it stretched out along the seat. He was all right now, just thirsty.
The car came to a halt alongside the trough. Where else could one find anything to drink at two o'clock in the morning? Windows overlooked it; Jones turned off the engine, which shuddered into silence broken by irritated tickings.
"Damn!” Alice said. “We don't have anything to drink out of."
"I can walk!” Smedley protested. “Really, you're all making a frightful fuss about nothing."
Exeter opened the door and climbed out. Smedley moved to follow.
Humiliation! “Where did my shoes go?"
Alice tied the laces for him.
He shook off Exeter's helping hand and limped over to the water pipe, feeling nothing worse than a little shakiness. He bent his head to the stream, he drank and drank. That definitely helped. The sky was streaked with silvery clouds, the moon playing peekaboo. Moonlight showed the black blood all over his clothes. Exeter joined him, bundled up in the greatcoat. Even the greatcoat had blood on it. By the time they returned to the car, Jones had brought one of the oil lamps and was inspecting the interior.
It looked like a slaughterhouse.
"I hate to ask this,” Exeter said, “but whose car is it?"
"It's stolen!” Alice said quickly.
He yowled like a hyena.
"Quiet, ninny!” she snapped, looking at the cottages flanking the road.
"Seriously, whose is it?"
"Don't worry about it. How much farther, Mr. Jones?"
"Oh, we're about halfway, almost at Chatham. Once we cross the Medway, we could get off the A2."
"What do you think, General Smedley?” Alice asked.
"Backroads'll be slower. I'd say keep on making a run for it."
"I won't argue,” Jones said. He sounded very weary. “On irregular French verbs, yes. On strategy, no. Where do we go in London? Your flat, Miss Prescott, I assume?"
"Why don't we drop our jailbirds off there, then you and I go and return the car?"
He grunted agreement and took the lamp away. In a few moments he turned the crank and the engine caught at once. It had not done its worrisome coughing for some time. The car pulled smoothly away from the curb and resumed its journey.
Smedley had arranged himself along the back seat again, with the other two fitted in around him. He was starting to feel quite hopeful. True, they might yet blunder into a police blockade at any minute. The coppers could react very quickly at times, but would they in this case? Officially Exeter was just a shell-shocked soldier with amnesia. To reclassify him as an escaped German spy would require some explanations. The news of his disappearance must be in Whitehall by now, but at this time of night who was going to waken whom to do what or find which file where?
Whose car was it anyway? Alice had been reticent yesterday. Today she seemed even more determined that they not know.
"So I needn't have worried at all!” she said brightly. “Here I thought the Devil himself had carried you off bodily to hell, and all the time you were running around with a spear, stealing cattle?"
"It wasn't hell,” Edward admitted, sounding as if he was smothering a yawn. “Actually it was almost fun. They were a likable bunch in their way. A different sort of college."
"But what did you do all day? Throw spears and rustle cattle?"
"No rustling at all. As for what we did ... Well we all began by jumping in the river, except the day's cook, who made breakfast. Then we divided up in pairs and painted each other's faces. After that we went to work, usually."
Incredible! Smedley shuddered to think what his father would say about the Exeter family if he ever heard this confession. The fellow had gone completely native, it seemed—scars and war paint and all. This Nagland story was quite unlike the hints he'd dropped earlier about Olympus, where people had houseboys and dressed for dinner.
"What sort of work?” Alice asked. “Silversmithing, you said?"
"All sorts of work.” Exeter chuckled, not sounding at all ashamed of himself. “Nobody worked very hard or very long, but we all had some sort of morning job. In the afternoon, we usually knocked off to go fishing or spear-throwing. Sports, exercise. We taught the juniors, the seniors taught us. In the evening we sat around and made weapons, gambled, or just talked about girls. None of us knew anything about them, of course."
"How long did you stay there?” Smedley asked, trying not to sound disapproving.
"Much longer than I intended. I soon learned that Kalmak Carpenter had been martyred because he was involved with a new sect, the Church of the Undivided. I could guess that the Service was behind it—the only way to break the tyranny of the Pentatheon would be to start a completely new religion, so that made sense. But the persecution had not been restricted to Sonalby; it had happened all over Nagland. The order had come from Karzon, but no doubt Zath was behind it, so I was probably the immediate cause. I was not very happy when I thought of all the innocent people who had died because of me.