Nobody could move, or the crowd would have been dancing. As it was, they all kept bellowing their lungs out. The news spread: The sacrifice would be made. The plague would end.
The man's eyes came down to Dosh with no surprise or sudden recognition. It was as if he had known all along who Dosh was and that he was right there.
"Bring her and follow me,” he growled.
Then he hoisted D'ward effortlessly onto his shoulder and plowed off through the crowd, parting it like tall grass.
Still unconscious, D'ward dangled head down in a sandwich between the man in green and Dosh, who clung tightly to the man's heavy leather sword belt and let himself be dragged. He was barely supporting himself, sagging under Ysian's weight. As the crush began to slacken, he crumpled to his knees. Ysian broke free and tumbled. The big man turned and hoisted each of them in turn upright. His strength was ... superhuman?
Who was he? Better not to wonder ... but he probably was ... Who else could he be? Why?
"Hang on!” the man commanded, leading the way again.
Dosh was certainly not about to disobey, lest hard experience prove his suspicions correct, and of course Ysian would not let D'ward out of her sight. The crowd was dispersing in jubilation, flowing out along the streets from the temple, cheering and singing. Dosh clung to the man's belt, towing Ysian by the hand. Gradually the mob thinned. South, east, two more blocks south ... the man (the Man?) knew exactly where he was heading.
He turned into a dark opening. “Stairs!” he growled, and headed down them into blackness. Dosh and Ysian descended warily, fumbling at the rough stone wall for guidance. They descended three sides of a square well, into a littered and putrid-smelling hall. A door creaked open, and they followed their guide into a dim crypt, full of people.
The air was heavy with a multitude of scents: the dank rot of the chamber itself and its sweating walls overlain by odors of candles; bodies and unwashed bedding, herbs, and strongly spiced cooking—especially cooking. They brought back a rush of memories that stunned Dosh. He recoiled, cannoning into Ysian.
Men were scrambling to their feet, women hastily covering their heads, small children scampering to the comfort of mothers. There were easily thirty people in that dingy cellar, barely visible in the faint light of a few high ventilation slits. The men crowded forward—stocky men wearing tatters that seemed ready to fall apart, men with golden hair and beards. Their eyes were pale in the gloom, shining like their knives.
As soon as they had formed a cordon between their families and the visitors, they halted, deferring to an elderly man in the background. He stood amid a litter of bedding, bundles, and broken furniture. He was spare, silver haired, and dignified. He alone wore a rich robe, amid this ragged rabble. He bowed stiffly.
"You do us honor, noble Warrior."
It was a tongue Dosh had not heard in a score of years. The lump in his throat was already agony, and it seemed to swell at the sound of those words.
"Call off your panthers, Birfair Spokesman!” the man in green answered in the same speech.
The old man barked a single word. The other men reluctantly sheathed their knives. Their pale eyes moved to inspect Dosh. He knew he was in grave, grave danger now. He edged closer to the big man. The Tinkerfolk were granting him respect, although they obviously did not think he was who Dosh thought he was, or they would all be flat on their faces.
Whoever he was, he slid D'ward loosely to the floor. “This is the one I told you of. He is resting. I suggest the women bleach his hair before he awakens. It will save argument."
The old man smiled and bowed again.
"The others—” The big man gestured to indicate Dosh and Ysian. “That one is a woman. The other is one of your own. Take them also, if you will."
Birfair rubbed his hands. “At the same price, noble Warrior?"
A snort. “Very well. For the woman.” The big man tossed a pouch to him. It struck the floor with a loud clank. “See she is not molested—she may be important. The man can pay his own way."
"Certainly, if he is one of ours, as you said.” The old man's poxy, palsied face was more apparent now, as Dosh's eyes adjusted to the dark. “He is a diseased whelp of a degenerate sow, spawned in a cesspool."
"I shall rip out your stinking guts and thrust them down your throat with your feet,” Dosh retorted. It was only a language test. His accent was rusty.
Karzon shrugged. “How touching to restore a lost son to the loving bosom of his people! I want all three of them out of the city as fast as possible. I don't care how you arrange it. After that, your brother can work for his gruel. He may have some skills you can use, if you're not too fussy. The other two will need your charity."
"The noble warrior has already provided most generously."
"And I expect value! When my muddle-headed young friend awakens, explain to him that he must stay away from Lympus."
"Lympus,” the old man repeated.
"Yes. A place. It is being watched and will not be safe for him to approach for a long time."
"We shall obey."
"You'd better!” The man in green turned to the door.
It closed in Dosh's face as Dosh dived after him. Mysteriously, the door was now locked. It had probably been locked earlier, which would explain why the Tinkerfolk had been taken by surprise.
He spun around to get his back against it, knife in hand. Three young men were moving in on him already, coming cautiously but steadily, eyes and teeth shining. Birfair had made no promises about him. He had gold, a tunic of fine cut, and a valuable sword he did not know how to use. He also had his life. Whether he would be allowed to keep that would depend on how much he charged for the others.
VIII
Endgame
47
LUNCH HAD BEEN BAD ENOUGH, BECAUSE EVERYONE HAD WANTED TO talk about the war news—rumors were floating around Greyfriars that Passchendaele had fallen—but whenever anyone had mentioned it, someone else had changed the subject. Mustn't upset our hero in case he starts weeping!
That had been bad enough, but after Alice and Exeter departed on the bikes, Smedley found himself alone with Ginger Jones and Mrs. Bodgley, the three of them fighting their way through conversational swamps—nothing safe to take a stand on, nothing safe to talk about.
He went outside to try gardening, not that he could do much good. Black Dog really hounded him then. His hand hurt. His leg throbbed. He thought of challenging Ginger to a game of one-handed croquet, and that brought on visions of one-handed golf, one-handed grouse shooting, one-handed cricket, and one-handed loving ... as if he would ever find a gal interested in a cripple. One-handed car driving?
He went for a walk, but it did no good.
He came back to the Dower House, flopped down on one of the garden benches, and wondered why he had ever been crazy enough to let himself become involved in Exeter's affairs and how he was going to extricate himself. There was no decent alternative in sight, either, just the family mausoleum in Chichester. The last meeting with the guv'nor had ended in both of them yelling and Julian sobbing at the same time. Thousands of aunts. Sunday was his birthday....
"Cut it out!” said a voice.
He whipped his head around and saw that Ginger Jones was sitting in a deck chair under a tree. He had a newspaper spread over his chest, as if he had been napping under it and just pulled it down.
"Beg pardon?"
The old man's glasses flashed in the sun. “You were never a moper, Julian Smedley. Don't be one now!"
"I'm not moping.” Smedley turned away.