by David Weber
“The cook and I are the only survivors of the good ship Nahn Cibell. The wind and tide drive us slowly onward across the endless ocean. I have written all that I know. I hope to speak to my wife at the end of this voyage, and to see my young.
“But it is very hot upon the sea. And we have no water.”
Roger sat on the end of the dock and looked out over the small cove. He could hear the party getting into swing behind him, but for the moment he was content just to watch the sun descending over the K’Vaern Sea.
He rubbed the cover of the bag, and unrolled it. The jeweled badge of an imperial servitor glittered in the fading light, and he unpinned it from the bag and held it up in one hand. He ran the forefinger of his other hand lightly, gently, across it, then drew a deep breath and pinned it very carefully to the breast of his own chameleon suit. He gave it a single, almost tender pat, and then returned to the bag.
One end held a lump, and he unsealed the bag and gently picked out a handful of fine ash.
“Oh, Danny boy,” he whispered, and his hand moved, sending the fine drift of ashes out over the water while the words of the ancient paean to love and loss whispered out under the cry of four-winged avians whose like had never been dreamed of on Earth.
“Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.
The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are dying.
‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go, and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow,
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
‘Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow,
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.”
“Roger?” Nimashet put her hand on his shoulder. “Are you coming? This is your party, too.”
“I’m coming.” He stood and dusted off his hands. “I suppose that food is as good a way to celebrate him as any.”
Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock, Heir Tertiary to the Throne of Man, took one last look at the gentle swell surging across the reef at the entrance to the cove. Then he turned and walked back to the restaurant, hand in hand with a sergeant of Marines, and the fine film of ash still clinging to his palm mingled and spread between their hands, unnoticed.
Behind them, the ashes slowly mixed with the salty sea and floated out on the tide of two moons. Floated out on the tide to wash upon distant shores.
MAPS
MU-KRANOLTA ASSAULT LANES
MU-MARSHAD
MU-QNKOK
MTTS-BATTLE OF THE FIELDS
(TOP & BOTTOM)
MTTS-DIASPRA
(TOP & BOTTOM)
