When he saw his own cottage, Bran stopped and put a hand to his chest, trying to calm his heart. The front windows were broken in, and the door hung ajar. Heart still racing, he walked up to it, and gingerly stepped in.
A tornado had blown through. Every item in his living room had been displaced, overturned, broken, or stolen. He felt as though his very memory had been violated. He feared as he stood there that he would never be able to recall his students again. There at his feet was the little silver hairbrush. He picked it up, wiped glass shards from its bristles.
Still holding the brush in his hand, he crunched on broken glass toward the kitchen. But he stopped short. He heard snoring. He glanced into his bedroom, and then caught his breath. Hobnail sandals on grimy feet, protruding from the end of his bed. He stood still a moment, listening, then tiptoed closer. Two beefy warriors were sound asleep on top of his bedding, fully armed, their Drammune uniforms and crimson armor bathed in blood. The rest of the room was in total disarray, with all drawers and closets emptied onto the floor.
Father Mooring walked gingerly back into his kitchen. His stores of food were gone, his larger pots and pans missing, his shelves pillaged. His teapot had disappeared. The stove, however, had not been touched. He thought, not for the first time, how brilliant the idea was to hide a secret passageway below a stove. Men of violence might overturn everything in a house if they were searching for something of value, but a potbellied stove they would leave unmolested. Even the most ruthless of men had been children somewhere, and unless they’d been raised by wolves they had a mother or a grandmother or an aunt or some sort of guardian, someone who cooked meals on just such an implement. The bed was a place of deep mystery, of extremes, of dreams and terrors, pleasures and pains. The table was a place of exchange, of conflict and resolution, of argument and anger, commerce and camaraderie, lies and love. A chair was a seat at the table, representing authority, membership, rest, or reward; to have a chair was to belong, not to have a chair was to have no place. Drawers and shelves and closets were for hiding things, holding things in abeyance, planning for uncertain futures, and organizing unruly pasts. All these could be ruthlessly attacked, rifled, overturned, discarded, and for violent and unfulfilled men, all might be done with a deep sense of satisfaction, justified by the value that they held, that they might still greedily withhold.
But a stove? No, a stove could hold no deception; it had no ambiguity. It promised, and what it promised, it delivered. And no matter how bad a bad man’s home life had been, how hated he was or starved for attention, the stove was still the producer of comfort, the hedge against hunger, the generator of warmth and light and sustenance. What need was there for, or what pleasure could be taken in, ransacking a stove?
Father Mooring let these thoughts slide quickly through his mind as he prayed that Panna was safe at the bottom of a twelve-foot shaft, that she was at this moment protected by such ordinary miracles.
Bran Mooring left his cottage with the small brush in his pocket, and saw a gathering of Drammune soldiers talking among themselves. He put an earnest look on his face and padded up to the group, as though continuing on his diligent mission. He bowed to them, and spoke in broken Drammune: “Two Worthies, dead in house,” he said. “Many sorrows.”
One scowled at him, then barked out curt orders. Another grabbed him by his hood, bunched it at the nape of his neck, and marched him back toward his own cottage. Three others drew swords and ran ahead. Bran Mooring was a study in smallness, a wisp of nothing, soft and round, surrounded by, propelled forward by, enormous, rock-solid, armed, dangerous men.
When two beefy, sleepy warriors came out of the cottage blinking and scratching, the others roared in laughter. They looked at the priest’s wide eyes and laughed louder yet. Bran smiled sheepishly, bowed several times. “Sorrows for trouble,” he said in broken Drammune. “Happy not dead.” And when they let him go he padded off up the street, their laughter fading behind him.
Father Mooring turned the corner, and as soon as he was out of sight, he stopped, leaned back against the wall of a tobacco shop, and took a deep breath. He peeked back again. The gaggle of soldiers was now drifting away from his cottage, away from him. He looked up and down the street. Then he turned to look at the tobacco shop behind him. The front windows were broken in. The entire store had been looted by the Drammune, property claimed through the Right of Transfer, no doubt. A solitary cigar lay among the shards, just inside the window.
Bran felt a powerful desire to find some dark spot, some little haven, maybe even his own ruined home, and enjoy what might be his last simple pleasure for a very long time. He reached for the cigar, but before he touched it, his hand stopped. It wasn’t his. It belonged to Bing Hamman, the proprietor. Some other day, when times were right again, he would pay for it, and he and Bing would smoke together. He pulled his hand back. He looked around the corner again. The Drammune were gone. He glanced up and down the street, then hurried back to his cottage.
All that day, the cleanup continued. The Drammune had complete control of the city, taking over the redoubts and fortifications that Dog and his comrades had built. The Drammune commanders were quite impressed with the planning that had gone into these positions. From them, the flow of traffic in the entire city could be controlled. The defenses had been well designed. The rings of defenders, if they had held, would have been formidable. “Brains but no heart” became the watchword among the Drammune. Another way to translate that would be schemes without courage.
As bodies burned, the gallows rose. Lumber had been found, men conscripted. It would not be a towering edifice, as was traditional among the Vast, but it would do the job. When finished, its deck would stand ten feet above the ground, and it would be large enough for nine men to stand across it, four on either side of the condemned.
The stairway, being the most time-consuming item to build, would be borrowed. A suitable staircase was found outside one of the finer homes, leading up to a second-story porch. It was ripped away, hastily cut to fit, and nailed to the gallows.
By late afternoon the nature of the structure was obvious, and fear-filled rumors began circulating throughout the City. The Drammune would hang the king. They would hang the prince. The entire royal family. They were going to hang one prisoner of war every hour, round the clock, until their demands were met. This rumor did not explain what their demands might be. The one rumor that did not circulate was that they had caught, and would now hang, Packer Throme. Whenever this was suggested, the speaker was immediately castigated. Everyone knew the Trophy Chase had sailed. Packer Throme had sailed with her, of course. The Trophy Chase and Packer Throme were practically the same. The Chase was gone, and therefore so was Packer.
Packer and the Trophy Chase were their hope. He and that ship were all but unbeatable. And standing with them was the Fleet, which was still out there, somewhere. The glory of Nearing Vast was alive and well, out at sea, in the natural habitat of the Vast, the one place where all others would fall short. It was only a matter of time before white sails filled the horizon, blue smoke filled the air, and red sails were driven back where they belonged.
One item that was not a rumor was the time of the execution. Handbills were posted. At ten in the morning, justice would be served. All citizens within the city were expected to gather inside the Rampart to witness it.
Prince Ward saw no handbills. He was deep underground, making his way through the tunnels. He knew the farthest ends of the passageways, and could navigate most of these routes blindfolded or, more to the point, blind drunk. He knew the route that would take him out into the countryside north of the city, in the direction that his armies had fled. He was confident he could bypass the Drammune, find a way to his countrymen, let some solid military man know about the hanging, someone who could form a raiding party. Then Ward could lead them back to rescue Packer. Four or five raiders, even if they started at first light, could move in, and with surprise on their side overcome the prison guards
, release Packer, and be back in the safety of the underground tunnels before anyone knew what had happened.
But Prince Ward did not follow the path out of the city. Instead, he turned down a well-traveled passage that led to a small iron door. He unlocked it, swung it toward him. He stepped into a roughhewn but neatly kept wine cellar. He closed the door behind him. Where he had entered, now only a simple, plastered wall could be seen. He climbed the stairs out of the cellar.
He stood for a moment, surveying the familiar room. It was daylight outside, and though the inn had been shuttered and barred, sunlight streamed through several cracks, illuminating walls covered with the implements of war. A huge mahogany bar with rows of ale barrels behind it filled the wall to his left. He turned to his right and walked confidently to a display case that featured several ancient swords. He knelt in front of it. He pulled on a large drawer at its base, but it didn’t open. He pushed it in, then reached up under the lip, found the latch, and opened the drawer.
He held his lantern over the contents: a large, long canvas bag, fastened with brass buckles. He pulled the bag from the drawer, and laid it on the floor. He opened it, and held the lamp above it. Inside were three oiled and sheathed swords with belts, three holstered pistols, with musket balls and powder charges, several long knives, and two short battle axes. All the latest manufacture, the best quality. The rest of the displays here were artifacts. But these were, in truth, the king’s arms, kept for the use of dragoons who gathered in this tavern. Just in case.
Ward knew all about this stash. He had emptied many a mug of ale in this place. He had contributed to the right sort of drunkenness for many a Dragoon. He quickly loaded two of the pistols. He strapped a sword around his waist, tucked two pistols in his belt. Then he packed the rest back into the bag and returned it to its hiding place.
Armed and ready, he went to the bar. He looked for several minutes at the ales, the taps, the mugs hanging in front of him. Just a quick one, he thought. His throat was dry as a down thistle. Just one mug of that cool amber liquid, to see him on his way. How could that hurt? It couldn’t. And it would help immensely. It would calm his nerves, end this shaking in his hands. He would feel better; he would be ready for anything, instead of feeling thin and stretched and sickly as he did now. Just one. To taper off.
But as he selected a mug, he knew exactly how it could hurt. As he walked behind the bar and put the mug under a spigot, turned it, watched the fluid fill the cup, smelled it as it filled his nostrils, he knew how it would hurt. The same way it had always hurt. Just one drink would make it easy to have just one more, and harder to go do what he must go do.
As he took his first large gulp, as the cool fluid poured down his throat to warm his belly, he knew without a doubt that if he had a second mug, he would be asking himself just who he thought he was. A rescuer? He was Prince Ward, a drunk. And after his third, he would be unable to face himself. He had sworn he would drink no more, and had meant it. But here he would be, having a fourth, and then a fifth, by himself, in the dark. And if he couldn’t face himself, how could he face his own Army? And if he couldn’t face his own Army, how could he face the Drammune?
He looked at a wall clock, its pendulum swinging slowly, ticking gently. Just after one. Tomorrow was a long way off. And perhaps, he thought, looking at the promise of relief offered by all those oaken barrels, perhaps this was all he really wanted to be. His eyes focused on the mirror’s image of himself on the wall behind the bar, a dashing figure without backbone. Every time an opportunity to rise to his duty came, he wasted it. He treated every obligation like it was a mountain to be climbed, and every temptation like it was a gift from the dark gods, a way of escape, an opening into some cave or crevasse where climbing mountains was unnecessary.
It was a weakness of the Sennett line, he thought. That’s what it was. His father was the same, though the temptations differed. His sister was given over to whatever whim struck her fancy. His brother, he had thought, was different. But Panna had proved otherwise to all and sundry. At root, the Sennetts were all the same. Surely, they were the weakest royal family that had ever pretended to nobility. And now they had together ruined their nation.
That fact begged for another drink.
So here was his gift from the dark gods. Rows of barrels of ale, all his. Bottles of rum. A cellar full of choice wine. For no one but Prince Ward Sennett. He took another long pull and wiped his mouth. It tasted so very, very good.
He was quite sure this was the best ale he’d ever had the pleasure of consuming.
“Mr. Throme?”
The words called him from a deep, dreamless sleep. “Who is it?” Packer squinted. He could see nothing.
“Stave Deroy. Royal Dragoons.”
“Where are you?”
“Two cells down.”
Packer squinted into the dark. He could see a big man’s silhouette.
Chunk waved a hand in salute.
“You’re a dragoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And a prisoner?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I let Mrs. Throme escape.”
Packer thought about that. “Thank you.”
“Only I didn’t mean to do it. Prince Mather got angry, like I planned it. But I’m glad she did get away, though.”
After a pause, Packer asked, “Do you know what happened to her?”
“What Prince Mather did, you mean?”
“Yes. What Prince Mather did to her.”
“Yeah. I think. Most of it.”
“And will you tell me?”
“Yeah. And there’s more.”
“More?”
“Her father.”
“Will Seline? The priest?”
“Yeah.”
“What about him?”
“He was here when I got here. Where you are now.”
“Here? In prison?”
No response.
“What happened to him?”
“I’ll tell you.”
And Chunk told Packer all he knew.
The morning dawned hot and merciless, the first summer day of the season. The air was thick with the rain that had fallen all night in an angry argument between earth and sky. The elements had fought with lightning and thunder, rain and wind, and when their battle was done, and the ground strewn with wet leaves, twigs, and branches, the sky had cleared. Now the sun rose through the humid air like a glaring eye, its heat and light boring through the upper palace windows, then slowly working down its walls, down the western wall of the Rampart, then falling across the timbers of the gallows. When it reached the base, its rays then fired the grassy expanse of the open square. The Green was the large area just north of the palace, within the palace compound, appointed for great public gatherings, feasts, concerts, national celebrations, and public executions.
The handbills had done their job. Citizens began arriving early to claim a spot with a good view, as they always did for hangings. But it was a different kind of crowd today. Where usually there were families, parents bringing children to teach them the ultimate object lesson about the end of a lawless life, much of this crowd was made up of the lawless themselves, those who had stayed behind for dishonest gain, or because they cared little who held power in the palace. Dirk Menafee was here, he of the grizzled beard who had once attempted to rob Senslar Zendoda, along with a few of his fellow highwaymen and bounty hunters. So was Croc-Eyed Sam, with a handful of his regulars, old cutthroats who for whatever reason did not sail on Scat Wilkins’ latest, and last, voyage. And here too was the proprietor of Will Seline’s favorite used-merchandise emporium, already smoking her cigar. The rest were the ragtag remnant who for motives known best to them neither fought nor fled. Many still had the sullen looks, the sunken eyes gained from yesterday’s grim labors. Filling out their numbers were the elderly, the marginally sane, the beggars. And of course, the priests.
The prince looked out from the north balcony window,
over the amphitheater that was the heart of the Green. All gates into the palace grounds had been opened early, and the gentle bowl that rose up and away from him, away from the gallows in the foreground, was slowly filling with these dregs, the last of the Vast in Mann.
“Not our best face, I must say,” the prince said, noting the disdain in his new master’s expression.
“Hmm.” Fen Abbaka Mux wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foul. “The best face of your people…would that be your soldiers, hiding in the countryside? Those who ran like cowards?”
Mather smiled thinly. “You have a point.”
“Or would it be your women and children, who fled first, knowing their warrior husbands could not protect them?”
He nodded glumly. “Another point.”
“You think these brigands, these drunks, these doddering old men and women are not representative of your people? And yet, they are here. They have not fled in terror.”
“No. Nor have the priests.”
Mux spat over the rail. “Your priests. The most unworthy of all. The greatest shall serve the least, and the weakest shall be the strongest? Great fools teaching lesser fools to be greater fools yet. I should line them up and hang them all, one after the other.”
Mather did not need to try very hard to see these robed characters from Mux’s perspective. The Drammune were strong and the Vast were weak, with the inevitable results here lately. Could a Will Seline stop a Fen Abbaka Mux? Could anyone? The answer was apparent.
“And perhaps we should not stop with the priests. We should hang every last Vast native who attends this morning, for the dishonor they have displayed by not dying more nobly yesterday.” The thought gave Mux some satisfaction, particularly as he imagined his new lapdog, their glorious prince, pulling the lever again and again until his hands blistered.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 79
