The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  “Minister Kron,” Talon said, her voice a dagger. He hated that she had this ability, that she could run him through with her voice alone. But she held that power over him. She had it ever since the day she had shot Zan Gar down during the meeting of the Twelve.

  He turned slowly, bowed his head. “Yes, Your Worthiness?”

  But her look was one of gratitude. “I was confident that if one Achawuk man, woman, or child existed in my realm, you would find him. Well done.”

  He felt genuine relief, and bowed deeply. “My life is yours, and you are Worthy to serve.” Then he turned and left.

  His fears instantly alleviated, he now felt old and weak, and he cursed himself. What had she done to him? He was becoming the lapdog he pretended to be. The woman had power over him, that was certain. But he was sure he had won her trust. And he had a play in him yet. Didn’t he? Yes, if he could make it quickly. But if he delayed, he might truly grow too old and too weak to care.

  A steady breeze from the southwest meant that ships headed east-southeast would sail across the wind, making excellent time. The sea was calm, and the sun shone through a sky strewn with small, high clouds. At night the moon wandered slowly through a milky path of stars. Packer Throme spent much of his time on the afterdeck, appreciating now why it was also called the “weather deck.” It was the highest deck of the ship, and with no sails above, no covering of any sort, it was open to the elements. And on this voyage, that was delightful.

  It was odd, traveling as the king. He had no specific duties. He tried to pitch in once, grabbing a mop just to feel productive, but the sailors didn’t take it well at all. They just froze in place, and stared at him.

  “What?” he had asked to their blank, almost sorrowful faces.

  “Sir,” one stammered, looking at the wet decking and at the mop in Packer’s hands. “If we ain’t doin’ it to yer satisfaction, you jes’ tell us. We’ll work harder. We’ll get it right.”

  He handed the mop over, and complimented their work.

  Then he got smiles. Actually, it was the same smile, over and over, the one he started to think of as the royal grin. It greeted him almost everywhere he went. Crewmen ceased talking, quit singing, stopped working when he came by, and they grinned. They were just delighted to see him. Always. And, he knew, they were just as delighted to see him go.

  He had come quickly to the realization that a king was simply not welcome in the ebb and flow of ordinary life. It was strange, but it was so, and there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. He had never had more responsibility, and had never had less to do.

  So he spoke little but thought much as the hours poured by.

  He thought of Panna as he looked west, back toward Nearing Vast. He prayed for her, his heart welling up with a strange mixture of pride and longing. He knew she would be a great queen, and he prayed that the people would see it quickly. If he never returned, he hoped she had a long and prosperous reign.

  He thought of the Firefish. He could not help but feel a great loss when he remembered the face of the beast, the questioning he saw there, the yearning, the joy it so clearly felt. Had it obeyed his command? It had certainly seemed that way. Though now with John Hand killed and so much time having passed, he doubted it was so.

  And then Packer thought of his mission. It was a crystal thing in his mind, a bright white light that shone down on his path, like the silvery trail of moonlight across the sea at moonrise. To take the knowledge of God to a nation of the godless. What higher calling was there? For this, he could believe he had been made king. He had no illusion he would somehow convince the Hezzan, much less an entire nation, that suddenly they should leave their traditions and believe in the God of their enemies. But he knew his role. It was simply to speak the truth. They wanted the secret of controlling the Firefish. He would give them the mysteries of God, and let come what may. Would the Hezzan care to hear? He prayed that he would. He asked God in fervent pleas that the Hezzan would have an open heart, some shred of sensitivity. A weakness into which he could speak, perhaps. A secret fear that could lead to the protection and security, and ultimately the love, of God.

  He felt content that he had been given this opportunity to speak the message, and then to let God unfold the rest. He had been made king, it would seem, that he might speak to a king about the King of Kings.

  Talon saw the line of ships approach. Her Hezzan Guards had watched day and night through the powerful telescope she had placed atop the palace. She was determined to be the first to know of the return of Huk Tuth and Fen Abbaka Mux. She scanned the seas, unable at this distance to determine which ships were which. Except for one. There in the center, enfolded that it might not escape, were the white billows of the Trophy Chase. Surely Packer Throme was aboard. Now it began. She would consolidate her power. And then she would rise to heights undreamed of by any Hezzan, even her late husband. She felt his pride. Yes, she would fulfill his vision, and then some.

  She called for Sool Kron and Vasla Vor.

  The docks had been made ready. The red sails of the Drammune warships filled the bay, then filled the sky. As they approached the docks, each ship sailed toward its appointed slip, then dropped sail and was rowed by tug to its moorings. In this manner the Chase slid into the slip at the farthest end of the longest pier.

  “Sure keepin’ us a long way out,” Delaney commented. He pulled at his collar, then scratched under an arm. All the men were on deck in their war whites for the occasion. They itched and twitched as they watched with fascination the big oar boats expertly maneuver the Chase to her moorings, one boat at her bow and one at her stern. Delaney stood at the rail to Packer’s left, while Captain Andrew Haas stood to his right. Huk Tuth watched from the afterdeck, finally making an appearance.

  “Almost like they know the depth of our keel,” Haas said, “keeping us in the deep waters like this.”

  Packer pondered that, but couldn’t imagine how the Drammune knew much about this ship.

  “Rather a sorry welcome, I’d say,” was Delaney’s next observation.

  On the dock stood a handful of soldiers, the Hezzan Guard, in crimson vests and breeches. Two dignitaries, one an old man in fancy crimson and gold robes, the other a sturdy general, stood waiting at the end of a crimson-carpeted gangway.

  “That may be their Hezzan there,” Captain Haas ventured, gesturing toward the ancient Sool Kron.

  “No, the Hezzan is not present,” Father Mooring noted. “See how the soldiers stand with their backs to him? They would never do that to a Hezzan.” After a moment he said, “I would guess that the truce is not popular here. They don’t trust their citizens to come greet us, and the Hezzan is not prepared to be seen in public with the Vast. This arrangement is likely for our own protection.”

  “Comfortin’ thought,” Delaney muttered.

  As the gangway was rolled into position, there was a conversation in Drammune between Tuth at the rail and the general, who was Vasla Vor, on the dock.

  “Can you make out what they’re sayin’?” Delaney asked.

  Father Mooring nodded. “They only want Packer. They’ve come to take him straight to the Hezzan.”

  “What about everyone else?”

  “Confined to the ship.”

  “That ain’t right,” Delaney said, as the two dignitaries strode up the gangway followed by the Hezzan Guard.

  “I won’t go alone,” Packer said. “You tell them I need my translator. That’s you, Father. And I won’t go without my bodyguard.” Here he looked at Delaney, whose chest swelled as he rose to his full height. Which was barely an inch taller than the small, round priest.

  Talon had orchestrated this arrival carefully. She needed one thing from Sool Kron and Vasla Vor, and one thing only: that they bring her the Supreme Commander of the Glorious Drammune Military. She assumed this was still Fen Abbaka Mux. He would be given one fair chance to serve her. If he swore allegiance, as the Quarto had done, then all the power was hers. If not, she would a
ppoint his successor.

  She knew she could not venture to the docks herself. She was wary of an assassination attempt, but that she would have chanced. More important was that a Hezzan must summon her subordinates. To go to him, to appear at the docks herself, would smack of desperation and carry the deadly whiff of weakness. She needed Kron and Vor to stand together and vouch for her absolute authority, her total legitimacy. This she was confident they would do. Vor, she was sure, was loyal as a hound dog to her, as he had been to her husband. The death of Minister Gar was a display for the Court of Twelve, but was also designed to assure Sool Kron that Vasla Vor would happily kill a traitor.

  But just to be sure, she had kept the general commander suspicious of Kron, feeding him subtle evidence that the chief minister was looking for a way to undermine him, and her. And she let Kron know that Vor was watching him. She was confident. The two of them would bring her the supreme commander.

  CHAPTER 13

  Drammun

  At the foot of the ramp, a carriage waited. It was squared-off in shape, and the color of dried blood. The interior was well-appointed, with dark leather seats and velvet curtains, and a small keg of ale embedded in the wall between the front-facing seats. A leather mug hung from a strap beside each seat. Delaney had hardly gotten settled before he eagerly tested the Drammune ale, which he found strong and harsh. Much to his liking. Father Mooring and Packer declined to partake, which troubled Delaney so much that Packer then agreed to have a taste. He found it bitter.

  Packer looked at Father Mooring. His eyes were far away. He was listening to a conversation outside the carriage.

  “They disagree,” he said. His usual sunny visage clouded over.

  “Who?” Packer asked, alarmed by the priest’s reaction.

  “Commander Tuth wants to accompany us. Well, you. And the other two, they want to travel alone with the commander.”

  “Why, do you think?”

  Father Mooring listened for a while longer. “The Hezzan Guard is going to take us to the palace. They’ve convinced Tuth he needs to ride with them.” He paused, looked at Packer. “It’s some news having to do with the Hezzan.”

  “Bad news?” Delaney asked.

  “Bad or good, I can’t tell. But it’s big.”

  “Big news is most always bad news,” Delaney said, finishing off his ale. He looked at the spout with longing, but did not pour himself another. He hung up his mug and patted the golden leather scabbard on his belt—he wore Packer Throme’s sword. Then he nodded, mostly to himself. He felt ready for anything.

  The carriage door was closed, and then locked from the outside. The carriage rocked once, creaked, and began its trek to the palace.

  In this conveyance, behind the clip of a four-horse team, they rode through the city streets of Hezarow Kyne. Delaney stuck his head out the window and craned his neck in an effort to see the sights. But Drammune guards rode on horseback, two abreast on either side of the carriage, blocking his view in their effort to provide security. Undeterred, Delaney thrust his shoulders and both arms out of the window, and by doing so managed to peer around the sullen Drammune escorts. He saw red-tiled roofs, dark wood, and red-brick walls with tiny windows, people dressed in dark clothes hustling about with little to say to one another. Everything was different; everything seemed odd. The stones in the streets were darker, somehow, and odd-shaped. Wood was wood, but somehow always the wrong color. Chimneys were squat where they should be tall, and tall where they should be squat. Even trees and shrubs seemed strange, green and leafy, but not nearly the right shade or shape.

  And then there were things he’d never seen before. He saw iron rods bent and twisted into symbols, fastened on rough wooden planks in front of buildings, or just free-standing. It took him a long time to understand that this was ordinary Drammune signage, written in a language and presented in a manner utterly foreign to him. It seemed to him impossible that anyone could ever get used to this enough to think of it as normal. But there was more to it. Something behind it all, some quality that made everything seem so…not-Vast.

  When they finally stepped out of the carriage at the foot of the winding stone pathway up to the palace, Delaney forgot where he was and let loose with a long, low whistle. The palace was an enormous structure, ten times the size of the meager little dwelling of the King and Queen of Nearing Vast. It was built into a steep hillside, and it towered up and up, story after story of concentric rings, each story smaller than the one on which it rested. It had dark stone masonry, blood-red, and crimson tiled roofs. There were parapets, and places where broad porches jutted out, and where walls jutted in.

  “The Hezzan lives there?” Delaney asked. “It’s like a whole screamin’ city.”

  “It is,” Father Mooring said, his hands clasped behind his back as he peered up at it, suddenly both professor and student. “It is quite the equivalent of the entire Old City of Mann, all under one roof.”

  “You been here before?” Delaney asked suspiciously.

  “No. But I read.”

  “No one cain’t read this. Ye have to see it.”

  “I won’t argue.”

  “Looks like a big red snake, don’t it? Kinda all curled up and sleepin’.” Delaney studied the porches and porticoes another moment.

  Packer felt severe misgivings as they started up the broad walk. The dignitaries were nowhere to be seen. Tuth was gone. They were surrounded by guards. One of them grunted a command, and the three Vast natives walked in silence, more like prisoners than honored guests. Packer looked up at the building, and felt Delaney’s description might be a little too accurate.

  At the center of the roof garden was a portico, a rectangular structure supported by four columns, one at each corner. The windows of the structure were wide arches, one per side. Inside the portico was a marble throne. If one were walking toward it from the roof garden, as a servant did now, the throne appeared to sit within the structure, resting on a low dais just slightly higher than the level of the garden floor. But in fact, the dais rose up from the floor one story below. A falcon at rest on the sill of that arched window could flutter easily to the dais. But if the servant were to step over the low window ledge, she would tumble twenty feet or more onto marble stairs below.

  To walk from the throne to the roof garden, as Talon was now doing, one would need to go by way of a marble catwalk, twenty-five feet long, three feet wide, and a foot-and-a-half thick. One catwalk protruded from the dais to the left of the throne, and one to the right. Everywhere else, the stairs flowed directly down from the dais into the Great Hall of Feasts below.

  From the catwalk, Talon passed the servant. She accepted the cup of kathander, rejected the plate of fruits. The servant bowed deeply, then turned back with the tray, headed toward the back of the gardens from whence she had come.

  Talon now walked through the gardens to the frontmost ledge.

  Here she peered through her telescope, permanently bolted to the stonework. She saw figures far below climbing out of a dark carriage. Three men, surrounded by her guards. One of them had yellow hair. She recognized Packer Throme. A shorter man had dark hair. That would be the plenipotentiary sent by the king. And the third was a priest. She frowned. Where was John Hand? Lund Lander?

  A second carriage pulled into view behind the first. In it would be Vasla Vor, Sool Kron, and the supreme commander. She waited. But the door did not open. The three Vast dignitaries began walking toward the palace. Alarmed now, Talon swung the scope to the carriage again and refocused. The door remained closed. Her heartbeat quickened. “Open!” she said aloud. But it did not. Suddenly, her future, her kingdom, all her power hinged on one carriage door. She told herself they just needed more time. There was more to be discussed. Kron and Vor would convince him; all they needed to do was gain his agreement to see her. They would exit in a moment.

  But they did not. Instead, the second carriage pulled away, following the first.

  She felt a stab of fear, and then of r
age. She felt the sharp sting of betrayal. And as she turned from the rail she felt all her power, absorbed and extracted so carefully, from so many sources, over so much time, flow from her. Like water from a broken dam.

  She put a hand to her belly, and wondered whether these three men had just taken the crown away from her unborn child.

  Inside the carriage, Huk Tuth had cut through the veneer of manhood, the thin armor that each of the two servants of the new Hezzan imagined to be impregnable. He did it with two questions. The first was, “Which of you is responsible for bringing this woman to power?” He asked it through iron-gray teeth, with eyes as cold as death.

  Tuth’s anger, as he heard their story, had focused on the orders he had received via the falcon at Varlotsville. Had he known that the parchment came not from his Hezzan, but from Talon, he would have treated it as so much rubbish. The Vast should be his…would be his, but for her. He did not speak these thoughts aloud, however.

  In the brief silence that followed, Sool Kron feared a checkmate in one move. If he tried to disavow Talon or his own actions in putting her on the throne, he would be denying the Hezzan he clearly served and thereby revealing his own treachery. Men like Tuth tended to regard loyalty as a higher virtue than the fine arts of policy that Kron had mastered. Yet if he claimed responsibility for enthroning her, he risked admitting to a crime that Tuth might well find unforgivable. He could neither confirm nor deny, and so he remained silent, searching for another option.

  In that same brief pause, Vasla Vor had similar but simpler thoughts. He felt embarrassed to admit his own role to a man like Tuth, whom he respected greatly. But to deny his role would be Unworthy. Vor, however, had one small but significant advantage over Kron. While the commander of the guard had arrested the Twelve for their crimes, he had not brought her to the throne. That, he firmly believed, was Kron’s doing, accomplished when the old man took her to see the Quarto and then invited that rat’s nest into the Court of Twelve.