Packer waited.
“They were, ‘I know who shall rule.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
Mutter did his best to tell Zhintah-Hoak that the Tannan-thoh-ah would visit the Rek-tahk-ent a little later, after pausing to speak with Huk Tuth, the commander of the Drammune. The Achawuk leader had nothing to say in return. Tannan-thoh-ah would do as he pleased. But he followed the party through the Achawuk to the red boat of these dangerous, strutting children.
The Drammune jolly was longer and wider than its Vast counterpart. With its rounded bottom and dark wooden hull, its single mast, sail now struck, it looked to Zhintah precisely like an enormous, inverted turtle shell with a pike driven through its belly. It did not give him any better feelings about these people. A wooden ladder led up to its lip, surrounded by Drammune sailors armed and in a mood to fight any who would attempt access to their commander.
“Don’t think you’re goin’ up into that boat alone,” Delaney warned Packer.
“Wait here,” Bran Mooring said, before Packer could respond. Then the little priest walked past his escorts and straight up to the guards, said something in Drammune, and showed them the contents of his knapsack. The guards looked to their lieutenant, who shrugged. The priest had some skill at healing. Otherwise he was harmless. Father Mooring passed through them and climbed the ladder.
Zhintah-Hoak admired the little man all wrapped in brown. He moved quickly, like the others, but he did not jerk or chatter. There was a fluid peace that drove him. Like a small, deep stream, running between rocks. Serene and calm even in motion.
A few minutes later, the priest climbed back down the ladder, without his knapsack. “Unless God grants a miracle,” he reported to Packer, “Commander Tuth won’t see another dawn. In fact, I have no idea what’s keeping him alive.” Bran Mooring shook his head. “The head wound alone should have been fatal. His shoulder is badly wounded, and he’s cut open in a dozen other places. He’s lost a tremendous amount of blood. He’s no danger to you.”
Packer nodded, started toward the ladder.
“Wait, now.” Delaney said, stewing. “Who else is in that boat?”
“I saw no one,” the priest reported.
“I don’t like it, Packer. I mean, Your Highness.”
Packer studied the sailor. He said, “Thank you, Delaney. But you stay here.”
Delaney kicked the sand, then stared up at the low-hanging clouds. Everything had gone skewed, he thought. Nobody did what made sense anymore. Either that, or Delaney had lost his mind completely. He wasn’t sure which was true. Could be either.
Huk Tuth had been laid out on the planking of the boat’s bilge. A canopy of sailcloth had been pulled overhead, braced on poles, to keep him out of sun or rain, whichever the sky ultimately decided to pour down. Packer blanched at the sight of him, almost retching at the smell. Flies buzzed. The odor of dried blood and rotting meat was heavy. The commander’s breaths were shallow and labored. His skin was dry and white, almost the color of his hair. Both hair and skin were caked black with blood.
Tuth had heard the two men climb aboard, heard them sit beside him. Now his eyes searched for Packer. Finding him, they closed.
“Hezzan Skahl Dramm?” he asked.
“He’s asking about Talon,” the priest said.
“She’s dead,” Packer told him.
Father Mooring translated.
“She sailed from Drammun as Hezzan,” Tuth said, with great effort. “But the Quarto had declared her Unworthy.”
Packer said nothing. The old man struggled with each word.
“I pursued her here. To claim her dominion. But you took it.”
“No,” Packer said solemnly. “Her life was taken by my sailor.”
Tuth closed his eyes. He breathed in and out a few times. Then he said, “On your orders.”
“No,” Packer started.
“Yes,” Father Mooring interjected. “Delaney did act on your orders.”
“No. I told him not to kill her.”
“Unless she attempted to kill another. I heard you say it myself. He obeyed.”
Packer swallowed hard. “Tell him yes, then.”
Father Mooring did, and at the same time fanned flies away from the Drammune commander’s head wound.
“You are Drammune, by Ixthano,” Tuth said next. “By Fen Abbaka Mux.”
“Oh, Lord,” Packer said. Bran Mooring did not translate.
“By Ixthano,” Tuth said, “you are now Hezzan of the Drammune.”
Three priests came into the sanctuary, and found their High Holy Reverend Father kneeling at the altar. The body of a seminary student in tattered, filthy robes was laid out beside him, hands folded across his chest. Hap heard them enter, and stood slowly and painfully. They rushed to the fallen man, checking him for signs of life. They all three looked up at Hap, waiting for an explanation.
He rested a hand on the altar rail. Then he shrugged. “I found him here. Poor lad. I have given the final blessing. Do you know his story?”
But before they could answer, the doors opened again, and Panna Throme entered. Usher Fell was with her, the manacles on his wrists attached to a chain held by the sheriff, his deputies not far behind. Stave Deroy brought up the rear.
Stanson looked at Panna as though a ghost had just entered the room, then at Father Fell as though he were a disgrace to the cloth. He quickly recovered himself, however, and scowled officiously at Panna as she approached. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Harlowen Stanson, you are under arrest,” the square-jawed sheriff said, “for conspiracy to assassinate the Queen of Nearing Vast.”
Stanson sniffed. “The charge is nonsense. Besides, you cannot arrest me. I have sanctuary.” His voice echoed in the chapel.
The sheriff noted the fallen boy, and blanched. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s dead,” one of the priests said. They still knelt by the body.
Father Fell’s eyes went wide as he peered at the boy’s face. Then, unnoticed, a tall, lean shadow entered and sat in a pew toward the back of the chapel.
With a soft clatter of chains, the sheriff handed Usher Fell’s reins to Chunk Deroy, then knelt gently by the boy.
“Who is he?” the sheriff asked Hap Stanson, who just shrugged.
“I know him,” Usher Fell said. “That’s Lester Mine. He was a pupil of mine. I last saw him when I sent him off with a message for his High Holiness.” A trace of bitterness could be detected by all present.
“He’s been starved and ill-used,” the sheriff reported. “But I don’t see any marks of foul play.”
Hap raised his eyebrows. “Of course not. I sent him on a difficult mission for spiritual purification. He fasted and suffered, even unto death. He died to glorify God.”
The sheriff shook his head. “I wouldn’t know how to classify that crime.”
Stanson rolled his eyes. “You’re desperate. You’re trumping up these charges.”
Panna held out the folded parchment that Marlie Blotch had once hidden in Hap Stanson’s porridge. “The evidence would indicate otherwise.”
“I have no idea what that is,” the cleric said, eyeing the parchment with suspicion.
“No?” From the pew near the back where he had been sitting, Prince Ward now stood. He walked down the aisle, a thick leather folder in his hand. His gait was jaunty, his expression carefree. “Perhaps you’ll recognize some of these?” He pulled a thick handful of papers from the folder.
Stanson narrowed his eyes. “The royal fool arrives to entertain us.”
Ward ignored the remark. “I had a simple thought, after finding that little note from your augustness to the good father here. That last line, where you instructed Father Fell to burn the message ‘as always’.. I thought, What if that note was not the first message Father Fell had failed to burn? And so I asked the sheriff to do a little digging. And sure enough, all of these were in Father Fell’s
apartments.” He thumbed through them. “All written in your hand, your High Holiness, to your humble servant here. It’s quite interesting reading, really. Certainly more interesting than the classes you taught at the academy.” He pulled a page from the top of the stack and handed it to Panna. “Here’s one you’ll be interested in, my queen.”
Hap Stanson was aghast. He looked Father Fell up and down as though the man might turn into a goat or a winged devil at any moment. “What have you done?” he breathed.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Fell offered morosely. “I should have been burning them all along. But I know how you operate.” He shrugged. “I have always feared that I might be the next one thrown into the lion’s den. Frankly, I couldn’t count on angels to stop their jaws. So I kept those instead.”
“But…I have trusted you. All these years.”
Father Fell now looked, for the first time, chagrined. “How was I to know? You seemed to trust a good many people close to you who wound up…” he trailed off, his eyes resting on the pitiful figure of the dead student.
One of the three priests now stood, and walked to Prince Ward. “May I have a look?” He was a senior priest at the seminary, almost as tall as Ward and Hap, with a dignified air, gray at the temples, gentle eyes.
“Be my guest.” Ward handed him the folder, and the priest began leafing through the parchments under the careful eye of the sheriff.
Panna stepped to the front pew, and sat down. She had been reading the parchment handed her by Prince Ward. She spoke to Father Fell, her voice gentle, her hands shaking. “You sent Packer’s father to the Achawuk islands. You told him he would learn all about the Firefish there. But you knew they would all be murdered.”
“Martyred. It was a missionary voyage.”
“You will also find a message in there,” Ward added, “explaining precisely how the charges against Packer were used to cover over Father Fell’s indiscretions. And one on how the young woman who swore Packer had cheated, subsequently died. You’ll find the term ‘accidentally’ does not apply nearly so cleanly as these gentlemen would have the world believe.”
Panna’s shoulders drooped. It was so horrible, to have such injustice, such evil at the pinnacle of the Church, and for so very long. After a pause she said, “Isn’t it odd.” Her look was far away. “Isn’t it odd that if Packer had been treated fairly, he never would have become a swordsman. He’d be a priest now. He’d never have gone to sea. Which means he wouldn’t be the king. And I wouldn’t be queen.” Now she looked at Hap. “And you would still be high, and holy, and reverend. Instead of what you are…” and now her eyes focused crisply, “a criminal, soon to be on trial for your life.”
“You think you have that power?” Hap raised one side of his upper lip in a snarl. “I am not under arrest. I have sanctuary here.”
No one said a thing. They all looked at him blankly. The dignified priest who had been leafing through the notices looked sick. “Sanctuary was instituted for the poor and the weak, those like Lester Mine, who are ill-used by the powerful.”
“And people like Marlie Blotch, who don’t know which way to turn,” Panna added.
“Vagrants, prostitutes, drunkards,” Ward added.
“And even murderers,” the senior of the three priests concluded, “if they come here to seek mercy and forgiveness. None who have come here for sanctuary have been turned away.” He set the offending papers on the pew beside him. “But I would be ashamed to be a priest in a Church that abuses the weak and protects the strong.”
“As would I,” said the second priest, standing now beside the fallen boy.
“And I,” said the third, staying on his knees.
“But the laws are the laws,” Hap Stanson said defiantly. “I simply cannot be arrested here.”
“I will not step outside the bounds of the authority vested in the State,” Panna said. “I will respect the Church. But I would appeal to you three, as representatives of the Church, to set this matter right.”
“What are you suggesting? I am the Church!” Hap insisted. “These mere priests have no authority here!”
“The authority of the Church,” said the senior priest, “comes from God, and not man. And certainly not from one man.”
“But you can’t usurp my position in my own Church, in this chapel, in my seminary! I’ll have your robes!”
There was a long silence. Then the senior priest said, “My robes are worthless if I protect this man, knowing what I now know. As a representative of the Church of Nearing Vast, I…” he looked at his two companions, “we rescind the protections of sanctuary he claims.”
“No!” Hap raged, venom and spittle flying, his face contorted and red as a radish. The sheriff and a deputy immediately stepped forward. “You have no authority! I am the representative of God! He will smite you! I will call on Him and He will strike you down!”
In the pause that ensued, Chunk Deroy stepped forward. “I’ve heard that before,” he said. He spun the clergyman around, and Hap cried out in pain. “My leg! You oaf!” But the dragoon dragged the cleric out the front door of the sanctuary without paying much attention.
The old Drammune warrior was serious. And the argument made sense. But Packer as Hezzan? It was ironic, even amusing. But it was meaningless. The Quarto would take away his title three seconds after learning he had won it. Probably, he had been declared Unworthy already, just to remove the Ixthano he’d been given by Mather Sennett.
“Talon knew this,” Father Mooring added, as Packer pondered the idea. “This was the meaning of her final words.”
I know who shall rule. Packer accepted the priest’s assertion, but if he knew Talon at all, she had more in mind. Ultimately, titles meant as little to her as they did to him.
Suddenly Tuth had a knife in his hand. The old man’s long, jagged weapon had been hidden under his thigh, awaiting this moment. He lunged for Packer with it, rising up from his deathbed, aiming for Packer’s heart.
Packer saw it coming. He had seen it coming since he first climbed over the gunwale and saw the old warrior’s knife sheath, empty on his belt. He had seen the withered hand fumble for it. He saw it coming at him like a ball lobbed from a father to a child. Tuth’s move was painfully slow, embarrassingly clumsy, more writhe than lunge. Even had the weapon found its mark, it could hardly have been damaging. But it did not find its mark. Packer caught Tuth’s wrist. Gently, he took the knife from his fingers.
The priest was alarmed, but he saw that Packer was not. He watched Packer ease the old warrior’s hand back down to his side, and then slide the knife back into its sheath. Father Mooring then adjusted the bandages at Tuth’s shoulder, applied pressure to stop the new bleeding.
“It was necessary,” Packer explained to Father Mooring, “for his sense of honor. Tell him he has been a Worthy foe.” Then to Tuth, “You are a Worthy adversary, and a Worthy warrior.”
The priest translated.
Then after a moment, Huk Tuth spoke again. It took him a long time to say the words. But he was determined to say them, and he worked hard until all was said. “You defeated Fen Abbaka Mux. My superior. You defeated the Hezzan Skahl Dramm. She defeated me. Now you have defeated me also. You have won the secrets of the Firefish. You have conquered the Achawuk. You are Vast. But you are Drammune. You are the Hezzan Throme Dramm.” There was a long pause, and then he said, “You have my allegiance.”
Packer felt deeply humbled. Not by the title, which was worthless. But by this final act of an old warrior, and a sworn enemy. Huk Tuth had hated Packer, hated the Vast, hated all that they stood for, all they believed in. And yet at the end, unlike Scatter Wilkins, he was able to give honor to an enemy. Not just honor, but the highest honor, and to his greatest enemy. Here, surely, was an honorable man.
A society built on such honor would be, in fact, Worthy, Packer thought. If only the Drammune could humble themselves and delight in mercy as well as justice, weakness before God as well as strength before men. What an awe-
inspiring people they could be. Far greater than the Vast.
Knowing somehow that a show of gratitude or even humility would be unbecoming, Packer said instead, “You are Worthy to command.”
Tuth’s breaths came deep and quick. It was precisely what a Hezzan should say.
“I am Vast, as you say,” Packer now added, speaking as to a confidant. “The Quarto will reject me.”
“The Quarto,” Tuth answered, “…are fools. Pizlar Kank. A rabid dog. He cares only for power. They…will ruin Drammun.”
Packer nodded. There was nothing much he could say to that.
Tuth looked up at Packer. He paused. He coughed, two small catches from his chest. Then he croaked, “I hate them.” He closed his eyes, as though that explained everything.
And the more Packer thought about it, the more it did.
The path upward to the shelf overlooking the mayak-aloh began at a stone doorway. Or at least, so it was called in the tongue of the Achawuk. In fact it consisted of two large stacks of rocks, looking something like chimneys, each rising shoulder-high, between which people could walk two abreast. Beyond the stacks a single path led upward, winding through switchbacks, up through trees with long, waving fronds and large, tuberous roots that stretched out across the path. Packer, Mutter Cabe, Smith Delaney, and Bran Mooring followed Zhintah-Hoak through the doorway, and up the mountainside.
Zhintah led them solemnly, ceremoniously. Packer had plenty to think about, and appreciated the silence. The others sensed the king’s mood, and kept their own counsel. Only Bran Mooring seemed cheerful. An occasional snatch of a hymn floated up from behind, as he brought up the rear.
As the party reached the summit, Packer was led to the painted wild man. The rek-tahk-ent was lying on a makeshift chaise, covered with blankets, wrapped up past his chin. His hair fell down around his eyes, and his eyes were closed. What could be seen of his face was bright blue, streaked and pocked by sweat. His body trembled. Father Mooring knelt beside him, felt his forehead, opened an eyelid. “Fevered. Bad case of the ague, I’d guess. Or influenza.”
Delaney and Mutter Cabe took a step backward.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 122
