Mather now felt as though he was seeing Packer for the first time—not a tool for the furthering of the war, not an opportunity to persuade the people, not a rival for Panna’s love. Just a firm, fine young man, upright in a way Prince Mather was quite sure he himself was not and now would never be.
The prince’s voice grew warm. “You are the hero of Nearing Vast.” He took the signet ring from his right index finger and held it out on his left palm. “Here is the sign and seal of all that is mine. I give it to you freely.”
Packer, of course, could not take it. He was still chained.
The prince looked at the supreme commander with steady eyes. “Ixthano?” he asked. It was a bold request, really. But the prince waited, sure that Mux’s sense of duty would win out. And it did. The literal meaning of the word was “to change hands.”
“Remove the prisoner’s shackles,” Mux said to the guard, handing him the key. The guard obeyed, returned the key to Mux.
With his hands free but feet still chained, Packer took the ring from the prince’s palm, closed his scarred hand around it. He did not know what to say. The wind kicked up again. Then he managed, “Thank you.”
“Well, try it on,” Mather suggested, a glint in his eye.
Packer slipped the ring onto his right forefinger, a tight fit over the scarred skin there. But instantly the prince, to Packer’s amazement, lowered himself to one knee.
“Hagh!” Mux ordered in Drammune, suddenly realizing the absurdity of what he was seeing, and the trouble it would cause him. Enough! “Now bind this one,” and he pointed at Mather.
The Drammune guard took the shackles to the prince, who was still on one knee, and yanked his arms behind him. “Ixthano,” Mux said to Mather with some satisfaction. A ring in exchange for manacles.
“From hand to hand!” the translator informed the crowd.
Then Mux said to the guard, “I want that girl when this is done.”
“I want that girl—” the translator boomed, then choked as Mux’s fist caught him in the chest. The guard, now quite aware this had been meant as a private command, looked down at Panna as though she had caused his error.
Panna met his eye, and fear stabbed through her. She looked to Packer, who mouthed the single, urgent word, “Go!”
But Panna didn’t move.
Mux sniffed. “Valla!” he ordered Mather. Stand!
The translator, cowed, said nothing. And the prince did not stand. He did not move at all.
“Valla!” Mux repeated. Now Mather turned his head. His mind had been far away. But still he did not stand.
Instead, in Drammune he replied, “I ask the supreme commander for permission to die on my knees.”
Mux rolled his eyes. Was there no bottom to the dishonor these people were willing to bear? “Fine,” he announced. “The Transfer is complete. Therefore, Packer Throme shall be your hangman.”
The translator, after a nod from Mux, repeated the words. Packer would hang the prince. Now Packer’s spirit fell, as though through the trapdoor. “No,” he said instinctively.
But Mux had him by the hair with an iron fist, and walked him to the edge of the platform, to his left, stood him beside the wooden lever. He pointed at it.
Packer looked at the machinery of execution. It was a simple length of wood, the kind from which a craftsman might turn a chair leg or a wheel spoke. It was bolted to the edge of the platform, with the bolt serving as a fulcrum. The end that protruded below the platform was positioned against a board that held the trapdoor shut. Pull the lever, release the trapdoor.
The crowd had heard his words, and a fierce whisper rose and fell, as though each needed to confirm for his neighbor the truth of the same dark rumor at the same time. He wants Packer to hang the prince! And then the Vast crowd went silent again as Packer eyed the lever before him. But he knew he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. Not for any reason, for any purpose.
“Now!” Mux ordered. He drew his sword. It hissed like a snake.
At that moment Prince Ward walked out onto the Green. He saw the gallows across a sea of the Vast, saw dark clouds building in cumulonimbus piles above it. He was followed closely by Bench Urmand, limping but upright, and then all four of Bench’s regulars.
At any other moment the Drammune guards might have stopped them, six men of fighting age wearing jackets in the sweltering heat. But not this moment. There were two reasons for their inattention. First, the Drammune watched the gallows as intently as the Vast did, to see the hero hang the prince. But second, this small party was lost within a steady flow of citizens that had been arriving to join this multitude ever since Packer had entered the Green. Word had spread, somehow, as it always seemed to spread in this city. They came out of respect, they came out of anger, they came out of hiding, they came out of the woodwork. And they came armed. Knives, clubs, blackjacks, pistols, whatever they could hide. They packed the Green until there was barely room to stand, thousands upon thousands of Vast irregulars.
The heart of Prince Ward rose as he squinted at the platform. Packer Throme was alive! And he was not being hanged! He was being forced to execute someone else, but who was it? Some kneeling, dark-haired figure with head bowed. It looked a bit like Mather, but that was not at all a familiar pose for the crown prince. It was impossible to tell.
Ward turned, looked at Bench. The former sheriff’s face was now a ghastly white. It looked bloodless, except around his eyes which were dark, almost black. But he seemed alert. Ward said nothing, thinking that Bench looked a whole lot like Ward felt.
Prince Ward had not had his drink. He had gone to the King’s Arms for that purpose, looking for the easy way out, trying to find the crevasse that would hide him from the trek up this enormous mountain. But the place had been gutted. The Drammune had found it, finally, had taken all the weapons, then smashed or emptied whatever kegs and bottles they did not want. Ward had cursed them at first, then a moment later he had thanked them, and then a moment later he had thanked God and run to see if he might still find a duty left to perform.
He met Bench and his men in the tunnels, following a lamp taken from the prison wall, hoping to find their way to the Green. They were headed the wrong direction, but Ward turned them right, took them back through the King’s Arms and out to the street, where they joined the traffic into the Green, and into the crowd.
But what was to be done now? Bench’s look asked the question.
Ward shrugged.
Packer looked down again toward Panna. She nodded vehemently, quite certain what his appointed role was in this drama. Everything about her said, “Hang the prince!” This angel was prepared to deliver judgment.
And there was Father Bran Mooring, right beside her! Packer’s heart surged within him. He had not even noticed his mentor from his Seminary days. Behind the ever-present smile, the priest’s eyes prayed, “Have mercy.”
“Now!” Mux ordered again, pressing the point of his sword to Packer’s back. But the yellow-hair still did not pull the lever. Mux pressed harder, convincing Packer and all who could see that the Drammune commander would run out of patience quite soon, and run him through.
Packer ignored the pain, looked out over the crowd once more. They were expectant, and he knew what they expected. He was a hero. They wanted heroics. And then an image came to his mind. He didn’t invite it, in fact he tried to block it. But it came nonetheless. His training had been too thorough, his habits of mind too rigorously ingrained. It came in a flash, but it was all there.
The translator stood beside Mux, between Mux and Mather, behind Packer and to his right. He had a sword sheathed on his hip. Packer had seen it, and though it hadn’t registered before, now it hung before his eyes as though he had contemplated it for an hour. The man was right-handed. The sword was on his left hip, close to Packer. The handle was covered in dark, stained leather. The scabbard was ill-fitting; it was made for a larger sword.
It would come out easily. The translator would die without
knowing what had happened.
The three remaining guards were in a rough semicircle behind the prince. The two guards who had walked Packer up the stairs were both huge, strong, with good balance. But they were not quick. They had caught him when he stumbled, twice, and so Packer knew their reaction times. Precisely. His mind worked it all out in a flash, the moves he would need to make, the affect of the chains on his feet, what Mux would do, the order in which all five of the Drammune would die. He couldn’t help but see all of it, plan all of it, watch all of it unfold.
He recalled, and felt, the smooth power and unstoppable energy that had taken back the decks of the Trophy Chase from the Drammune. He had done that against much greater odds. The warrior within him now rose up, swelling his soul, to set all this right.
But Packer stopped the warrior within him, right there. He remembered the sickness, the vileness that had consumed him the last time. He had prayed the wrong prayer. He had asked to fight, rather than for God to fight, the battle. No, he would not make the same mistake. He could not fight, or pray to fight. God had sent the Firefish. What would God send now? He didn’t know, but he knew he had to pray the right prayer this time. His hand burned. “You are not your own, you were bought with a price,” he said aloud. And the following words came to his mind. Therefore glorify God in your body.
Mather’s lips stopped moving, and he looked up at Packer.
Prince Ward and Bench Urmand saw the same thing at the same time. They saw the kneeling figure raise his head, face now visible. “Oh no,” was all Ward could say. Bench said nothing, but his pistol was in his hand and he was pushing through the crowd toward the gallows. His men were behind him.
Mux pressed the point of his sword into Packer again.
Packer fell to his knees.
Panna’s chin slumped down to her chest as hope ebbed from her. She had no prayers left. Packer had given up again. Now he would die.
Packer did not know how to glorify God, and he confessed that fact now. But here before this Vast throng, he did know one thing: He could not fight. And then the words of another verse came to mind, the words of Christ Himself: “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” Packer would not perform the violent acts the people expected, up here on a stage so they might cheer him as a better pirate, a better mutineer than the Drammune. He had already broken faith with the world. So he asked God to work, to fight, to answer prayer, just as He had done at sea: to make His strength perfect in Packer’s weakness.
Mather watched Packer fall on his knees, and he smiled within. He bowed his head again, feeling that God was in that act. He saw an image, then, clear and precise as though it were a waking dream, of a bloodied man carrying a cross up a hill, struggling under its weight. He saw that man spread on a cross beside him, His eyes alight even as His body died, saying, “Today shalt thou be with Me in paradise.”
And Mather vowed to stay on his knees, awaiting that moment.
Mux laughed at Packer, mocked him for falling to his knees, joining his prince in humiliation. “A nation of cowards! A great hero to your people! Do you believe because you are on your knees that your God will save you?” he asked to Packer’s back. He looked up at the crowd, held his sword high. “Where is your God now? Tell me!” And then to Packer, “Where are your Devilfish now, Packer Throme? Call them!” He turned to the translator and nodded smugly. The translator boomed out the words.
The wind kicked up once again, and this time a gentle rain came with it, pattering across the platform. Mux looked to the sky. He saw no lightning, heard no thunder. He sneered. Then he raised his sword. The Ixthano meant nothing now. By refusing to change places, to become the hangman, Packer had disavowed it. But before he executed this Vast hero, something in the crowd caught Mux’s eye. He looked at it. He cocked his head to one side.
The sea was parting. Something was approaching in the falling rain, coming toward the platform as though swimming through this sea of Vast natives. At the leading point of this thing was a pale, pale face with black eyes and a grimace that bared pearl-white teeth. It was a man, or a specter of a man, who held a pistol high in his hand, pointed toward the sky. He limped. He looked like death itself.
Mux frowned. The rain came down, heavier now. Behind the walking dead man were four crimson Drammune helmets, glistening with rainwater. The men who wore them stared back at Mux, and fire was in their eyes. They were not Drammune. Each held two pistols aloft, one in each hand. Without a word, as he watched, all weapons were lowered and aimed at Fen Abbaka Mux. Behind these four, snaking behind in a wake that fanned out in back of them, were many others, many Vast citizens, all rabid enough, and all following in a moving wedge.
Mux shook his head to clear it. The wind gusted. Mux suddenly felt he was on the deck of a ship, looking out over the sea, as a Devilfish swam toward him.
Bench’s four warriors wore helmets they had taken from the four guards in the prison. They also wore armor, the vests of the Drammune, under their jackets. They were protected, all but invincible. Only Bench was not; he had refused the armor, insisting his men take it, knowing his own time was short. He would lead this team to claim back both Packer Throme and Prince Mather, and the honor of Nearing Vast.
Mux lowered his sword and pulled out his pistol, intending to shoot the dying man, the living skull who led this otherworldly attack. But Mux was slow—too slow. Three well-aimed musket balls struck him in the chest, and one creased his cheek. He didn’t go down, and he didn’t return fire. Instead he ducked to a knee behind Packer Throme, who was still praying for the miracle that God had already delivered. The attackers ceased fire, but kept pressing toward the front. The crowd before them cleared, and now the warriors ran toward Mux. No further shots came from the attackers. “Charnak!” Mux shouted to his forces on the perimeter, and on the Rampart.
They all opened fire on the raiding party. Finally, the command had come, the order these guards had hoped to hear. The gunfire echoed through the dark square. The raiders went down.
Mux put a hand to his right ear. Part of it was missing. He looked at his own blood, running down his fingers, vanishing in the rain. “Kill all who resist,” he bellowed, motioning generally toward the crowd, meaning to include every Vast native there. Now he had Packer by the hair again, hauling him to his feet. The thought crossed his mind that this yellow-hair would protect him from the Devilfish. Mux held the boy in front of him with one hand, aimed his pistol at the attackers with the other. Then he descended, still using Packer as a shield.
Only two of the raiding party stood again, and when they did they continued toward the platform. All five had been struck several times; only this pair had been fully protected by the Firefish armor. Bench Urmand remained on the ground.
Packer saw the weapon in Mux’s hand. It did not occur to him to attempt take it away. This was now God’s battle. It was Bench Urmand’s battle. It was Mux’s battle. But it was not Packer’s.
The guards on the platform followed their commander down the stairs. As Mux reached the bottom, a hail of gunfire exploded from Bench’s men, lightning from the human Firefish. Several guards were hit, but only the translator tumbled off the stairway, dead.
“Sir! What about the prince?” the last guard shouted down through the growing chaos.
Mux blanched. He had forgotten all about the puny double-crosser. “Hang him,” he said simply.
The guard reached back and pulled the lever.
The crowd roared as the trapdoor opened, not as Vast crowds traditionally cheer, but as a wounded, enraged animal. And then as one entity they rushed the platform. It was a storm surge, moving under and into the scaffolding, swallowing up Bench and the five raiders. Hands reached up to the prince, too late to catch him, trying to raise him, while other hands pushed on the wooden beams, the legs of the structure, pulled on them, back and forth until the gallows rocked, cracked, and then came down. The prince went down with it. The hands of his people held him, to
uched him, offered up prayers and breathed out oaths in sorrow and in anger. The noose had done its job. Mather’s neck was broken.
Mux hustled Packer to the prison entrance. Guards on the Rampart shot down anyone who came near, creating space for Mux and his prisoner and the three guards. With one fist the supreme commander still gripped Packer’s mop of hair, with the other he held his pistol, still unfired. Inside the iron double doors he forced the boy back down to his knees, closed and bolted one door, then turned to the three guards. “You two, go get that girl.” To the third he said, “You go find the prince. If he’s not dead, kill him.”
They looked at him wide-eyed, then turned grim, nodded, and headed back out to the melee.
The sky was black-dark now, and the rain came in solid sheets. The low rumbling of thunder could be heard, but very little gunfire. The noise of the Vast crowd, however, was everywhere, shouting, rumbling, exulting, echoing.
The three Drammune guards drew their swords as they ran. Two skirted the mob, headed to the right. They didn’t need to dive into this mass in order to find Panna; they would stay on the perimeter. But the third had no choice. He had his sword in his hand as he waded back in, toward the fallen platform.
The Vast crowd that was gathered at the wreckage of the gallows turned their faces toward the single warrior. Their prince was dead, and the Drammune had killed him. They moved as one toward this crimson enemy who now dared to confront them. The warrior swung his blade once, but the sheer numbers…there were thousands of these salamanders. These Pawns.
These piranha.
Mux watched the crowd swallow the lone warrior up. The guard went down as fists and knives came up. The pack engulfed him. The knives turned red.
Drammune guns above continued to fire, but the pace had slowed dramatically. Mux looked at the Rampart walls. The men he could see through the downpour were not firing, but fussing with their weapons. The rain had made loading dry powder first difficult, and then impossible. Flints sparked harmlessly. Powder fizzed and popped in a bad imitation of good armament.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 83
