The dragoon sitting next to Mux had a short sword at his belt, but it was sheathed. A pistol was similarly holstered on his belt. He sat like a lump, paying little attention to his prisoner, assuming the chains would be enough. Packer felt a strong desire to have his sword in his hand. But he did not have it with him. He would not carry it again.
“You feeling all right?” John Hand asked Packer. “You look a little pale.”
Packer didn’t look at him. “I’ll be fine.”
Panna turned away from the window, letting the curtain fall back into place. She crossed her arms. Everything she wanted to do was deemed unwise by someone, and it was always some man in a position of authority. She was no longer a prisoner in the palace, but now she was a prisoner in this little cottage. Anger and frustration mounted.
The priest was compassionate. “It was just one man shouting in the street. He wasn’t a crier, or a herald. It’s a rumor, Panna. Perhaps the Trophy Chase has returned, perhaps not. But fairly or unfairly, you are a wanted criminal. You must hide. I will go learn what I can.”
“Where? How?”
“I’ll go to the palace.”
“But you can’t get inside.”
“I’m not sure what God may allow. But I will again trust His grace.”
She waited. “That’s your whole plan?”
“Well, I’ve had worse. But there are priests who serve within the palace. Perhaps I will find one. You would be amazed at the intricate little network we maintain.”
She sighed. “Okay, fine.” She looked at him, earnest and tender but somehow strong as steel. “Good luck, then.”
He unlocked the door, opened it. He looked around the yard, and past it onto the streets. “Panna, I hope you understand now that I operate with something far more effective than luck.” Then he turned back to Panna and shrugged, smiling. “Unfortunately, the outcomes are equally difficult to predict.”
And he was gone.
Dog Blestoe straightened up as the carriage went by, and caught a glimpse of Packer Throme within it, his arm resting casually on the window sill as he chatted with some white-suited muckety-muck. Dog scowled, then grunted as he slammed a sandbag into place next to its neighbor.
He picked up the next sandbag and slammed it into place as well. Life in the military had been much like this for Dog, just as it had been for most of the farmers and fishermen and cobblers and cartwrights who’d brought their dreams of martial glory into the City of Mann. The real soldiers stood around and smoked, wearing their fine uniforms, while the new recruits did all the digging and filling and lifting and hauling, wearing not much more than rags.
Dog hated his lot, but mostly he hated that he was stuck in the Army. The Navy needed him, he knew, and every day he was more sure that they, at least, were preparing for a proper war. But the little green and blue ribbons had turned out to mean precisely nothing. Some old general, or maybe it was a colonel, had come by on the first day of muster and sorted the men out, sending some this way and some that, regardless of where they’d signed up or what color their bits of cloth were. At the time, Dog hadn’t been able to figure any logic in it, but now he was convinced the officer had simply earmarked the strongest-looking men for manual labor, to build the city’s fortifications. So Dog had spent his Army career to date manhandling a shovel and several tons of sand.
Not that there weren’t military moments. The recruits drilled on the parade ground twice a day, once at dawn and once at dusk. They were pretty good now at marching in a line. And they had instruction in small arms once a week. They were not allowed to fire their weapons, of course, as they needed to conserve ammunition. And once or twice a week they had practice using a sword, or a pike, or a stick, whatever it was they actually owned. But that was as much time as could be spared from digging and stacking, apparently. They had to build these fortifications around the Rampart. How sand could fortify stone remained a mystery to Dog.
This morning at drills, they had been told the Drammune were arriving tomorrow, maybe the next day. Everyone shouted “Death to Drammun!” six or eight times, and then they marched in neat rows for an extra ten minutes. Then, however, they were allowed to fire live ammunition, one round each at a practice target. This presented a small host of complex problems to be solved, including the misplacement of powder, ammunition, and practice targets, and there was general confusion regarding which weapons could fire which size shot. But after only an hour or two, most of these difficulties had been worked out. It was a good thing, too, because that’s when the not-quite-ubiquitous figure of Bench Urmand had ridden up on his pale white steed, galloping at the head of a small contingent, four of his fiercest fighting men, to proudly oversee the actual shooting portion of the drill. He saw, in fact, some marksmanship of excellent quality. Convinced all was well, he’d congratulated the officers and ridden off.
The gunnery crews were more efficient, thanks in large part to the fact that the cannon were already placed in the streets of Mann, and so firing live ammunition was not practical. The artillerymen were quite accustomed to firing charges without shot and, if powder was short, pantomiming the entire process. So these drills had gone off pretty much without a hitch.
But none of that appeased Dog’s simmering sense of injury. And now to add searing insult, some breathless idiot runs up saying that Packer Throme has taught Firefish to eat Drammune warships. And then Himself rides by in a shiny white carriage pulled by two brilliant white horses, chatting away like nothing whatever was of concern in the world. If the fate of the kingdom hinged on such men as Packer Throme, Dog thought, they were all doomed to die bloody deaths.
He sneered, then slammed another sandbag into place as the carriage disappeared from view. Everything always came so easy for that boy.
As quickly as the carriage moved, with the hooves of its twin white horses clattering at a fast trot through the city streets, it still could not outrun the rumors. When the coach stopped at the guarded gate leading into the palace, a small crowd of people cheered. They pushed up around the carriage, wanting to put their hands on it, wanting to reach it, to touch Packer and the dashing Admiral John Hand. Guards and soldiers saluted, men waved, old women reached up to touch them, mothers held children up, young women blew kisses.
“God bless you, Packer Throme!” they said, and, “Thank you, Admiral!” and “Tamed the Firefish, did you?” and “We’ll win this thing yet!” Many said, “God bless Nearing Vast,” and one even called out, “We got their commander—good work!”
“We should let these people debrief the prince,” John Hand suggested as the carriage jolted forward again.
From half a block away, a small priest watched. He grimaced, then looked up to heaven. He turned and walked away.
Father Mooring did not go straight back to the Seminary, back to Panna with the news that Packer had returned. Instead, he walked the length of the palace fence, then turned left, following it around toward the far northwest corner of the compound, where the fence around the Green met the Rampart wall. There a gritty, rusted iron gate with an enormous padlock fronted a huge wooden door, large enough for three horses to pass through abreast. On the other side of that door was a ramp that led down into the palace prison.
The little priest was not sure why he went there, other than that he felt some deep misgivings that prompted him. But he was quickly thankful that he did. He found a guard holding the old gate open as a wagon drawn by a single, swayback old mare groaned out onto the street. As the guard closed the huge wooden door and padlocked the iron gate, Father Mooring wandered up to the side of the wagon and peered in over its side. He looked up at the driver with piercing eyes.
“Anyone I know?”
The driver looked like he had been caught stealing. Father Mooring studied his sallow face and blinking eyes for a moment, then turned to the gateman, who stood frozen in place, padlock in his hands, frown drawn down to his chin. Then the two guards looked at one another.
The driver looked
back at the priest. “Can you keep quiet?”
“As the grave,” Father Mooring promised.
“Ah, Admiral Hand and Packer Throme!” Jacqalyn Sennett gushed as they entered the main hallway of the palace. Packer was watching a contingent of dragoons walk the Drammune prisoner, plodding and jangling, to the stairway, headed down. He felt a heavy load lifted; he hadn’t realize how tense he had been until he relaxed. Now he turned to Princess Jacqalyn, and saw her hold out a hand for the admiral to kiss. Hand obliged, with practiced grace and warmth. “Welcome back, Admiral,” she said in a voice smooth as oil. I understand you had quite the adventures.”
“Yes, actually,” John Hand began. But she wasn’t interested in him.
“And the heroic Packer Throme,” she cooed, holding out her hand limply. “I’m Princess Jacqalyn. I’ve heard so very much about you.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Packer took her hand and kissed it clumsily, he felt, in a poor imitation of the admiral.
“Oh, but you are a handsome boy,” she said, thinking how drab and common he looked, pockmarks and unruly hair and all. Not anywhere near the dashing swordsman she had imagined. “And the pity is, you just missed seeing your wife.”
He looked, and felt, as if he had just come wide awake from a deep sleep. “Panna? She was here? When?”
“Why, I thought you knew,” the princess purred. “She never left. Until just last night, oddly enough, when she escaped. Oops. I mean, left unexpectedly. But I’m sure Prince Mather will explain it all. His business, not mine.”
Packer’s heart felt like it had been ransacked. First it was filled to the brim, thinking Panna was near, then it was punctured with the thought she had been in the palace all this time, then it spilled open suddenly with that single word. Escaped. All of his senses were now attuned to danger. Hair bristled at the back of his neck.
Jacqalyn laughed at the utter transparency of the boy. A good match for Panna—the same lack of guile, and undoubtedly the same moral backbone. Probably the same pugilistic style. Perhaps they had even learned to box together. “I’d love to join you in your discussions with Prince Mather. Really I would. Really. But I must be off! Bye-bye now!” And she sashayed away.
Packer looked at John Hand accusingly.
“Easy, Packer,” the admiral said. “I’m sure the prince was just keeping her safe.”
“From what?”
“I said easy, son. That’s an order. Let him explain.”
Packer had little time to deal with his emotions, or to prepare himself to be careful and proper with the Prince of the Realm. He had a deep, empty, sullen spot where his stomach should have been as the prince walked briskly up to them, a broad smile on his face.
Neither Packer nor John Hand could possibly have been prepared for the changes that had come over, or more precisely, had overcome, Mather Sennett. His face was a blotch of makeup, and where it wasn’t makeup, it was bruised purple and yellow and black, and where it wasn’t either, it was pallid white. His nose was misshapen. A knot bulged at his left temple. His perfect hair was not perfect, but looked as though he had been running his hands through it, or had been pulling on it, and had just now hastily put it back in place with his fingers. His eyes were red and blank. His smile was forced.
“Gentlemen! Welcome back.”
“Good Lord, Mather, what’s happened to you?” John Hand asked bluntly.
“Me? Oh, little bit of trouble here and there. But I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you’ve been through! Come in, sit down.” But the prince didn’t guide them into his quarters. He stood rooted to the spot, looking at Packer, smiling thinly. He didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t help it. Once he had caught Packer’s eye, he could not pull his own away. The young man’s expression was completely open, a window into a turbulent, accusing soul. The look penetrated through the prince’s dark secrets and left him stunned and vulnerable.
“Where is Panna?” Packer demanded.
The prince straightened up, and took a step back. “Panna?”
“We just ran into the princess,” John Hand explained.
The prince recovered somewhat, and smiled again. “Ah. Dearest Jacqalyn. She is such a one for making up stories—”
“What happened to Panna?” Packer asked urgently.
“Packer,” John Hand said, putting a very firm hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Let me handle this.”
Packer didn’t budge, and didn’t take his eyes off the prince. John Hand stepped into his line of sight. “Walk away, Ensign Throme. Wait for me at the end of the hall.”
Only when the admiral broke Packer’s focus did he understand the danger he was putting himself in. “Sir?” he asked, his intensity unaltered.
“Step away. That is an order.”
Packer turned and walked down the hall, his ears filled with a loud buzzing, his hands tingling.
Mather and John Hand chatted for a few moments, and then the prince motioned to a dragoon. “Guard, take Mr. Throme to the Blue Rooms,” he instructed quietly. “And once you put him in, do not let him out.”
The wagon groaned, and the swayback mare plodded with heavy hooves on the cobblestones. Bran Mooring raised his head, having finished his prayer, feeling deeply saddened, but confident now about what must be done. He was seated inside the wagon facing backward, at Will Seline’s left shoulder. He pulled back his hood and looked at the driver’s profile. The man’s eyes were narrowed and focused.
“Of course,” Father Mooring said with a smile, “you’re taking him to the church for preparation first.”
The driver’s brow drooped further, obscuring his eyes completely. “Church?” he asked without turning.
“You’re burying a priest.”
The two guards looked at one another, deep concern mirrored in their faces. “Or else what happens if he don’t go to a church?” asked the driver.
“What happens?” Bran asked right back, as though amazed by the question. “My good man, this is a priest of God.” He emphasized the last word. And he said no more.
The driver swallowed. “How long would such preparations take?”
“No more than a few hours. Usually.”
“Hours?”
“Overnight at the longest.”
The man jerked his head around and stared wild-eyed at Father Mooring. “We can’t do that!”
“Ah, that is unfortunate, then.” And Bran Mooring turned away, facing backward. He bowed his head.
The wagon drew to a halt. The driver turned in his seat and stared hard at the two priests in the back of his wagon. He wasn’t sure which would cause him more trouble now, the live one or the dead one. “Look, we can’t wait around at a church for you to do your…whatever. We gotta bury him and get back. We got orders.”
“Maybe you could do it in a few minutes?” the younger one asked. “Sort of a rush job?”
Bran Mooring looked him in the eye. “A rush job?”
The younger one hung his head. The driver looked at him like he’d suggested treason. The silence deepened. Then deepened further. Finally, Bran Mooring decided to take a risk.
“You could always leave him at the chapel with me,” he offered. “We’ll bury him quietly. We do take care of our own.”
“Why couldn’t we do that?” the younger one asked his partner plaintively.
“I will promise,” the priest added, “that no one but priests will know of his burial. And you two gentlemen,” now he summoned an extra dose of solemnity, “will be remembered in our daily prayers for a long time.”
“How long a time?” the younger one asked.
Bran nodded, stroked his chin. “Two weeks.”
The two guards looked at one another. The younger one shrugged. It seemed like a bargain.
“Three,” the driver countered.
“Done.”
Once Will Seline’s big body was laid out on the floor within the nave of the Seminary chapel, covered with the single grimy sheet from the prison, Bran
Mooring put a hand on each guard’s shoulder. Several other priests had gathered by this time. All managed to refrain from asking Brother Bran what in the world he was doing. They were in fact a very quiet bunch, which put the two guards at ease.
“Thank you,” Bran told them. “You have made the good choice, even though it was the hard choice. You will be remembered in our prayers. Let this be the beginning of a new page in your lives. Go in peace, and seek the things of God.”
They both smiled as they turned away. Their deep sense of satisfaction would last almost all the way back to the prison, when they would begin to worry that they had just left a dead man unburied, against the orders of a prince.
As soon as the two were out of earshot, Bran Mooring knelt and pulled the sheet away. He turned his face up toward his fellows. “This is Will Seline, father of Panna Throme. He died in Prince Mather’s prison for the crime of trying to learn his daughter’s fate.”
“And do we yet know her fate?” one of them asked, alarmed. They had all heard by now of the dragoons who had taken an axe to Father Mooring’s door.
Bran looked from face to face. He found Usher Fell’s and spoke directly to it. “Thankfully, she has escaped Prince Mather’s machinations alive. But my brothers, this is the evil done within the palace walls, even as the Drammune are poised to sack the city. Let us pray that God may show mercy on us all.”
Usher Fell was as impassive as stone. “Yes,” he said, as the others looked at him. He did not break eye contact with Father Mooring. “Let us pray indeed.”
CHAPTER 21
The Siege
Within a few hours, the euphoria created by the stories of the glorious exploits of the Trophy Chase had vanished. The tail of the tale, like a scorpion’s sting, struck home. It was this: The Drammune Armada was but hours away, thousands upon thousands of troops bent on vengeance for the awful things the Trophy Chase had done to them, for the way Packer Throme and Admiral John Hand had humiliated them. A hundred ships, a thousand ships, more, all on the warpath, just over the horizon, in the Bay of Mann. And then the grim rumor spread, the darkest of all, as impossible to verify as any other, but more insidious for its being true: The Vast Fleet had already been destroyed. Only the Trophy Chase and a handful of merchant vessels remained.
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