by Tim Powers
The boat skimmed smoothly down the torch-lit Leethee tide, and none of the scavengers and beggars they passed gave the skiff a second look. Soon they passed through the last stone arch and found themselves in the harbor. The sun was only a hairsbreadth clear of the ocean’s horizon, and the sky was a cathedral of terraced red-and-gold clouds against a background of pale blue.
“We’re timing it well, my friend,” Tom grinned, turning the boat north. “Old Redbrick’s ship ought to be just lowering anchor beyond the jetty. I’ll kill you (begging your pardon), knock out poor Frank, cut out his tongue and eyes and row him out to the ship. Redbrick will give me a hundred malories and take Frank away to the Tamarisk Isles. I’ll take your headless body to Duprey, and tell him it’s Frank, and he’ll give me a job. Everybody does well except you, I guess. And, hell, a slave is probably happier dead anyway, right?” The slave moaned through his gag. “That’s right,” agreed Tom.
He worked the boat north, around the anchored merchant ships, until Frank’s boat came into view. He pulled alongside it, relieved to see no other boats moored there.
“Up you go,” Tom said cheerfully, hoisting the slave like an awkward piece of lumber onto the deck. Tom followed, carrying the axe. “Okay, you just lay there for a minute,” he said. “This is complicated, I admit, but if we all do our parts it’ll work out fine.”
The slave turned his face despairingly to the cabin wall. Tom shrugged, put down the axe and went to the door, which was locked; he kicked it open and hurried into Frank’s room, where he picked up a gray shirt, a sword, a pair of shoes and a pair of white corduroy pants. He bundled these together, and went out on deck again.
The bound slave still faced the wall, so Tom quietly set the clothes on the deck and picked up the axe. He raised it over his head, aiming at the man’s neck. Then he swung it down with all the force he could add to the thing’s own weight, and he crouched as he struck to keep the blow perpendicular. He stood up a moment later, rocked the blood-splashed axe blade loose from the deck-wood it had bitten into, and flung it overboard. The severed head he tied in a canvas bag weighted with two sextants, which he also tossed over the side.
He cut the ropes loose from the body and stripped it of its clothes, and then pulled Frank’s pants and shirt onto it. The shoes were difficult—he pushed them and pounded on the slave’s feet, but to no avail. He finally tossed the shoes into the sea. The sword clipped easily onto the belt, and Tom stood up dizzily.
Good God, he thought, suppressing a very deep nausea. What horrible things people sometimes have to do. Oh well: I’ll enjoy the future luxury all the more for this present ugliness. He picked up the slave’s bloodstained clothes, wrapped a large fishing sinker in them, and threw that bundle, too, into the water. It’s a messy ocean floor tonight, he thought crazily. I wonder how often the cleaning lady comes.
He stumbled to the bow and sat down in one of the canvas deck chairs to await Frank’s arrival. The sun was in Tom’s eyes; no matter how he blinked and shifted his gaze he frequently got an eyeful of glare. Black spots floated through his vision. For this reason he didn’t notice the approaching rowboat until it was only about fifty yards away.
“Oh no,” he muttered. He stood up and waved, and then dashed back behind the cabin, crouched beside the headless body and rolled it over the rail into the sea. “I’ll fish you out again real soon,” he said softly to it. Then he ran back to the bow and waved again, smiling broadly.
“That’s him,” said one of the three men in the boat. “Look at him waving at us, all dressed in white. He must have mistaken us for someone.”
“Yeah,” agreed another. “I wonder why he ran away when he first saw us, though? Do you think it’s a trap?”
“I don’t know,” said the third. “Best not to get too close, anyway. Move in ten yards more and I’ll pitch a bomb at him.”
A minute later the third man stood up, lit the fuse of a shot-put sized bomb and hurled it at the larger boat. Tom still stood on the bow, waving. A moment later an obscuring explosion tore a hole in the cabin and flung pieces of lumber spinning through the air. The roar of the detonation echoed off the shore, and a cloud of smoke and wood splinters hung over the blasted vessel.
“Let’s circle and look for the body,” growled the man in the stern. The little rowboat made an unhurried circle around the smoking boat, and near the stern they found floating the headless body of the slave. They pulled it aboard.
“That’s him all right. Odd the way the bomb just took his head off and left the rest of him untouched, though.”
“Who cares?” said another. “It’s him. Look, there’s one of his shoes floating there. I’ve seen bombs do that. Let’s get this body back to Costa quickly, and get paid.” The other two nodded, and the one at the oars began leaning into his work.
An hour later Frank wearily tied up his own rowboat next to Tom’s at the stern and climbed aboard. “Tom?” he called. “Sorry I’m late. Business, you know. Tom?” It was still light enough to see, and he looked around the stern. The cabin door is open, he noticed. Tom must have fallen asleep below. Did he kick the door open? Then he noticed the wide blood stains on the deck and whipped out his sword.
“Tom!” he shouted. “Where are you?” He leaped inside the cabin—and stared at the chaos he found. The bulkhead between the cabin and his own stateroom was split; the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder; his bed and desk lay shattered in the broken doorway, and stretched across this wreckage was a naked and clearly dead body. Frank crossed to it warily, and stared at the face.
He was just able to recognize it as Tom Strand’s.
Frank backed out of the cabin and sat down heavily on the deck. My father, he thought. Orcrist. Blanchard. And now Tom. I’m poison to my friends, beyond doubt.
After a while he stood up and stared out to sea, where a ship beyond the jetty was unfurling its sails and tacking south.
It must be the Transports who did this, Frank thought. They must have found out I was coming here frequently, and thought Tom was me. He went below and carried four bottles of Tamarisk brandy into the cabin, then broke them on the floor. After he dropped a lit match into the aromatic puddle and heard it whoosh alight, he strode out onto the deck, climbed into his rowboat and cast off.
Hodges lit a cigarette nervously. He liked times of quiet prosperity, leisure to spend untroubled days with his family and cats. It upset him to scent doom in the air, and tonight it almost masked the tobacco reek in his nostrils. He watched gloomily as Frank poured himself a fifth glass of scotch.
“Gentlemen,” Frank said, “remember that you are… only my…advisors. I will listen, have listened, to your timid cautions and warnings, and I don’t believe there’s any course of action you’d favor. I’ve told you my idea, and you haven’t yet given me a good objection.”
Hodges leaned forward. “Your plan, sire, is to try out for the job of painting Costa’s portrait and to kill him once you get close to him. Right?”
“That’s right, Hodges. You’ve got it.”
“Well, Mr. Hussar has pointed out that you’d be killed yourself, almost immediately.”
“I might not,” Frank said, taking a liberal sip of his drink. “That doesn’t matter, anyway. The main thing is to get rid of Costa.”
“Ah. But who would they replace him with?”
“I don’t know. A relative, if he has any—though God knows I can’t find any. Who cares? It would be a change, anyway.”
“Maybe not,” Hodges answered. “Costa is only a figurehead for the Transport government. Kill him and they’ll get another mascot. If you could kill the whole Transport there’d be a change—but killing poor idiot Costa would do nothing but give you personal vengeance, which a king can’t really afford.”
“Well, dammit, Hodges, I’ve got to do something. Every day we lie quiet, the Transport gets stronger. What’s being done to stop them? I—”
“Sire,” Hodges said, “Hemingway said never confuse motio
n with action. I think—”
“I think,” said Mr. Hussar, leaning forward, “that perhaps we ought to discuss Mr. Rovzar’s claim to be our king.”
Hodges let the cigarette smoke hiss out between his teeth. Everyone had stopped talking, so the sound of Frank’s sword sliding out of its sheath was clearly audible.
“How do you mean, Hussar?” asked Frank with a smile.
“Put your sword away,” Hussar snapped angrily. “Tolley wasn’t king when you killed him. Isn’t that right, Hodges? Therefore, you can’t claim the ius gladii precedent. Therefore you’re not our king.” Hussar sat back. “I wouldn’t have brought this up,” he added, “if you hadn’t exhibited signs of alcoholism and insanity.”
“Hodges,” Frank said. “A point of protocol: what is the procedure when someone calls the king’s qualifications into question?”
Hodges answered wearily, as if reciting a memorized piece. “The person is free to prove his allegations by engaging the king in personal combat. Sorry, Hussar.”
Frank stood up, suddenly looking much soberer. His sword was in his hand. “Now, then, Hussar, what about these allegations?”
Hussar pressed his lips together angrily. “I withdraw them, sire,” he said.
There was a long pause. “All right,” Frank said finally. He sheathed his sword and sat down, looking vaguely puzzled and defeated. “I… I guess you’re right, Hodges. A kamikaze attack on Costa personally would accomplish nothing.” He had another sip of scotch. “What we’ve got to do, I guess, is keep building our army and keep looking for a ducal heir. We have the strength right now to take the palace—especially since we captured that dynamite shipment en route to the Goriot Valley two days ago; all we need now is a genuine prince.” He drained his glass. “Keep sending the claimants to me, Hodges. Maybe if we don’t find a real one we can come up with a convincing fake.”
“Aye, aye,” Hodges said. “Gentlemen, I pronounce this meeting adjourned.” Everyone except Frank stood up and began shouldering on coats and bidding each other good night. They all filed out, leaving Frank alone in the room. Two of the lamps had gone out, the candles were low in their sockets, and the clink of the bottle-lip on the glass-edge, and the gurgle of the scotch sluicing into the glass, were the only sounds.
Heavy music resounded in Kelly Harmon’s huge living room, and most of the guests were dancing wildly. Harmon lived in the finest district of Munson Understreet, and his parties, which had become legendary in the belt-tightening days of Costa’s reign, were said to be the gathering place of all the truly worthwhile people in Munson, above or below the surface. The music, provided by a trio of crazed trumpet players, was so loud that the knocking at the door could only be heard by the people actually leaning against it. They pulled the door open and a tall, dark-bearded man edged his way inside, waving an invitation, and was soon absorbed into the crowd.
The music and dancing slowly mounted in intensity to a feverish and frenzied climax, after which the dancers began reeling to their chairs and gulping drinks. Kathrin Figaro whirled like a spun top to the last choppy bars of one song, and collided with a table, knocking over a lamp.
“Whoops!” she giggled. “Time for a rest, I think.” She weaved away from the dance floor to the only empty chair, at a back table at which the bearded man was sitting. “Can I join you?” she asked breathlessly. He looked up at her and, after the briefest hesitation, nodded.
“Thank you.” She slid into the chair and looked at her table-mate. Long black hair was cut in uneven bangs across his forehead, and his eyes hid in a network of wrinkles under his brows. The black beard didn’t quite hide a long scar that arched across his cheek. “Do I know you?” she asked politely, privately wondering how this derelict had got in.
“Yes,” he said.
Kathrin looked at him uneasily. “Who are you?”
“John Pine.”
Kathrin looked blank, and then startled. “Frank…?” she whispered.
He nodded.
“But I heard you were dead—they hung…somebody’s headless body, dressed in your clothes, from the palace wall a week ago.” He shrugged impatiently. “When did you grow the beard, Frank? I don’t like it.”
“My name, please, is John Pine. The beard’s fake.”
“Oh.” She lifted two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing steward and set one of them before Frank. “Isn’t it terribly risky for you to be here? Did you come to see me?”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I came because I was bored.” He sipped the champagne. “Harmon has been sending me invitations to these affairs for months, and I decided to take him up on one.”
“Will I see you at more of these, then?” she asked brightly.
“No. I’m not much of a party man, as you doubtless recall. And it is too risky a thing to make a habit of.”
She tasted her drink thoughtfully. “Are you still king of the… you-know-whos?” He nodded. “I heard about how you got it. It sounded very brave.” He looked at her skeptically. “I don’t see Matthews anymore, John. He treated me horribly, just… horribly. Do you think,” she went on, lowering her eyes, “there’s any chance of us trying it again?”
Yes, he thought. “No,” he said.
“But I’ve—”
“Don’t embarrass both of us, Kathrin.” He stood up. “There’s nothing to say. I shouldn’t have come to this. I’m sorry.” He stepped around the table, pushed his way through the crowd to the door and disappeared into the eternal understreet night.
The yawning page boy plodded around the room, refilling the oil-reservoirs of the lamps from a can he carried. The job done, he returned to his chair, began nodding sleepily and was soon snoring.
George Tyler refilled Frank’s wine glass and then his own; his aim had deteriorated during the evening, and he poured a good deal of it onto the tabletop.
“Frank,” George said carefully, “don’t try to pretend with me that this is an… altruistic action you’re contemplating. You know that it isn’t Costa that’s strangling this planet. He’s just a… pitiful puppet… within whom moves the cold, steely hand of the Transport.” Pleased with his metaphor, Tyler chuckled and gulped his wine. “And it isn’t even personal revenge, lad, that’s goading you to kill the poor geek. Not entirely, anyway. Want to know what it is?”
“What is it, George?” Frank asked obligingly.
“It’s suicide, Frankie,” said Tyler sadly. “You want to die. No, don’t get rude with me; I’m a poet, I’m allowed to talk this way. If you go grinning up to the palace gate with a knife in your paint box, it may look like a gallant bid for revenge, but I’ll know. It will be a suicide attempt, disguised as desperate vengeance to fool everyone, yourself as well, maybe.”
“George, you are so full of crap—”
“Yeah, you say that. But you’re my last friend since Sam got it, and now you’re eager to get killed. And all because that half-wit girl ditched you for Matthews.”
“That isn’t it, George. Not much of it, anyway.”
“Aha! You admit it’s suicide, then?”
“I’m not admitting anything, dammit. I’m humoring a raving drunk.”
“Well, there’s a judgment. But all right, I won’t bother you anymore.”
For a full five minutes they drank in silence.
“Someday I’ll be restored to my former exalted state,” Tyler muttered, half to himself, “and then I’ll set all this right. I’ll have Costa sweeping the gutters, and then you won’t have to kill him.”
“George,” said Frank levelly, “I have been trying very hard, for weeks, to find a real claimant to the ducal throne. Throughout that time I have admired your tact in not burdening me with your own… delusions in that line. If there is (and there is) one thing I don’t want to hear, it’s another crackpot telling me he’s the true prince.”
“I’m sorry, Frank,” Tyler said. “You’re right, you don’t need that.” He emptied his glass. “I don�
��t really believe all my stories, either, so you needn’t think I’m a crackpot. It’s just my poetic nature letting off steam.”
“I didn’t mean you’re a crackpot, George. I spoke… heatedly, without thinking.” Frank opened the table drawer and felt around in it, but his pipe was missing. “Where did you come up with all those stories about being Topo’s son, anyway?” he asked.
“I made them up, mostly,” Tyler said. “And my mother used to tell me I was. I was an illegitimate child, you see. I’ll bet all unwed mothers tell their sons they’re the secret offspring of royalty.”
“Yeah, probably so. Not a good idea, in the long run, if you ask me.” Frank poured out the last dribble of the bottle. “Page. Hey, page! Another bottle of this. A cold one.”
The page nodded and scampered away.
“It was a bedtime story, you see,” Tyler explained. “She was a scullery maid, at one time, in the palace, so when she was fired she hinted to everybody that Topo was the real father of her illegitimate brat. I always liked the story, that’s all.”
“Didn’t she ever give you a reason why the Duke didn’t acknowledge you as his son?” asked Frank, curious in spite of himself.
“Didn’t need to. What self-respecting duke would admit to having a child by a scullery maid? Besides, she was fired and moved understreet, soon after I was born. But wait—” Tyler squinted thoughtfully “—I remember now. She always did tell me that Topo had written up an official birth certificate for me, acknowledging me as his blooded son. Costa, the story says, was a spoiled kid even then, and Topo wanted to have the option of leaving the dukedom of Octavio to me. Hah!”
The wine arrived and Frank twisted a corkscrew into the bottle.
“Not just his son—his favorite, too, eh?”
“Yeah, it’s delusions of grandeur, I admit. She was real convincing about it, though. Even told me once where Topo had hidden the birth certificate.”
“Oh?” said Frank. “Where?”
