by Philip Hamm
But he didn’t want to die. He loved his mistress, his daughter, his friends and his life on the Apus. In a different way, he even loved his wife and his legitimate children. Though they despised him and he hated them, he’d always thought they would be reconciled one day.
At the pre-coronation banquet, sitting next to Zizania and the other Royals at the high table, he’d even wondered if his wife would look at him differently now. He was no longer the courier but the confidant of the Queen. He had become the man she had hoped he would be. How vain and shallow was that?
He cursed himself over and over. He didn’t deserve to live, he thought. He had brought disaster on his people. He should have insisted on telling nothing but the truth to Tragacanth about his daughter and maybe he would have mended the rift between them. If the King had shown her an ounce of love, perhaps the real Zizania might have changed. Then there would have been no reason to replace her.
He lay down on his sofa, thinking he would rest if he couldn’t sleep, and was woken several hours later by Quail shaking his arm. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he said, surprised he had slept at all.
“You’ll want to hear this,” said Quail. The valet was pale and his eyes were red.
Nacyon sat up, “What’s happened?”
“The fleet has been crippled.”
“What do you mean? How do you know?”
“Radio is picking up distress signals; our ships have been attacked, their masts have been cut down and they’re reduced to battery power.”
His head was foggy and he didn’t understand. “Who attacked them?”
“Nobody knows – the messages are garbled and confused.”
“But the Sagan Army’s APCs are not powerful enough to take out our whole fleet –Did the Tun Empire’s warships send out their fighters?”
“Our ships destroyed the cruiser and the destroyer. There were no fighters. And the masts were taken down by some kind of laser and the Tun navy doesn’t use those.”
“Zamut fighters…?”
“There were none in the system that we know of.”
“Somebody else…?”
Quail nodded, “But all that’s clear is the fact the solar sails were targeted and now the fleet doesn’t have the power to get home.”
Nacyon got to his feet, “Where are they now?”
“The survivors are leaving the Sagan system and making their way slowly towards the Ouroboros Road. Some think they can make it to Aiseldur in two or three days but most will run out of energy for life-support long before then.”
“But Aiseldur is a Zamut world – they’ll be arrested...”
“It’s better than suffocating, sir.”
“Has Rhizic responded? Are they sending ships?”
“They’re going to try, sir. Rigger says there should be enough power left for the fleet to survive if they don’t move from their current position.”
“But if they stay where they are, they’ll be vulnerable to attack.”
“The attack has happened, sir, and the war against Sagan is over.”
Nacyon thought for a moment. “We should turn back,” he said. “We should try and rescue as many of the sailors as possible…”
Quail was shaking his head, “The captain won’t do it, sir; she says the Apus isn’t big enough to make a difference. We could rescue a few but how would we choose? She doesn’t want to make that decision.”
“It’s not up to her,” he said angrily, making for the door.
*
The whole crew was gathered in or around the bridge, listening to the reports coming in via the radio. There was a significant delay between the signals being sent and received and some were so weak it was impossible for Radio to make them clearer. But there was no mistaking the sense of panic. With the flagship gone, there was no over-all authority and discipline was beginning to break down.
They couldn’t even return to Sagan and throw themselves on the mercy of its Council; the last ships to leave the system reported seeing the planet blanketed in cloud and a succession of electromagnetic pulses had briefly shut down their communications. Somebody had fired nuclear missiles at the surface. Whether it was the same vessel that had crippled their fleet or somebody else, nobody seemed to know. Zamut had the capability but the Zarktek seemed the more likely culprit. Denied the Sagan Army, this sounded like the kind of revenge they were infamous for during the last war.
Nacyon reached the bridge but before he could speak, Tringa took him outside and up to the observation deck so they could be alone. “You have a different mission,” she said when he tried to make her turn the ship around. “You need to get to Nidus and put an end to this madness. With Zizania out of the way, Quillaia can become our Queen. We know her quality. She will make the right decisions.”
He couldn’t contradict her and realised, with another pang of guilt, his desire to go back to Sagan was more about avoiding his responsibility than rescuing sailors.
“I still don’t know if I can do it,” he admitted. “I don’t want to murder her…”
“Would you rather our Empire was delivered to the Zarktek?”
He didn’t need to reply but leant against the rail and stared up at the stars. “I don’t know how,” he said. “I can’t shoot her – there are no guns allowed in the palace. And I don’t think I’d be able to use a knife or a rope around her neck.”
“What about poison? Rigger has a powder he uses for the rats.”
“She’s not vermin,” he hissed at her. “She’s a Queen. Even if she’s not the real one, she deserves a better end than that.”
Tringa sighed, “I’m sorry this has fallen on you. I know your heart is good and you don’t want to kill anyone. And even though you blame yourself, I don’t believe this is your fault. You were not to know you were part of a bigger plan, long in the making, and I’m certain it was not your intention for our situation to become this bad. But you have a chance to put it right and I think you should take it.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” he said. “But not so easy for me to do.” Especially as it will mean we’ll never see each other again, he thought.
23 - The end of Zizania’s reign
Nacyon climbed the stairs to the Queen’s private chambers. His legs felt heavy and the hand that held the rail was shaking. He put the other in his pocket and breathed deeply to calm his racing heart.
The journey to Nidus had been filled with guilt, not just for himself but for the crew as well. Every ship in the Quill Merchant Marine had been called to carry batteries and solar sails to save the crippled Royal Navy. More than fifty had left Rhizic by the time the Apus crossed the border and hundreds more were on their way from other parts of the Empire.
Wayfinder, Clocks and Cargo had tried to persuade the captain to join the rescue mission but Tringa had ordered Driver to keep on course for Nidus. There had been a fierce argument between them. It was their duty, Wayfinder protested, to help their fellow sailors in distress. Cargo had argued the hold and the empty gun-decks could carry enough equipment to save an entire galleon. Clocks had said they would never have abandoned a stricken ship in his day. The rest of the crew agreed with them and they couldn’t understand why Tringa was insisting on taking Nacyon to see the Queen – she would know about the disaster by now, why did he have to tell her in person?
A lesser captain would have folded and a lesser crew would have mutinied. Some, like Wayfinder, began to wonder if there was more than a message to be delivered. When Tringa wasn’t nearby, he had asked Nacyon, “What are you going to say to the Queen?”
But Nacyon had told him it was better he didn’t know. “There’s something I have to do,” he said. “Something you shouldn’t know about.”
If Wayfinder guessed, he said nothing to the others but he didn’t carry on with the argument, despite the continuing protests from the crew and the pleas from the ships in distress. He kept quiet and Nacyon loved him for that.
The problem
of killing the Queen was solved when Tringa suggested he should make it look as though she’d taken her own life. Her chambers were at the top of the highest tower in the Golden Palace; if she was to ‘jump’ from the window, she would be killed by the fall. It was a common enough form of suicide among Quill who had lost all hope and surely the failure of her promise to deliver the Sagan to the Zarktek, the deaths of ‘her’ uncles and brothers and the end of Quill’s dream of ruling the Third Sphere, would be reason enough for her to lose her mind. All he had to do was push.
Reluctantly, Nacyon had agreed. It was a logical solution and without repercussions if he could manage it. But there was still the servant, Melanitta, to consider. He knew she would try and stop him if she guessed his intention. Worse still, if he succeeded in killing faux-Zizania, she would be a witness to his crime. But would it really matter if he was caught? Didn’t he deserve the same fate?
Before he left the Apus, he wrote a letter to Rani Rhus, detailing everything he had done. He had no hope for himself, he said, but he didn’t want Tringa and his friends to be punished. His decisions had been based on the lies Rimmon had told him and the responsibility was his and his alone. He didn’t expect to be forgiven but he had acted in the sincere belief that the real Zizania would have brought shame on the Empire. He should have guessed the Rickobite replica would be worse. He was very sorry for everything he’d done.
At the last moment, tore the letter to pieces. The truth could die with him, he thought. If there was no confession, there was no reason for his friends to be blamed.
Out of breath and feeling faint, he reached the landing at the top of the stairs. He knew immediately something was wrong. The door was open and as he drew closer, he saw the bodyguards, Crex and Branta, lying on the floor of Zizania’s small living room. The bedroom door was also open but he could hear no sounds of movement.
“Your Majesty…?” he called out. “Melanitta…?”
There was no reply. Tentatively, he entered the room and knelt down beside Crex. He felt for a pulse and couldn’t find one. He turned him over and jumped back as the bodyguard’s lifeless eyes stared up at him. He went to Branta and found he was dead too. There were no marks on the bodies but there was blood around their mouths, still moist.
A gust of wind blew the bedroom door shut with a bang. He jumped again and tried to control his impulse to run away. He took another deep breath. The window in the bedroom must be open, he thought.
Quietly, he opened the door and went inside. The window was on his left, curtain flapping in the breeze. He looked around the room and saw, on the other side of the bed, blood on Zizania’s dressing table and mirror; not just a few spots but a great smear covering the glass, the toiletries and a large portion of the wall. It was still dripping down the wallpaper and from the edge of the table.
Trying desperately to contain his horror, he took a few steps closer. He put his hand across his nose and mouth as he caught a whiff of iron and excrement. His mind was screaming at him to get out.
With a terrible compulsion, he walked slowly around the end of the bed and saw what lay on the floor behind. He almost fainted.
There were lumps of skin and bone and he saw the outline of a shoe soaked in blood. It was as though the body had been turned inside out. He backed away again and the small part of his brain that still functioned wondered what kind of weapon could do that to a person? And more importantly, whose body was it?
He went to the window and looked out. He could see the Apus waiting for him.
Then a noise caught his attention. He looked up and saw a figure climbing to the top of the tower. There was a bundle over its shoulder. It disappeared onto the roof and a second later, Nacyon felt a slight movement in the air, like a boat going past. But he saw nothing else.
He heard another noise, coming from behind him; a ticking sound that wasn’t one of Zizania’s clocks. He searched the room with his eyes and then, very reluctantly, he looked under the bed.
He had never seen a bomb but he knew instantly that was what it was. There was a dial, wires and thick tubes that were probably explosives. The hand on the dial was ticking towards midnight. He heard a bell toll outside.
“Holy Pater,” he cried, running for the door. The wind had blown it shut again and he nearly pulled the handle off in his haste.
He ran across the living room. He tripped over Branta’s body and crawled the rest of the way, across the top of the landing to head of the stairs. The bell stopped tolling.
He threw himself down the steps, rolling head-over-heels, bruising his back, his legs and his arms as he struck the treads, the banisters and finally the wall where the stairs turned to go down the next flight. Dazed and dizzy, he struggled to his feet.
The bomb exploded. It ripped the top off the tower, sending wood, furniture and the grisly remains of the occupants of the Queen’s chambers high into the sky. They fell on the domes of the palaces, over the Apus and on the roofs of the pilgrims’ houses just as the rest of the tower began to collapse, its structure weakened by the blast. The timbers screamed as their joints were pulled apart and Nacyon, stunned by the noise of the explosion, felt the staircase folding beneath him.
An odd kind of calm over-took his mind. He wondered if people would think he had planted the bomb. Or would they think he had heroically tried to save the Queen but had been too late? He realised, with some relief, that it didn’t really matter.
He saw a beam falling towards his head…
*
He floated among the clouds in an azure sky. At first, he thought he had fallen from the Golden Eyrie and was plummeting towards the ground below. Then he noticed he wasn’t moving. The clouds were drifting past him. It was light but there was no sun.
I’m in the meta-world, he thought and felt happy. All that he was had lived on.
The clouds kept passing in a constant procession. Some took on the forms of ships and he saw the Aquila among them. He thought he saw Rhatany and Quern standing on the deck. He wanted to shout but he couldn’t use his voice. He watched them fade into the background and wondered if they felt guilt for what they’d done.
Other clouds looked like the platforms; he saw the Golden Eyrie, missing one of its towers, and the great square was crowded with mourners wearing black feathers. But who were they mourning? Were they the dead regretting their pasts or were they an image from the present? An echo of the reality he had left behind…?
But most of the clouds looked like the people he had known. He saw the faces of his father and mother and the other relatives he had lost. Many were unfamiliar until he realised, with relief, they were the younger images of his grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles – people who’d been dead for fifty years or longer.
He saw the face of Tragacanth the Gold. He was lying on his back, staring up at the sky, just as he’d been found on Kvike. Nacyon wished he hadn’t died. If the King had survived, none of the rest would have happened. He would have still been on Apus, with his friends and family, and not waiting to be judged by the ancestors…
He heard the beat of giant wings and two eagles appeared, one golden-red and the other midnight-blue. They wore chains with pendants with rubies and sapphires about their necks, crowns on their heads and rings around their feet.
They circled around him; Pater Junopta, Father of the Past, and Mater Quill, Mother of Life. More than their physical presence, he could feel their power.
He wanted to bow but he couldn’t move. All he could do was watch as they passed before him, soaring on their magnificent wings, tips trembling in the wind.
He said: Have you come to judge me?
You judge yourself, Pater replied.
Mater asked: Have you been a good man, Nacyon?
I have always done what I thought was right.
Pater said: Including the death of Zizania?
I didn’t go through with it…
But you were going to, weren’t you?
I don’t know – I didn’t wan
t to.
To kill a queen is the ultimate sin, Mater repeated.
Their alien eyes dissected, evaluated and weighed his words as they circled around. He knew he couldn’t lie but he didn’t want to tell them the truth.
I couldn’t let her betray our people, he said. And she wasn’t the real queen…
But you betrayed the real Zizania, said Pater. You broke your promise to her father and to our people. You did not guide her. You did not love her.
She wasn’t an easy person to like let alone love, he said, feeling hopeless.
You didn’t try, said Mater.
They were right. He had been prejudiced against her from the beginning. He had made no effort to ignore her sarcasm or get to know the person behind the vanity and the sexual hunger. He had reacted to her behaviour rather than tried to understand its motivations. He had judged her against traditional standards without considering her needs as an emotional creature. He wondered if the spirit of Tragacanth felt the same.
I have not been a good man, he admitted. But I’ve not been a bad one…
Pater said: In what way?
I love my children.
The children you no longer see? The ones that hate you?
Little Dot loves me and I love her. And I love her mother too.
That does you some credit, Mater said.
I have tried to do my duty. I have kept your commandments.
Pater said: On the whole, do you believe you’ve been a good Quill?
I’ve not been exceptional, he admitted. But I have tried my best. By killing the false Queen, I was hoping to save our people.
Mater asked: Do you believe that?
I really do.
Do you believe you should be rewarded?
That’s not for me to decide.
I think you should, she said.
Will you take me to Junopta?
No, said Pater. It is not your time.
