Packer’s expression didn’t change. His eyes looked at Delaney with a calm sadness, a listless unconcern that worried the old sailor. “You’re still frettin’ about what you done, eh?”
Packer closed his eyes.
Delaney sighed. “What you done was for your country. It was for us all. You didn’t start the fight.”
Packer looked at him, knowing better. “I started the whole war.”
Delaney grew grim. “That bein’ the case, then you’re right to finish it.”
Packer’s eyes sagged closed.
Delaney sighed. He knew he needed to take a different tack. He rubbed his head, then his chin. He sat on Packer’s locker. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “I’m not much a’ one for preachin’. So I won’t. But I’ll tell you something that happened to me. Maybe it’ll help, maybe not.” He sniffed. His voice dropped.
“One time I was up in the rigging. Morning it was, no clouds anywhere but on the eastern horizon. Chill was already burnin’ off with a warm breeze, and the sun was hoverin’ just over the sea where the water and the sky are all kind of runnin’ together, you know, so you can’t tell which is which. And I remember thinkin’ that the sun looked like a great bird, with wings of clouds stretchin’ all out along the horizon, north to south. And then I remember thinkin’ that was what an angel of God would look like. Not the kind that sings and plays a harp, now, but the kind that comes and pours God’s own wrath right down on the world, like out of one of them judgment bowls in the Book of Revelations. Like what was on the front of the Seventh Seal.” He pondered a moment. “Only that one was kinda sickly compared.
“Anyways, while I was thinkin’ it, I was thinkin’ I was proud to know the God who could do that. Who could create a sunrise that looked like an angel. Who could create an angel that could pour down wrath to fix a earth that had got all skewed around, away from what it was suppose to be.”
Delaney got very thoughtful. “ ’Cause this old world sure ain’t what she’s suppose to be. And I got this feelin’.” Delaney paused, and his voice softened further. “More than a feelin’. It was a knowin’. Aye. I got this knowin’ that God was there, and He was sayin’, ‘Just for you. Just for you this morning, Delaney. I did this just for you.’ ”
Delaney dabbed an eye. “Well, those weren’t in actual words, and now I say it out loud, maybe it sounds a lot smaller than it was. But it wasn’t, not then. It was big, as big as the sea itself. And I just wanted to stay right there in that spot, hangin’ out over that ocean just forever, lookin’ at what God made just for me.”
Delaney sighed, and smiled at the memory. “Couldn’t do it, a’ course.” He sniffed, rubbed his nose vigorously. “Had to reef the mizzen four points. And then Jonas Deal starts to screamin’ up at me like I’m doin’ nothing but wastin’ his own precious time. I tell you, I sure ain’t sorry that rat badger got killed off.” Delaney pondered another moment, then returned to the subject at hand. “Anyway, you ever had a time like that?”
Packer smiled. He was quite sure there was no man on earth he loved so much as Smith Delaney. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve had a time or two like that.” He thought of the cliff, of the sunrise he’d returned to today. And then he thought of Panna, of his own little cottage, and the Eden he’d been given there. Yes, he’d had that moment.
Delaney was happy to hear Packer’s voice, and to sense a softness in it. He sounded like the regular Packer. “Well, my point is that there are other times, after that, when I’ve done something bad, you know? Things I had to confess. I’m talking about bad things. No need to get into the details now—unless you want to hear ’em?”
“No need.”
“Right. The point is, bad as I felt, I still remembered that time in the rigging. And I remembered God talkin’ to me, to little Smith Delaney, because He knew me. He knew all I ever did, and you know what else? He knew all I’d ever do. And though I felt low about the sin, it was good to know He didn’t hold back from makin’ that sunrise for me, knowin’ later I’d skew it all up again. It’s like, He just wants me. Near Him. Listenin’.”
Delaney waited, but Packer didn’t speak again. He was still thinking of Panna and the Garden.
“So,” Delaney continued, “you have to know that everything He gave you then, He gave you knowin’ all about today. All about the Drammune and the killin’ and the Firefish crackin’ open the hull of that ship. He knew what you were gonna pray for before you prayed it. And even if it was wrong, He still loves you now anyways. Just as much as He ever loved you before.”
Packer was deep in thought.
Delaney felt like he had failed. “I don’t guess I did a good job of explainin’,” he said glumly. “But anyways…”
“You did a very good job of explaining,” Packer said gently. “Thank you.”
Delaney cheered up immediately, a bright glint in his eye.
Marcus returned with a bucket of cold, soapy water. It took that bucket and three more to get all the blood off Packer, and to wash out his blood-soaked clothes. But Packer refused to put his uniform on again, preferring his loose-fitting peasant shirt and breeches. Delaney reminded him of the admiral’s orders, but Packer was adamant.
Then Marcus suggested a prayer. Packer hung his head, not sure he was ready for another one of those. Delaney and Marcus both misread the gesture and simply followed suit.
Marcus spoke. “Dear Father of us all in heaven, help out our brother Packer here. He has slewn our enemies, and has saved us from their mighty swords by his even mightier sword. We know he is saddened that he killed so many of those fearsome Drammune, even though no one else aboard is anything but fairly thrilled about it. But he’s thinkin’ Thou had rather a’ done it with the Firefish. Anyways, we’re all thankful no matter how Thou didst do it because Thou saved us to live on here for Thy reasons, and for Thy reasons Thou killed off a whole bunch of the others. For reasons which we can’t dream of knowin’ why. Like usual.
“But as Thy Son said, he that heareth My word and believeth on Him that sent Me is passed from death right on into life. And by that we know that we start out this life dead even though we may not look it, and then we come to life when we meet up with Thee, even though we may not look no different. So I figure, Thou couldn’t care less about whose heart is still beatin’ in his chest, but Thou carest a whole lot more about whose soul comes to life, whether or not he be actually alive or dead. I mean on earth.” Marcus paused for a moment. “Thou knowest what I mean.
“So take us from this world or keep us here, but make us all three of us to know Thee, and the others aboard as well. So we ask for Thy peace and wisdom whether You set our hands to the sword, or to…some other thing that ain’t the sword.”
“Ploughshare,” Delaney whispered.
“Good, right—the ploughshare. Or the windlass or the chain-plates or the ship’s wheel, as the case may be. Thanks be to God. Oh, and thanks for sending a Firefish that is more friend than enemy, may that sort of thing last a long time and help us out. Amen.”
“Amen!” Delaney grinned at Marcus. “You know, I’ll tell you what. You can pray at my funeral any day.”
Marcus was moved by the offer. “Why thanks, Delaney. That’d make me real happy.”
CHAPTER 14
Power
The news of the death of the Hezzan, and the sudden shift in power that followed it, swept through the Kingdom of Drammun like a hurricane. The assassination, the jailing of the Twelve, and the dark rumor of the rise of the Hezzan’s wife under the protection of the Hezzan Guard, unleashed chaos.
The traditional mourning period for the passing of an emperor was three months, during which solemn ceremony followed solemn ceremony, and black-garbed officials snaked their way through the cities and the countryside with the funeral bier, followed by agonizing masses of mourners who loudly proclaimed their grief and undying loyalty. Then, the next three months saw formal and informal celebrations led by red-garbed officials who paraded the new Hezzan th
roughout the cities and the countryside, followed by teeming throngs who loudly proclaimed their joy and their undying loyalty.
But without the Twelve to duly appoint and swear in the new Hezzan, without officials to plan the processions and wear the garb and direct the mourning and the celebration, without a new Hezzan or even, seemingly, the possibility of a new Hezzan, the streets erupted in violence. The riots were led, of course, by the Zealots, who were confident that the end of all morality and the fall of the kingdom had come upon them all, and therefore the palace should be stormed, the Unworthy ones who were holed up within it dragged into the streets to be dismembered and hanged, and the government taken for themselves, they having proven beyond any doubt their own fitness for rule in the process.
The Zealots were unsuccessful, however. They were stopped at the palace gates by Vasla Vor and his grim Hezzan Guard, who killed twoscore of them in a matter of minutes before the leaders of the uprising, the Quarto, called a retreat. They then determined that restoring the moral rectitude of the kingdom might require just a bit more planning.
But no arms or gates could stop the rumors that flew like flashes of lightning in a summer storm. The Hezzan wasn’t really dead, he had gone into hiding. The Hezzan was being held in prison, in secret. The Hezzan had been kidnapped by the Vast. The Hezzan had gone mad and killed himself. The Twelve were all actually Zealots and had killed the Hezzan for marrying a warrior. The Twelve weren’t really in prison but had gone into hiding. The Warrior Wife, Talon, had gone mad and killed the Hezzan and the Twelve. Talon wasn’t Drammune at all, but a Vast spy, and Drammun was now being governed by King Reynard. And—inevitably—Talon was a witch with unspeakable powers, bent on taking the throne for herself.
Talon stood at the window of the Hezzan’s bedroom and looked out over what was now, in effect, her city. Fires burned in a dozen places; dark smoke rose into the summer sky. People chanted at the palace gates, calling for her death. But she looked past this. Beyond the city was her country, peaceful in the evening twilight, and beyond that, the sea. This present turmoil seemed to her rather predictable, given the ignorance of the people and the biases of men. As long as the guard could hold the gates, calm would eventually be restored. The Zealots would keep the fires stoked as long as they could, of course; and as yet she had no plan for them. But she would find one. One would come to her.
Before she could make any plan, small or great, she had a crucial decision to make, one on which all other plans would hang. She could either make Vasla Vor into the next Hezzan and rule by proxy, or she could make herself the first female Hezzan. She didn’t really care which path she took, so long as it was the direction that gave her the best chance of finishing her husband’s work: defeating the Vast and making Drammun the most powerful nation in history.
Either path had its difficulties.
Ruling through Vasla Vor would be the simplest move now, but would become more and more difficult as time passed. Once she convinced him to become the Hezzan, which would require much flattery and unending appeals to duty, he would be a willing puppet, uncomfortable with his own authority, in need of approval, unwilling to compare himself to his glorious predecessors. But over time, she knew, this would change. The natural vanity of men would change him. He would eventually come to believe he was chosen by fate, and utterly capable in his own right. And then Talon’s influence would fade. He would one day find her not only unnecessary, but an embarrassment. He would see his former dependence on her as a black mark in the history of his otherwise glorious rule, a blotch on his record that he would just as soon forget. Or erase.
To take over the government and to sit on the throne herself was by far the more difficult route, in the short run. The nation was not prepared to be led by a woman, and the Zealots would never stand for it. They would need to be co-opted or crushed at the outset. The military would likely need to be fully engaged, and that presented a problem when a good portion of it was somewhere in the middle of an ocean. And when it returned, Fen Abbaka Mux would need either to be won, or beaten. But if the Quarto could be dealt with now somehow, and peace and confidence restored before the armies and the navy returned, she would be very hard to unseat, even by Mux.
Talon might have opted for the easy course, trusting that she could accomplish her ends before her own influence eroded, if it were not for another significant piece of the Hezzan’s legacy, another player with a role to consider. What if her child was a boy? Vasla Vor had sons of his own. As Talon’s influence waned and her boy grew, he would come to be seen as a threat to the crown.
And what if the child was a girl? She might well grow to be a woman with great skills, better able to lead than any man. Yet she would be opposed then just as Talon was opposed now. And this same struggle would need to be played out then, under circumstances Talon could not foresee. Today, Talon knew precisely who the players were, and where they were. The Twelve were in prison. The Glorious Drammune Military was halfway across the world. And the General Commander of the Hezzan Guard was in the palm of her hand. Only the Quarto remained to be overcome.
No, the difficult path was the right path.
Her decision made, Talon spent no more time deliberating. She took Vasla Vor under her wing, giving him the constant attention he needed in order to keep him focused, in order to weave the broken threads of his devotion to the Hezzan into the fabric of a new devotion to her. The rest of her time she spent interrogating the Twelve.
She sent for each of them, one at a time, several times, to learn who they were and where their darkened hearts and minds might lead them. If she could salvage but one or two, she could institute a new government, could devise a transition of power, with at least a semblance of continuity. She needed an ally from among them.
She found one in the least likely place. Sool Kron was slippery as an eel, as crafty as a pack of foxes. He was dangerous, and she had outwitted him once in front of his peers, which made him doubly dangerous. But he was no Zealot. He was a practical man of great pride, who was quite old and did not want to end his career or his life powerless and in prison. He understood what the others did not, that these interviews with the Warrior Wife in the Hezzan’s chambers were not in fact interrogations, or even tests of the will. They were negotiations.
“It would take but one member of the Twelve,” he told her, “not just any member, perhaps—but one member of the Twelve to turn the tide in your favor.”
“Why would one of the Twelve turn against his brethren?”
He shook his head, stroked his matted beard. His body ached; he dearly wanted a bath and a bed. But his mind was crisply focused. “ ‘Brethren.’ Ah, that is a strong word for an assembly handpicked by a single man and thrown together come what may. You may learn that at least one of us finds the future of the nation more important than a charade of solidarity.”
“The others already believe you have betrayed them.”
“Do they? Still?”
“And why wouldn’t they? I have told each of them you are in fact already free, and advising me.”
He smiled ruefully. “I have underestimated you.”
“You are not the first. Nor are you the first to suffer for it.”
“I will not make the same mistake again. Since we are speaking frankly, may I ask how you knew of the plot? And how you lured the Hezzan to your chambers?”
She did not answer. Sool Kron grew nervous, and then frightened at the dark look that grew in her eyes and then suddenly vanished, like the shadow of a wolf passing between a dozing man and his campfire.
Talon spoke carefully, not wanting to betray the emotion within her. “Now you overestimate me. I knew nothing. He came to me of his own accord. He died of his own accord…” she struggled with the next words, but finally said them, “…in my arms.”
Kron nodded. “My apologies. I did not know.” So she was truly a wife to him. And more interestingly, she wanted Kron to know it, to understand her devotion to him, even though that devoti
on betrayed her weakness. She was but a woman, after all. This was useful information. “Let us assume that you have found a member of the Twelve who will support you.”
“That is a very large assumption to make for the sake of argument.”
He smiled at her. “You leave me few choices. You have in fact found an ally in the Chief Minister of State.”
She nodded. “I thank you. And the Hezzan thanks you.”
“And may the two soon be the same.”
Now, finally, she smiled. “Go on.”
“All the pieces are in place for you to carry on the work of your husband. All the pieces but one.”
“The Quarto.”
He nodded. “How well do you know the Rahk-Taa?”
“I am Drammune.”
“Then you know the Kar Ixthano,” Kron said, with an air of certainty.
“It goes without saying.” Her heartbeat increased. Did he believe he had already found a way to co-opt the Quarto? “If a man kills a Pawn in war, he takes that man’s earthly dominion for his own.”
“That is the base of it. But there is more.” Sool Kron splayed his bony fingers on the wooden table before him. He had thought about this at length, Talon now knew, and was laying out before her his plan, every word rehearsed. Perhaps she had underestimated him as well.
“In the Kar Ixthano, the Rahk-Taa does not speak directly of war, nor even of those who are Drammune by birth and those who are not. It states simply that the Worthy displace the Unworthy, in order to rule. The Worthy are, of course, defined as those who most closely follow the teachings of the Rahk-Taa.”
“Very handy.”
He grinned. He appreciated the disrespect she was willing to show to the great book of Law; it meant she was someone who could discuss these things rationally. “Yes, indeed. Three principles are given. They function as examples in the text, but the Zealots take them literally. They call these the ‘Three Laws of Kar Ixthano.’ The First Law is the one you have stated. It is generally understood to be about war, but the Zealots do not limit it. It forms the philosophical basis of the riots now occurring in our streets. The Zealots are the Worthy, attempting to displace the Unworthy…you. They seek to kill you and take your dominion.”
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 63
