For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  Mee Mas was about to reply, about to tell the couple that he loved them, when Sii Sas gave a mighty push. The prince fell, hit the surface of the water, and felt the rocks pull him down. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Mee Mas felt his feet hit bottom. A quick check was sufficient to confirm that the breathing apparatus worked and that he wasn’t going to drown. Not at the moment anyway. Far above, viewed through the shimmery surface, the prince saw one of the planet’s two moons gleaming above.

  Meanwhile, high above, there were additional splashes as Sii Sas dumped a load of carefully selected debris into the water. Wood scraps for the most part, which would bob around the surface, and help conceal the end of the tuber.

  Then, being too old to run, Faa Cha and her mate retired to the small temple by the waterfall from which the summer residence had taken its name. That’s where they were when the Palace of the Mist went up in flames and the Claw found them.

  7

  * * *

  A journey, a true journey, is measured not by ground covered, sights seen, or deeds done but by changes to the landscape within.

  Nok Daa

  LaNor philosopher

  Standard year 1958

  * * *

  THE VILLAGE OF PUR LOR, THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  Roughly half the village of Pur Lor had survived, but that was more a matter of luck than any mercy shown by the Claw. The older structures, all of which were located toward the southern end of town, had perished, but those which lay north of the palace had survived, primarily because both the red lanterns, and the male Claw who flooded in to support them, were distracted by the opportunity to loot the Imperial residence. There were guards, twelve in all, but they fled.

  The first thing Santana saw was the smoke, rising to stain an otherwise blue sky, and warning of trouble ahead. He was exhausted, as were his troops, but loath to bivouac out in the open. They needed walls, something that would be relatively easy to defend, which was where the palace came in.

  That’s what the legionnaire hoped for anyway, but those hopes started to fade as the column approached the outskirts of Pur Lor, and the full extent of the carnage could be seen. Bodies, their throats slit ear to ear, were scattered in the streets. Many lay near empty water buckets, as if some villagers had run outside to fight the fire, only to be ambushed by members of the Claw.

  Homes, most of which had been reduced to little more than a stone foundation, an oven-fireplace, and a heap of still-smoldering timbers, lined both sides of the street.

  Livestock, those animals that survived, ambled, strutted, and hopped through the ruins. An elderly razbul stood and chewed contentedly as the grim-faced off-worlders, weapons at the ready, they followed the narrow twisting street north through the village.

  Just one shot, one rock thrown from behind a crumbling wall, and Santana planned to let Snyder hose the place down. A distant aspect of the platoon leader’s mind knew there might be other, more sophisticated ways to handle the situation, but he couldn’t muster the energy required to think of them. It had been more than a planetary rotation since he had last slept, and it was all the officer could do to take the next step, scan left, scan right, and keep his finger on the trigger.

  Vanderveen stumbled, caught herself, and tried to clear her mind. The Claw had attacked the village, the dead bodies were mute testimony to that, but what about Mee Mas? Was he dead as well? There was no way to know.

  The diplomat spotted an old crone. Perhaps her brain had been addled by the violence, or she was simply senile, but whatever the reason she was busy sweeping a passageway as if the houses to either side were still there.

  Vanderveen veered off in that direction. The diplomat tried to look friendly but suspected that the effort was wasted. Especially given the fact that she was not only an alien, but a tired, dirty alien, who was armed with a rifle. “Excuse me . . . “We’re looking for the Palace of the Mist . . . Could you tell me where it is?

  The oldster met the alien’s eyes and pointed to the northeast. “Look for the stone guardhouse and the stairs beyond.”

  Vanderveen gestured to her surroundings. “The Claw did this?”

  The LaNorian looked down to her broom, then up again. Tears made tracks down through the dust on her wrinkled cheeks. “No, we did this.”

  The words were so clear, so unexpected, that all the diplomat could do was nod in agreement, thank the oldster, and race to catch up with Santana. He listened to her report, said “Thanks,” and pointed up the street. “That looks like the guardhouse . . . ahead on the right.”

  The structure in question was small, round, and surmounted by a conical roof. To Santana’s eye it was more like a ceremonial kiosk than a serious barrier suggesting that the real defenses if any lay somewhere beyond. A quick peek was sufficient to ascertain that whatever guards had been posted there had been taken prisoner, killed, or fled. The legionnaire would have placed his money on the third of the three possibilities.

  Santana posted two Seebos on the guard station, ordered them to keep a sharp lookout for anything that looked like enemy activity, and led the rest of his ragtag band down a long flight of stone stairs.

  Lush foliage grew to either side, ancient stone gods peered out from their carefully maintained niches, and the first flight of stairs ended in front of a large fountain. It was made of black stone. Water spewed from the mouth of a mythical beast, splashed into a large stone bowl, and drained away. Benches offered a place to rest and over arching tree branches provided shelter from the sun above.

  Santana wanted to pause and splash cold water on his face but resisted the temptation to do so. If he took a break, everyone else would want to do likewise, and it was important to secure the palace and establish some sort of defensive perimeter before his troops took time to rest.

  The second flight of stairs carried the off-worlders down through more formal gardens to the point where a twelve-foot-tall defensive wall cut across their path. It had been pierced with a sturdy-looking black iron work gate which hung on pintle-style hinges. The barrier appeared to be undamaged which added further support to Santana’s theory regarding the Imperial guards. They had almost certainly abandoned their posts, or worse yet, allowed the Claw to enter.

  Santana stepped through the opening his weapon at the ready. The walls of the palace had been constructed of stone and therefore continued to stand. But the structural beams, framing, and roof supports had been made of wood and were vulnerable to fire. At some point during the night the upper portion of the residence had collapsed into the lower, creating a jumble of half-charred timbers, fallen masonry, and red roofing tiles. Smoke continued to trickle up through the debris, suggesting that the fire continued to burn deep within the ruins.

  There was no way to pass through the palace so Santana followed the debris-strewn courtyard to the north and found a way around it. Snyder walked followed to the rear, her servos whining, little bits of masonry exploding beneath her massive feet.

  The officer saw a red lantern, crushed where the mob had trampled it, a richly carved sideboard that had been carried out of the palace but abandoned owing to its weight, colorful dinnerware that had been smashed to pieces, and an antique screen that had been slashed with a sword.

  To his left, and off to the north, the cavalry officer could hear a waterfall and feel the fine, almost invisible, mist it produced. A balm in the summer, and one reason why stone benches lined that edge of the property.

  Then, having descended still another short flight of stairs, the officer entered the front courtyard. It faced the east, so the Emperor could watch the sunrise, and the entire width was protected by a vine-covered arbor. And there, dangling like badly abused dolls, hung two elderly LaNorians. The ropes creaked as the bodies twisted in the breeze.

  Santana turned to wave Vanderveen forward. She saw the bodies and winced. “The male . . . Is that Mee Mas?”

  The diplomat shook her head. “No, the prince is a good deal younger.”


  Santana nodded and gestured to Dietrich. “Corporal . . . Get some help and cut those bodies down.”

  The noncom nodded, shouted for Private Taz, and went to work.

  Santana activated his radio. “One Five this is One Six . . . We’ll bivouac here. Sweep the grounds to make sure the area is secure. If you find anyone bring them to me. FSO Vanderveen is looking for a dig named Mee Mas . . . and I would love to get some intelligence. Put out sensors, put some sentries on the wall and force people to drink plenty of water. Work with Sergeant Twelve and L-1 Narvony to set up three shifts all integrated. We’re going to need every trooper we have to make it out of here and that means working together.

  “I take the first shift, you take the second, and Twelve will command the third. Let’s rest Snyder right off the top. Any questions? Over.”

  Hillrun waved from the far side of the courtyard. He sounded tired but alert. “One Five to One Six . . . Roger that . . . no questions. Over.”

  “One Six to One Four . . . questions? Over.”

  “This is Four . . . “No, sir. Over.”

  “One Three . . . You, okay? Over.”

  “Yes sir,” Narvony replied. “Over.”

  “Okay, then,” Santana said, “Execute.”

  Vanderveen felt a terrible sense of hopelessness as she surveyed the destruction that surrounded her. Had Mee Mas been killed? Taken prisoner? There was no way to know.

  One thing was clear however . . . Mee Mas had disappeared and any chance that the LaNorian people might have had for something resembling democracy had vanished with him.

  Wearily, hoping for a drink of water, Vanderveen ambled over to the well and bent over to look inside. Seen from below her face was little more than a shadow. But what Mee Mas could see, and what he’d been praying for, was the unmistakable glow of the sun! It glowed like a beacon of hope.

  The prince was cold . . . So cold that it was difficult to move and the possibility of death offered a welcome respite. Mee Mas made use of his tongue to push the tube out of his mouth, shrugged his way out of the makeshift vest, and allowed himself to float up toward the surface.

  Vanderveen had a canteen in her hand and was reaching downward when Mee Mas exploded up through the surface of the water. The diplomat reeled backward, Santana sprinted toward the well, and Mee Mas spluttered. The prince had been found.

  WEST OF THE IMPERIAL CITY OF POLWA, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  Once clear of the area around his home village of Nah Ree, the youth named Yao Che managed to ground his increasingly waterlogged raft on a sandbar, where it turned end for end, dumped him into the shallows, and took off for parts unknown.

  The accident didn’t make much difference however since Yao Che was already soaked to the skin. A quick check was sufficient to confirm that his conical hat, which had a very important letter sewn into the lining, and the carefully sealed earthenware pot, which contained a second letter, were both intact.

  Thus reassured the youngster eyed the channel that separated him from the shore and the flat-bottomed boats pulled up beyond. It was evening, right around dinner time, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. Fisherfolk suggested a village, a village implied a road, and nearly all of the major roads led to Polwa, the very place the youngster was determined to go.

  In spite of the speed with which the Gee Nas River whipped through the side channel the water appeared to be only knee deep. That meant Yao Che could cross it on foot, assuming he managed to remain standing. Failure to do so could be disastrous since a fall could carry him downstream, out into the main stream, and to his death.

  However, like any youngster who had grown up near a river, Yao Che knew a thing or two about how to deal with such situations. First the courier removed the clothing below his waist in order to reduce the pressure of the water against his legs. Then, shivering in the cold, the youngster made the garments into a pack which he secured to his back.

  Satisfied that the bundle was secure the teenager walked over to a pile of driftwood, selected a tuber that was approximately one arm’s length longer than he was, and tested the pole to ensure that it wouldn’t break.

  Now, as ready as he ever would be, Yao Che entered the current. His sandals, which he still wore, helped provide a stable footing. The stick, which he placed upstream, acted to break the current’s force.

  Then, having chosen a destination slightly downstream of the boats, the youngster eased his way out into the channel. There were some bad spots, like a hole that threatened to suck him in, but the courier managed to keep his feet.

  Finally, right about the time that the lower part of his legs had grown numb from the cold, the bottom came up, the current lost most of its force, and Yao Che made his way up a steeply shelving beach. A rock ledge ran parallel to the channel and the fisher folk had made use of it to chronicle high- and low-water marks for more than a hundred rainy seasons. Valuable information for people who make their livings from the river.

  Yao Che stuck the pole into the soft soil above the ledge in case someone else might be able to use it, removed the bundle of clothes from his back, and put them on. They were wet but helped cut the breeze.

  Then, eager to find a warm fire, some hearty food, and a place to sleep, Yao Che sought the nearby village. Like most such settlements he knew it would be located a good mile or two from the river, safe from all but the most determined of floods, and far enough from the water to give river pirates reason to pause.

  An hour later the youngster was seated at the end of a long table packed cheek to jowl with fellow travelers. Most had finished their dinners by then and held vast mugs of beer. There was very little to do but play a game of stones, argue over inconsequential matters, and pepper Yao Che with questions.

  The teenager expected nothing less and allowed his elders to draw his story out of him as he worked his way down through a bowl filled with kas, vegetables, and chunks of tasty fish. There were grunts of sympathy regarding his gana’s death, stories regarding similar journeys they had made as youngsters, and plenty of well-intended advice.

  Then, warmed by the food, not to mention the inn’s fuggy embrace, it was time to go upstairs, wrap himself in the cleanest blanket he could find, and curl up in a corner of the long dormitory-style guest room. It was noisy, what with the tavern located directly below him, but the youth soon fell asleep within minutes.

  Yao Che awoke nine hours later to discover that he had been robbed. The coin rope, which was still clenched in his hand, had been severed to either side of his fist leaving him with nothing beyond a short length of cord.

  The courier’s first reaction was one of shame, that he could have been victimized so easily, but he had taken Frank Busso’s advice and hidden those coins having the greatest value here and there throughout his clothing. That, plus the knowledge that he had paid for his lodging in advance, made the youngster feel better.

  Still, Yao Che had a role to play, that of country bumpkin on his way to the city, and the loss demanded appropriate histrionics. Thus the youngster uttered a loud wail, proclaimed his loss, and had little choice but to endure the callous comments offered by fellow guests, the disingenuous expressions of sympathy voiced by the establishment’s proprietor, and his staff’s poorly concealed snickers.

  The innkeeper did offer the youngster a complimentary breakfast, however, along with six kas balls for the road and some sage advice. “There’s some mighty rough characters out there so watch your step . . . One mistake and you could lose more than a rope with some coins on it.”

  The courier bowed respectfully, thanked the elder for his counsel, and was soon on the road. The next couple of days passed reasonably smoothly, as the youngster used his native wit, charm, and carefully hoarded money to hitch rides on Polwa-bound carts, walk in the company of organized groups, and pass the evenings at inns very much like the first.

  It was on the third day that the opportunity, if that’s what it could properly be called, came as Yao Che rounded a bend, and
ran into a large contingent of Claw. All of them were male, wore identical red bandanas, and carried a wild assortment of weapons. They, like thousands of others, were like iron filings drawn to a magnet. The city of Mys was the place where the foreign devils lived, where they feasted on LaNorian babies, and where the blood would be let.

  The group, some forty individuals in all, had paused to take a break. While doing so they had established an informal roadblock, which they used to vet fellow travelers, extract what they referred to as voluntary donations, and flirt with any females who happened along.

  The moment that Yao Che appeared, a big lout named Ply Pog ambled over and blocked the youngster’s passage. “So,” the Claw remarked rhetorically, “what have we here? An Imperial courier with an urgent message for Empress Shi Huu?”

  The question came so close to the truth that Yao Che felt his heart skip a beat. The other members of the Tro Wa laughed. The teenager felt relieved. Rather than accuse him of what amounted to a crime the ugly-looking brute with the missing ear fan was making fun of him!

  Much practiced in the role of dutiful grandson the teenager summoned an expression of surprised consternation and bowed respectfully. “No, Excellency. My name is Yao Che—and my family sent me to Polwa with my gana’s ashes . . . Perhaps you could tell me if I’m on the correct road?”

  “ ‘Excellency?’ ” one of the ruffians demanded. “Excellent at what? Drinking beer?”

  The jest drew gales of laughter from the jokester’s cronies and Ply Pog frowned. “Give me the pot . . . maybe it contains ashes and maybe it doesn’t.”

  The youth felt frightened, very frightened, and for very good reason. Others had stopped him, had forced him to tell his story, but no one had attempted to look inside the pot. Most LaNorians were too superstitious for that, but it seemed that this individual was the exception, or just hell-bent on looking tough for his companions.