The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  The king’s herald had spoken truth in at least one respect: King Reynard was indeed the fatter of the two men. Reynard filled his throne the way a hen fills a nest, and looked to be much harder to displace. He had been studying the pirate, and found it interesting that he paid more attention to the golden bauble than he did to the attractive young woman who gave it to him. Interesting, but not surprising. “What do you know?”

  “I just came from Mather’s quarters, not an hour ago. He had Bench Urmand and John Hand with him.”

  “Hmm. Our new admiral, and our new minister of defense, or some such. They’re rebuilding the Navy.”

  “With my ships!” Scat’s outburst ended in a cough, then a wheeze.

  “You are not well, Scatter. You should let my physicians examine you.”

  Scat waved the thought away with his cigar. But he could not speak for a moment. He waited for the constriction in his chest to pass. He hated being ill. His heart had gone bad; he knew that. It had given way on the decks of the Chase, and it had not healed. No physician could fix it. They all said the same thing: slow down, quit smoking, quit drinking. Quit being Scatter Wilkins. He had no use for such advice. After a year, he had concluded it would never heal; he would simply learn to live on half a heart.

  “He wants my ships,” Scat repeated when finally he could.

  “Of course he does. He will commandeer them. He has few of his own.”

  “You can stop him.”

  The king looked incredulous. “And why would I do that? So you can continue to rake in coins while the kingdom falls?”

  “I rake in coins, you rake in coins. And you need ’em. But more than that, you need what those ships can deliver.”

  “Your price is ridiculous. John Hand will deliver the same goods as part of his duties. The Firefish trade is now owned by the Crown.”

  Scat just stared at him. The king had made a bad choice in the past. He had chosen the outrageous duties the Chase’s prizes could bring him as exports, rather than pay what Scat demanded in order to keep the Firefish trade within the boundaries of Nearing Vast. “I’ll do the prince’s bidding, same as John Hand. Just let me keep those ships.”

  “It’s Mather’s war now. He’ll fight it as he sees fit. He doesn’t trust you. He trusts Admiral Hand.”

  Admiral Hand. Scat grimaced. King Reynard’s will had grown soft. His mind, which had never been his strength, seemed duller now than ever. “A man tries to make an honest living, and what happens? The government comes and takes it all away.”

  “Ever the lament of the businessman.”

  Scat blew a swath of smoke toward the unsympathetic king. “Piracy was simpler. All right, he can have all the ships I’ve bought and fitted. I won’t fight him.”

  “How gracious of you. You’ll be paid fairly.”

  “Ha. I doubt that. But I want to captain the Trophy Chase.”

  The king grunted. “You’d sail under Hand?”

  Scat nodded. “No one can sail that ship like I can. He knows it.”

  “And did you ask the prince about this?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “He said no. I swear to you, Reynard, I will die before I let another man have that ship.” Scat left unsaid the obvious fact that he would kill as well.

  “Don’t do anything rash, Captain.”

  “Rash?” Scat’s tone grew ominous. “Your Highness. You have the power. You can give me command of the Chase and save you and your…admiral,” he said the word as though it tasted bitter, “a lot of trouble.”

  The king sighed. Once a pirate, always a pirate. “You can’t blackmail me, Scatter. I told you, it’s Mather’s war.”

  Scat Wilkins’ eyes threw fire. “Your son is taking your power.”

  King Reynard looked away. It was true. But he couldn’t summon a desire to fight against his own son, not now, not with the grave errors he himself had made. “I love my son.” He turned back to Scat. “And I’m proud of him.”

  “Then give him your throne and be done with it. Either you’re the king or you’re not.”

  Reynard’s eyes flashed. “I am still king enough to have your head. I have spared you from the hangman for years. Do not forget that.”

  “Then hang me!” Scat’s voice cracked. “I’m not going to start fawning like those rattlesnakes you call nobles.”

  The king softened, and then he laughed. It was a genuine, affectionate laugh. “This is what I like about you, Scatter. I’d have done well to surround myself with more like you, blunt and honest men who would argue rather than bow and scrape. You have no son, do you?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “None that will claim it.”

  The king smiled again. “But you have John Hand, your closest confidant and friend.”

  Scat waited.

  “And he is taking your power away, just as Mather is taking mine.”

  Scat grimaced. Then he sighed. So this is how power flows from one generation to the next, he thought. This is why men retire.

  He hated it. Scat Wilkins, for one, would not go quietly.

  “We’re putting to sea tomorrow.”

  The words stopped Panna, who had rushed to the door when she heard Packer enter.

  “We?”

  “The Trophy Chase,” he added quickly. “Under John Hand.”

  She raised her chin. “Did you ask about me? Did you tell them I can work? Did you ask to put me on crew?”

  “No,” he told her painfully. “It’s just too dangerous, Panna.”

  Her eyes grew defiant. “Then I’ll talk to the prince myself.”

  “Panna. You don’t understand.”

  She crossed her arms, her gaze flitting from eye to eye, searching. “Then explain it.”

  Packer’s resolve began to crumble. He turned away and sat on the satin-covered love seat just inside the apartment door, feeling desolate.

  They had been put up in a sumptuous apartment called the Blue Rooms, off the main hallway of the newest part of the palace, and they had wanted for nothing, nothing except some quiet and some privacy. Panna had finally ordered all six servants out. They left baffled as to how the couple would eat or sleep or bathe or dress without their attentions.

  Packer looked up at Panna. “I have a duty to make this right. This war started because of me.”

  “The prince said that?”

  “No. I’m saying it.”

  She sat next to him, turned his face to hers. Her expression was velvet but her words were steel. “Do you believe God could have stopped this war? Does He have that power?”

  He nodded.

  “Then stop blaming yourself. God can protect you. He can protect me. He can protect both of us together.”

  “Or separately. Panna, the situation is very bad.”

  “The war.”

  “Yes. The war.” He could not keep eye contact.

  She took his scarred hand in hers. “Tell me everything.”

  He shook his head. “There are some very dark secrets they confided in me.”

  She grew alarmed. “What secrets?”

  Packer felt riven within. He had promised. But the status of the Fleet and the mission on which he was being sent burned him, burned inward. Did he not have a greater bond with Panna? Had he not made a greater promise to her?

  Panna studied his eyes, his face, saw the barrier, and was frightened by it. This was not right. She had imagined there would never be a wall, a fence, or even a veil between them ever again. “You aren’t going to tell me.”

  “I can’t.” He shook his head. He did not want this to be their first argument. Or possibly their second.

  Nor did she. “How do you mean dark? Dark in what way?”

  He shook his head. She needed something. “This war is likely to be short.”

  “But that’s a good thing, right?”

  He shook his head. “A very bad thing.”

  She swallowed hard. “Something’s gone wrong already.”

 
Packer didn’t move.

  Panna felt a shiver run through her. “So what is it they want you to do?”

  He shook his head. Then he sighed. “They want me to be a hero.”

  “Again? How?”

  “They want a figurehead. To give hope to people.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing. Right?”

  He thought a moment about his mission, about the Chase’s quest. Then he grew urgent. “Panna, you should leave the city. Go to the Nearing Plains. No, go farther. The Mountains. Get your father, and just go.”

  She was incredulous. The Mountains were weeks of hard travel from Mann. “It can’t be that bad already.”

  He swallowed, his moment of hope gone. His shoulders sagged. “I don’t know where the safest place is.” Was it only yesterday the two of them were in Eden, with a full, rich future together stretching out before them? And yet, even then this war had loomed over them. He remembered the shadows that played on her hair, cast from high above as they sat together.

  “Panna. Why would God give us a time together, like we had, only to wrench it to bits like this?”

  “Because He’s gracious.”

  Packer studied her.

  “He didn’t have to give us any time at all. But He did. And no one can take that time away.” Her will was iron.

  His heart welled up into his eyes. And then he kissed her. Her gentle kiss led to an embrace.

  In her dream, Panna saw Packer standing atop the Hangman’s Cliffs, facing out to sea. Five hundred feet below him, spreading out as far as he could see, the waters were packed with ships, warships and traders, fishing boats and freighters, each deck a mass of people. The entire citizenry of Nearing Vast, it seemed, floated below. And all the people cheered.

  On Packer’s left stood the king, waving and smiling. Beside the king stood the prince, proud and pleased. On Packer’s right stood Panna, absorbing the moment, reveling in the adoration they heaped on Packer Throme from below.

  But when Panna looked at her husband, she saw only fear in his eyes, and a terrible discomfort. She reached for his hand to assure him that it was right, that he deserved all this, that he should enjoy what God had brought him. But as she grasped his damaged palm, he pulled it away, and she could see the scars were not scars, but raw flesh. She heard him wince in pain, and saw him look at her as if to ask why, why would she hurt him?

  But before she could say anything, before she could assure him, the king’s hand slapped Packer firmly on the back, just at the base of his neck, and then, the king still smiling, that hand pushed him roughly, unceremoniously, over the edge. He fell without a word. Panna saw a rope, heard it zipping past, a blur as it fled over the edge of the cliff. It was tied to Packer!

  She grabbed at it, and her own hands burned, burned with fire as Packer’s hand was burned, but she held on tight and the rope stopped. She had saved him! Her own hand was now a mass of raw flesh. But she heard the loud cheers grow louder, lustier. She looked down at the cliff’s face. There she saw Packer…with horror she saw him far below, dangling, a hood over his head, a noose around his neck, his hands tied behind his back.

  The crowd cheered on, but now they screamed out in that joyous guttural, horrible cheer heard only at public executions. And Panna let go of the rope, but it was too late. It stayed where it was, immovable. And Packer was gone, this time forever, and she had been unable to save him.

  She wept bitterly, and woke up weeping. Packer was there beside her, real and whole and alive and warm. She held him close and he told her not to worry, not to be afraid, that it was just a dream. She held on to him, sobbing, held him as close as she’d ever held anything in her life, and she prayed as hard as she had ever prayed, that it was, in fact, just a dream.

  But she remembered her dream of Talon, the dark-haired murderess, and how that dream had come true.

  “I want to sail aboard the Trophy Chase. I want to go with my husband.”

  “So he told me,” the prince said to Panna, successfully hiding his amusement. “But I’m afraid it cannot be.”

  “But why? I’m strong. I’ve been on boats before. I can learn almost any task. You let women on board your ships.”

  “But not warships.”

  Panna wrapped the housecoat she was wearing more tightly around her. She hadn’t taken the time to dress; as soon as Packer had gone back to sleep she’d stolen away, putting this quilted silk robe over her nightgown, and gone in search of the prince. She felt appropriately dressed; she had found the housecoat in the closet of the Blue Rooms, and it was more beautiful than almost any garment she owned, and covered her flannel nightgown from neck to ankle. Besides, she knew the prince; she had gone to him before.

  She would make her case. If the answer was yes, she would tell Packer what she had done. If no, he would never need to know.

  Finding the prince had been more difficult than she had imagined. She didn’t remember the way to his private chambers, and neither the servants nor the guards were pleased about her request. But through sound argument and sheer determination, with only the slightest hint of the damsel in distress, she finally convinced one of the younger guards to see if the prince was awake. Not to awaken him, but only to see if he was awake, to ask if he would speak with her.

  And, thankfully, he was an early riser.

  “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “This is beginning to be a bad habit with you, Panna Seline, coming to me for help and then refusing my hospitality.”

  “Throme.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Panna Throme. Your Highness.”

  “Of course, forgive me.” He thought about asking her to sit, but remembered how poorly that had gone the last time.

  “I cannot bear it,” Panna began, “to let him sail away again, if there is any chance whatsoever that I could get a berth with him. I’m not asking to be put up as a passenger, but taken on as crew. I can cook, I can clean, I can sew, I can certainly scrub decks, bail water, run errands, whatever it is that needs doing.”

  “A ship’s boy.”

  “Yes! A ship’s boy. Or girl. You must have positions like that.”

  The prince smiled gently. “Did Packer tell you the nature of this voyage? The mission of the Trophy Chase?”

  She looked at the marble floor. “No.”

  The prince wasn’t sure he believed her. It was hard enough for him to deny this young woman, but what would it take to deny her if she was deeply in love, as she clearly was with Packer? He swallowed hard, surprised at his own reaction to this thought. “I can’t let you,” he said flatly. “It is a dangerous mission. Packer knows this. He wants you to be safe. As do I.”

  “But I don’t care about my safety!” She was desperate now. “I would be there for Packer, to help him as he helps you win this war.” She saw no softening in the prince’s eyes. “The Drammune women fight! I can fight with my fists as well as a man. You know that’s true. I can’t fence, but I could learn to shoot.”

  She had indeed fought—if not well, certainly more fiercely than an old fisherman. “I don’t doubt any of that,” said the prince. “But even if you were a Mortach Demal like Talon, you would be a great distraction to him. He would be worried about you rather than his mission. He would want to protect you.”

  “But I don’t need protecting!” Couldn’t anyone understand this? “I would rather die with him than live on safely without him!”

  Her eyes were deep, intense, full of the fire of love and the anger of being denied. Her flowing hair was unkempt from a poor night’s sleep that could be read in her eyes, and in the lines beneath them. The prince rarely saw a woman who had not made every conceivable effort to beautify herself. Panna seemed to make a habit of appearing before him rumpled and unkempt, and he found her all the more attractive for it.

  “No. I am your prince, and that is final. You will stay here.” And by that he meant, though she did not understand it yet, that sh
e would stay in the palace.

  Panna saw there was no hope whatsoever of her going to sea with Packer. She fought the sting of tears, and dropped her eyes. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, then.”

  “It was no bother at all, Panna. I mean that. It will be hard, I know. But you have my ear whenever you wish it.”

  She did not look back up into his eyes. The futility of her mission now made her feel foolish. But he was gracious, and she appreciated that. “Thank you, Your Highness.” She curtsied. “If I may take my leave.”

  “Of course.”

  She did not look back.

  The order placing Scatter Wilkins’ new fleet under the command of John Hand was delivered to the pirate in his small apartment above the cobblestone streets, in an extremely rough area of the docks known as Plank’s Wharf. Entry to his private rooms could be achieved only through the establishment known as Croc-Eyed Sam’s, a notorious pub even here.

  Scat had ensconced himself on the second floor, having convinced Sam, with a combination of coercion and coin, to sleep at a nearby inn for the duration of the pirate captain’s tenure. No fewer than three grizzled sailors, Scat’s pirates, sat in constant watch at the tables by the front door, heavily armed, sipping not ale but tea, coffee, or the occasional ginger beer, which kept them both alert and in a very sullen mood. They watched, studying any and all who might enter, freely accosting anyone they didn’t know.

  The circular wooden stairway up to Scat’s quarters could not be accessed without passing behind the bar, the entrance to which was guarded by two more of Scat’s men. One of them was almost always Scat’s scowling, thick-browed right hand, Jonas Deal.

  Because of Scat’s presence, Sam’s place had never been busier. To get a glimpse of the famous pirate, the man who’d first learned to take the Firefish, who captained the Trophy Chase, who’d been saved by Packer Throme in the Achawuk territory, was apparently worth the risk of spending a day or a night drinking among the most dangerous citizens of Nearing Vast.

  But Scat rarely appeared. The pirate entered and departed infrequently and quickly, nodding politely to any female who called out to him, but otherwise ignoring the clientele, going out the front door and into a waiting coach, and then returning through the front door and climbing the stairs, each time as quickly as he could manage it.