Future Indefinite (6 page)

A cruel wind wailed along the street, inciting dead leaves to ran races, whipping up the rank smell of horses from the stones. It tugged at Eleal’s cloak and tried to snatch her precious load from her arms. It threw dust in her eyes. In this corner of the town the evening’s activities would not normally begin for hours yet, but twilight was coming early under the storm clouds and she must complete her business and be well away before it did. Bending into the gale, she trudged with her uneven gait—
clip-clop, clip-clop-clip
. The wind repeatedly tried to push her off balance or rip the cloth wrapping from the burden she carried.

Jurg was a fine town, her favorite town in all the Vales, but all towns had seamy corners and River Street was seamier than the backside of a patchwork quilt, a fetid alley that made the area near Cherry Blossom House seem dull as a virgin’s diary. She had only ever ventured here before once, and then in broad daylight. The Cherry Blossom whores came regularly, but always around noon, and even then Tigurb’l Tavernkeeper sent bouncers along to protect them. Eleal could have asked a couple of those thicks to escort her this evening, but they would have been more dangerous than the ill-reputed denizens of River Street. They would have demanded to know what she carried wrapped in that rag and then promptly relieved her of it. The brighter ones would also have cut her throat so she couldn’t tattle back to Tigurb’l.

It had cost more than five Joalian stars. If she let it slip, it wouldn’t be worth a copper pig. If she fell and went down on top of it, she might not be, either. The sucker was as tall as a two-year-old child—and
heavy
. The push of the wind was uneven. The cobbles were uneven. Her legs were uneven.
Clip-clop…clip-clop…clip
…

There were few other people around. The town mice had fled the coming dark and the cats had not yet emerged. The one or two men who came hurrying past all looked at her as if they could not believe their eyes—this was no place for a woman alone. She should have borrowed some less pretentious garments, too. Her cloak alone had cost almost half a star, burgundy-colored Narshian llama wool with white goose-fur trim.

But here was her destination. Amid all the shabby tenements, run-down stores, and mysterious anonymous doorways stood a grand pillared entrance, far older than all of them. The original proprietor was still in business, for the portico bore a massive metal hammer, the symbol of Karzon. Usually the holy buildings in a city were clustered close together. Isolated temples like this one were so rare that Eleal knew of no others—it was as if the god who lived here had been spurned by the other gods of the city, as if they would not associate with him. This was the home of Ken’th, avatar of the Man in Jurg.

She dared not pause to catch her breath, although her heart was racing like a cheetah. One more effort to think this project through and her courage would fade like mist. Blinking the wind tears from her eyes, she hurried up the steps, clutching her precious bundle.
Clip-clop, clip-clop
…The old tiled steps showed signs of wear. That amused her, because no one ever admitted to worshipping at the temple of Ken’th. Mother Ylla, that horrible hag, had told her once that only boys and old men did—she had overlooked harlots.

The door stood open. It was a small door for so large a portico, and the interior beyond seemed dark. Again, Eleal felt her nerve waver. Her insides had tied themselves into hard knots; her arms shook so violently that she feared she was about to drop the figurine. That would ruin all her plans! But gods should be approached with humility and reverence, not this burning anger, this vitriolic craving to
get even
. Who ever brought a plea for justice to the Man? Justice was the prerogative of the Maiden, especially her aspect of Irepit, who had once sent one of her nuns to save Eleal from a reaper and must therefore be well disposed toward her. Unfortunately, Astina’s aspect in Jurg was Agroal, goddess of virginity, not at all the right goddess to handle a problem like this—nor one that Eleal Singer would dare to petition, whereas she had a special call on Ken’th.
Get even!
I will be revenged on D’ward! She clenched her teeth and lurched forward into the temple.
Clip! Clop! Clip!

The circular chamber was small for the home of an important god, but that was because Ken’th attracted solitary worshippers, not great congregations. To her intense relief, it was presently inhabited only by a restless wind, which rustled leaves it had brought in as offerings and stirred the draperies covering the walls. High, narrow windows above them shed little light on the gloomy hall. In the center, two oil lamps burned on the low dais, their flames jumping nervously—they could not be half as nervous as she was! Above them stood the figure of the god.

Unlike the Youth, the Man was normally portrayed clothed, but of course this was Ken’th. Lit mainly from below by the lamps, the carving was impossibly priapic. She had been only a child on her previous visit, yet even then she had been confident that the anatomical details were based on wishful thinking. Now she knew that from experience, but she could also tell that the sculptor had been much more skilled than whoever had painted the pornographic murals in the upper rooms of Cherry Blossom House. The musculature was superb. The set of Ken’th’s hands on his hips and the tip of his head demonstrated male arrogance beautifully—man the irresistible. The face bore an expression at once sensuous, demanding, and callous. She thought of her mother, wondering if she had come here of her own free will, or if the god had sought her out somewhere else.

Eleal limped closer. She should kneel, she supposed, and yet she felt strangely reluctant to do so. Her heart was fighting to escape, a terrified bird in a bony cage.

A curtain swished open, revealing a dark little room behind. She jumped, almost dropping the figurine. A man strode out silently on bare feet—a priest, of course, although he did not look like a priest. Male servants of other deities wore long robes, and most shaved their scalps and faces. Being Ken’th’s and on duty, this one had only a green wrap tied around his loins. His hair hung to his shoulders, his beard merged with the fur mat on his chest. He was tall and well-built, an exemplar of young manhood, but the temple of virility would have many more applicants to choose from than most did.

He came around the plinth and stopped near one of the lamps, regarding her with approval. “You are welcome to this holy place, beloved.”

Eleal clutched the figurine tighter—much tighter and she would break it. “Thank you, father,” she said, and was annoyed to hear the quaver in her voice.

He nodded slightly, eying her burden curiously. “I see you bring a substantial offering. How may I aid you? What mercy do you seek from mighty Ken’th?”

“I wish to speak with the god himself.”

“An elderly husband, perhaps? An embarrassing delay in conceiving?” He would be willing to remedy the matter, with the god’s help and a suitable fee. He might even waive the fee in her case.

“No, father.”

He smiled, unable to conceal his eagerness. “Then too much success in conceiving? You wish the god to withdraw his blessing? This, too, may be arranged, beloved.”

That was why the harlots came. It would be all much the same to him, for although that ritual included some complicated preliminaries to appease the god and ensure the required result, all Ken’th’s rituals included coitus. All that involved women, anyway. What happened with the boys and old men, she did not know and did not want to.

“Not that, either. I wish to speak with the god.”

A flicker of impatience. “Present your offering, make your prayers, and then I shall aid you in the rites.”

“No. I—I wish to meet him in person.”

The man blinked. Then he grinned broadly. “You are ambitious, daughter! Whatever your need, I am authorized to represent the god in the performance of his sacrament.”

Eleal had never met a man who did not think that of himself, and she could recognize the too-familiar eagerness in the priest’s manner. He advanced a step. She backed away. He noticed her limp and frowned.

Unable to think of anything more to say, Eleal pulled the cover from the figurine, a female dancer poised on one toe, about to take flight from its plinth, carved Niolian crystal flashing in the lamplight. Its beauty was heart-stopping. She had spent all afternoon haggling with the dealer, and even then he had emptied her purse to her last twelfthpiece. Surely such an offering would earn the god’s attention?

The priest sucked in his breath. “You bring a rich gift, lady!” he admitted. “It is fitting.” He tore his eyes away from the carving to study her again, noting the quality of her robe. She could almost hear him concluding that a woman who wore such a garment to visit River Street must be out of her mind.

He reached out. “Let me take it for you.”

“No!” She moved it away.

“Then lay it on the dais, carefully.”

“No! I wish to give it to the god in person.
I want Ken’th in the flesh!
”

“You are verging close to blasphemy, daughter!”

His tone annoyed her. He was little older than she was.

“Tell the god that—”

“Give me that carving before you drop it.” He reached out again.

Again she lurched back. Seeing she could not evade him any longer, she turned and hurled the figurine at the feet of the idol. The crash echoed from the stone walls; a hail of diamonds danced across the floor. The priest cried out in horror.

“There!” Eleal shouted. “I have given my offering to the god! Now let him hear my prayer!”

The priest backed away, watching carefully where he put his feet. “You are crazy, woman!” His voice was unsteady. “You commit sacrilege and blasphemy! Begone, lest Holy Ken’th smite you in his wrath!”

“I want Ken’th!” she yelled. “I have words for his ears alone!”

“Go! You are out of your wits, I say. Beware that he does not curse you, so that no man will ever consummate his holy sacrament with you.”

“He is my father!”

The young priest curled his lip in disgust. “One of those, are you? Be thankful to mighty Ken’th for giving you life and do not trouble him further.” Coming around, staying clear of the shining fragments, he grabbed her arm so hard that she cried out.

“I have a special service to offer him!”

“Begone, madwoman!” He began pulling her to the door.

She struggled and clawed at him. He took hold of her other wrist and manhandled her easily, practically carrying her.

It was not working out as she had planned. She had thrown away everything she had ever earned and would have nothing to show for it. She was going to be balked of her revenge. “I want to tell him of the Liberator!”

“I am sure you do. And you doubtless have a few prophecies he should hear also. Pray to him in the privacy of your bedroom, and he will hear.” They had reached the door. “Out with you!—and do not linger in these streets, for the god’s presence here makes men bold. It is no place for a woman alone.”

With that cold warning, the priest threw her out. The door slammed behind her as she sprawled down on the rug.

Rug?
Not a woven rug but a thick alpaca fleece. She raised her head to look into a cheerful log fire, crackling and sputtering in a stone fireplace. She could have sworn that the priest had thrown her outside on the steps. His words had said so. To her left, a leather couch…another couch on her right. She was indoors in a large and comfortable chamber.

She moaned in fear and pushed herself up on her arms. She had sung in the king’s house when she was a child and she gave private recitals now, so she knew how the rich lived. She had seen nothing to better this: floors of polished wood overlain with soft fleeces, walls bearing shelves of books, racks of bows and spears, mounted trophy heads. The furniture was solid, upholstered in browns and russets, subdued and harmonious. Scents of beeswax, leather, and wood smoke hung in the air. Bewildered, she rose to her knees. This was very much a man’s room, a rich man’s den, cozy and friendly and appealing.

She peered around for a door but saw only full-length drapes of umber velvet, which might equally well conceal windows. None was close enough to explain how she came to be where she was. This was certainly not that fusty little cubicle she had glimpsed in the chapel. On the shelf above the fireplace stood two gold candlesticks, a golden vase of autumn flowers—and a carved crystal figurine of a dancer poised to fly. She scrambled to her feet to stare at it. It stood a little higher than eye level, and with candlelight dancing over the shiny facets, she could easily imagine that it was already flying. There could never be two identical and yet she had smashed…

“Thank you. It’s very beautiful.” The voice came from somewhere behind her.

There had been no one there a moment ago. She knew who must have spoken, who must have re-created the dancer. Her prayer had been granted. She spun around and simultaneously sank to her knees, touching her face to the rug, not daring to look upon the god without permission. Her heart thundered in her throat.

The Man was an ambiguous deity. Creator and destroyer, he must be both feared and adored. As D’mit’ri he was the builder of cities; as Krak’th he shook them down. As Padlopan he was sickness; as Garward, Strength. He was husbandry and battle. As Zath he was Death, as Ken’th he quickened the womb to bear new life. As Karzon he was all of them.

Piol Poet had written the Man into his plays many times, but never as Ken’th, although there were many fine legends of the Lover. Most were variations of the tragic tale of Ismathon, the mortal who pined away and eventually slew herself rather than live without his love. The Trong Troupe would never have performed any play with Ken’th in it.

“It is an exceptionally fine piece,” the god said, his voice coming closer. “It cost you dearly, so whatever it is that troubles you must be a serious matter.” Then he chuckled. “Are you comfortable down there?”

She had not expected a god to
chuckle
. “Er…yes, Lord.” She raised her head a fraction and saw two bare feet. A strong hand reached down and raised her. She kept her face lowered until a finger lifted her chin and she met his smile.

Back in her theater days, she had seen Karzon in his various aspects depicted by many actors—Dolm, Trong himself, Golfren, men with other troupes. He was always portrayed with a beard, often in armor, and whenever possible by a large man. Ken’th did not look as she expected at all. He was younger, for one thing, and not especially big, although his arms and shoulders were solid enough. He had curly hair and a Niolian-style mustache. He wore a sleeveless shirt and knee-length breeches—in green, of course. At least the color was right. But there was no sense of divine majesty about him. Nor did she sense any stunning, overwhelming sexuality. He was just a chunky, cheerful young man, handsome in a rugged sort of way, faintly scented with musk and lavender. He was smiling reassuringly. His eyes…perhaps the eyes…

“Why not begin by telling me your name?”

She struggled to find her wits. “Eleal Singer, Lord.”

“Welcome to my house.” He unfastened her cloak, glanced at it approvingly, and tossed it over a couch. He took a step back to look her over. “Mm! You are not only a startlingly beautiful woman, Eleal Singer, but you have exquisite taste in clothes!”

She gasped out her thanks. She had money to indulge her whims now, and this gown was her newest and best, just bought for winter. She had not worn it before—fine white wool, decorated only with big rhinestone buttons down the front and brocade on the collar. She always chose clothes with long skirts to hide her boot; she suspected that the long sleeves and high collar were a reaction to the skimpy things she wore to perform. It was snug around the bodice, though, with a high, tight waist supporting her breasts, and from there it fell full and loose. To have her clothes praised by a god was a heady sensation. She avoided his eye, feeling herself blush.

He led her to a russet leather couch, seating her next to the fire and settling down beside her. She clasped her hands on her knees and stared at them as if she were a fourteen-year-old with her first man.

“And you claim to be my daughter? Who was your mother?”

“Itheria Impresario.” When there was no reaction, she continued. “She disappeared for a fortnight, here in Jurg. I know very little about her. She bore me and then she just died, and I was reared by my grandfather, Trong Impresario, and his wife—his second wife, Ambria. She said my mother hadn’t been a bad woman, she had…” Been seduced by the god, but she couldn’t say that. “Pined away for love?”

Ken’th sighed faintly. “That does happen, I’m afraid. I don’t recall the name. It could have been me. I’m not usually quite that fickle—only a fortnight? But it is possible, I suppose.” He slid an arm around her, making her heart flip.

“You are certainly beautiful enough to be the child of a god. You sing for a living?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Where?”

“Oh, all over the place. I have performed in many of the Vales and at many places here in Jurg.” That was all true. The Trong Troupe had traveled. Tigurb’l often arranged for her to perform in private houses.

“Fascinating!” the god said softly. “And you mentioned the Liberator! Are you the Eleal named in the
Filoby Testament
?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Father?”

“Yes…Father.” She glanced sideways.

He raised dark eyebrows and waited. He was smiling, but his amusement held none of the mockery the priest’s had. He was taking her concern seriously.

Talk…“I did what was prophesied. When the Liberator came, I tended him, washed him. He fell very sick, and I nursed him. I did everything I was supposed to, Father!”

Ken’th frowned. “You know, I find I dislike that title? I have no experience at being a father, Eleal. That’s not my job. For that you need Visek.”

“Of course, Lord!”

“I am god of virility,” he said apologetically. “I do have duties. If I tried to keep track of all the bastards I have fathered in the last few hundred years, I would have no time for anything else. You do understand?”

“Yes, of course, Lord!”

“Call me Ken’th.”

She hesitated, appalled.

“Go on!” he said, teasing. “You wanted me in the flesh. You have me in the flesh, so call me Ken’th!”

“Yes, Ken’th.”

“That’s better.”

For a moment he just smiled at her. She smiled back with mounting confidence. He was handsome, now she saw him close—handsome and attractive. His face did not at all resemble the face on the statue. Not arrogant, not callous, but kind and trustworthy and sympathetic.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen…Ken’th.”

“So when the Liberator came you were only a child. He was not a baby, of course, although the text implied he would be. How old was he?”

“Eighteen, he told me.”

“Lovers?”

“Oh
no
! Of course not!”

The god’s arm tightened around her. “And what did you want to tell me about him?”

This was where matters might become just a trifle delicate. Her heart began to speed up again. “He’s reported to be up in Joalvale.”

“That’s the story that’s going around, yes.”

She drew a few long breaths, as she did just before starting to sing an especially difficult song. “I thought…perhaps…I wondered if you might want to get in touch with him. If you do, I could identify him for you…if you wish….” Of course it was Zath who would be interested in catching the Liberator, but Zath was Karzon and Karzon was Ken’th, although she couldn’t in any way relate this chunky, likable young man to the dread god of death.

“An interesting offer!” the god said thoughtfully. “What is wrong with your leg?”

Normally she was furious if anyone mentioned her impairment, but this was her father, so his interest was excusable. “One’s shorter than the other.” She raised her leg so he could see the thick sole on her boot. “I fell out a window when I was a baby.”

“It does not hinder your ability to perform?”

“Not—Well, yes, of course it does! My ambition has always been to be an actor, but I can’t clump around a stage like this! I would not be allowed to enter the Tion Festival!” There, she had told him!

And Ken’th murmured sympathetically. He understood! “Let’s hear you sing. Sing for me—nothing elaborate, something simple. Something unusual.” He took his arm away and reached over the back of the couch to produce a lute. He strummed expertly; it was in perfect tune. “What’ll it be?”

She had not expected this! To sing for a
god
! She racked her brains. “‘Woeful Maiden’?”

He smiled and played a verse, although it was an obscure song, one that not many people would know. He was much better than Potstit had ever been. “Higher? Lower?”

“No, no, that’s just right!” Daringly, she added, “You play divinely!”

He laughed. “Well, of course!” He began the introduction.

She sang the first verse, but then he stopped and put the lute away.

“Just what I expected. Your voice is reedy, your timing eccentric. You put terrific feeling into the words and get by on drama, but you wouldn’t be admitted to the Tion Festival in a thousand years.”

“Lord! I mean Father…”

He swept her into his arms and squeezed her tightly. He kissed the tip of her nose playfully. “You must be very hot in that dress?”

“I’m your daughter!”

His eyes gleamed in a look she. knew well. “And I’m a god! Gods do not have to obey petty little rules!”

Then he kissed her lips.

It was not an especially long kiss. It did not have to be. When he had done she leaned back and gaped at him. She was limp. No man had ever kissed her like that.

He chuckled with satisfaction. “Now, Eleal Singer, let’s have the truth. Not just what you want to believe is the truth, but the real truth. Where do you sing?”

She clenched her teeth. And her fists. But the god was waiting, regarding her with big brown eyes. “Well, several places. I mean…sometimes…well, Cherry Blossom House.”

“So you are a whore!”

“Certainly not!”

He raised his eyebrows. “My, you are a determined little prickleback, aren’t you? We’ll try some more, then.”

He was firm; he did not hurt her, but her struggles were useless against his strength. His lips pressed on hers, his hand stroked her breast—the dress was down around her waist, although she did not know how that had happened. Tingles rippled through her, from her scalp to her toes. She was melting and struck by lightning, both at the same time. Excitement surged through her in fiery waves. No man had ever taken over her body like this, nothing like this had ever happened to her before, she was floating away in clouds of pink fog—but then he stopped.

“Oh, Ken’th, Ken’th…Darling…” She reached down to remove the dress completely.

He took her hands between his and clasped them. “The real truth now!”

She heard her own voice from far away. “Yes, darling. Yes, I’m a whore. After I sing, Tigurb’l sends men back to my dressing room. I bring in three times what anyone else does, he says. Sometimes he sends me to perform in private houses…just for men, of course. I don’t want to do these things, but there’s no other work for a crippled singer. I was so hungry! Kiss me again, please.”

He uttered that surprising chuckle again. “You don’t shock me, Eleal. Did you think I would disapprove? You are doing what women should do—aiding men in the performance of my sacrament. And the Liberator?”

One of her hands broke free and began to unbutton his shirt. “I don’t care much about him,” her voice said. “He was supposed to go to Tion’s temple. This was in Sussvale, where the Youth is patron. The priests commanded that D’ward—that’s the Liberator’s name, D’ward—that D’ward come to the temple, and Kirthien Archpriest said I had done well and Holy Tion would heal my leg, but the Liberator just ran away. He disappeared! So my leg didn’t get cured…” The memory of that awful injustice flickered faintly through the pink fog.
Coward!
Ingrate! “He ran away! He betrayed me. I want…. You’re my father. When I learned that, when we came back to Jurg, I came and prayed to you, here in the temple. Until a priest found me and said I was a dirty little girl and threw me out!”

“I didn’t hear you,” Ken’th said grumpily. “I may have been away. Or busy.”

“Well, this morning I decided you might hear me if I mentioned the Liberator. And if I brought a big offering.” She hoped she could stop talking now and he would kiss her again. She had his shirt open and could run her fingers through the manly thatch on his chest.

“You want revenge on the Liberator…. No, mostly you hope to bribe me to heal your leg.”

“No, no, no! I just want to help you, because you’re my—I want to help you!” She tugged one-handed at the big gold buckle of his belt.

Ken’th was frowning, though. “I could cure you, of course, but I’m god of lust, not god of healing. That’s one of Tion’s attributes. I suppose I could claim that repairing a harlot was within my field, because he certainly plays around in my garden when he’s in the mood. Damn you, you little shrew-cat, you’ve put me in a confounded mess!”

Eleal choked. “M-mess?”

“Mess. If Zath ever finds out I had a lead like you and didn’t follow it up…Never mind. You can’t understand.”