The Firefish watched as the pack surrounded, and then attacked a small, limping storm creature. A straggler.
Again, the thunder and lightning on the surface. Again, the Firefish watched, and learned. It learned that even the small straggler was fierce, throwing thunderbolts without stop, without rest. And then, a shower of morsels! The Firefish swam about, scooping them in. And again the loser, this time the little straggler, sank slowly beneath the waves.
But this time, the Firefish did not attack. It could not. As it considered its prey, the smell of burnt splinters reached it, a sharp and horrible stench, so wretched as to drive hunger itself away. No, the Firefish could not attack, not with this poison in the water. What if these creatures were full of this poison?
Another dive. More patience. More study.
That Prince Mather Sennett had a broken nose, nobody within the palace questioned. There could be little debate. The nasal quality of his voice and the purplish bruising below his eyes were evidence. A better sign, however, was the large white bandage tinged with red that covered the entire center of his face. But precisely how he had broken his nose was a matter of no small discussion among the servants. He claimed it had happened in a riding accident, though no one at the stables had seen him come or go, much less take a spill. If the prince wanted it to be a riding accident, then fine, it was a riding accident. But that didn’t stop the talk.
All the juiciest speculation centered on what might or might not have transpired between the prince and the hero’s young bride. It was too much coincidence that the day the bandage appeared, Panna Throme’s free run of the palace ended. She was now confined to the Upper Quarters, in the northeast wing: “the Tower,” as it was called.
The servants were quite sure that the prince’s face had been aligned normally at the beginning of last evening’s royal dinner. Others were sure the bandage was in place at breakfast. So whatever had happened, it must have happened some time between the two.
Smart money was on dinner.
Royal dinners were generally formal and ceremonial affairs, matters of state, with six to eight guests and at least twice that many political agendas. Panna’s role, on the few occasions she was invited, was to be Packer Throme’s wife, no more and no less. She had three approved topics: Packer’s past exploits, her own faith and hope in his current success, and her confidence in the future victory of Nearing Vast over the Drammune. Otherwise, she was to smile sweetly and chew with her mouth shut.
She had no problem with the first two topics. But the prince had learned to approach her very delicately on the third. It dismayed him that when she was asked her opinion on the outcome of the war, she would quickly invoke the sovereign will of God or some such platitude, and then take a large, smiling bite of something that required significant time to work her way around. Mather had learned to speak for her, and she had learned not to contradict him when finally she could speak again.
This was the first such dinner since Princess Jacqalyn’s revelation, and Panna was on edge, unsure she could manage even that much preplanned spontaneity. As she entered the Royal Dining Room, she was wondering why she had even come, why she hadn’t pled illness, anything to avoid Mather. But she was quite dismayed to find only two place settings. They were both laid out at the far end of the royal table, with only the width of the table between them. The prince entered the room right behind her and closed the door.
“What is this?” she demanded, eyes blazing.
“Whoa.” He held up a hand. “I have detected an unusual amount of hostility from you lately, and I thought it was important we get that behind us. It’s a matter of importance to the kingdom. You and your husband are important assets to the winning of the war.”
“There are only two place settings.”
“And as luck would have it, there are two of us. But do not be mistaken, Mrs. Throme, this is a formal state dinner and your duty is to attend.”
Panna’s skin bristled with goose bumps; she could feel every nerve ending. No one else was in the room with them, not a dragoon, not even a servant. She recalled the warnings from Princess Jacqalyn with ice-cold clarity.
Mather looked puzzled. “Goodness, woman, I’m not going to hurt you.”
Panna’s heart thumped in her chest. “I am a married woman. This is not proper.”
Mather looked confused. “I’m not proposing to you, Mrs. Throme. It’s dinner. Have I not always treated you with the utmost respect? Of what do you accuse me?”
“Where are the servants?”
He smiled. “My. You are skittish.” He snapped his fingers once, and a waiter appeared. Mather did not look at him. “Wine, please,” he said, and the waiter disappeared. “Satisfied?”
Panna relaxed some. But she didn’t like the situation any better.
A look of sudden enlightenment crossed Mather’s face. “Wait. Did my dear sister put thoughts in your head?”
Panna didn’t respond.
“She did!” Mather confirmed to his own amusement, and then laughed easily. “You must understand that dear Jacq has nothing at all to do. Nothing whatever. She spends her time weaving wild stories, trying to create intrigue where there is none. I personally think she’s more than half crazy, but what’s to be done about it? Please. Do not judge me by what my sister says or does.”
Panna relaxed a bit more. The servants had said as much. And he was, after all, the prince. She had not been raised to confront authority. If in fact Jacqalyn’s story was nothing but a story, then Panna had been quite rude. She looked at him. He seemed sincere. “You have always been a gentleman.”
“There. I understand my place, and I understand yours. Not only are you married, but you are in love. Even were I completely smitten with you, I would understand it could never be.” His eyes were sad. He seemed almost childlike.
She felt no danger from him. “Very well,” she said. “Forgive me.”
He looked surprised. “Dear Mrs. Throme, there’s nothing to forgive. Please, let’s sit.”
The dinner conversation was pleasant, much more so than was the case in previous dinners. Though she had seen Mather pay close attention to the most tedious dronings and posturings around the most trivial subjects, awaiting his chance to steer the conversation his way, his attentions tonight seemed entirely honorable. They spoke of the Drammune, of the buildup to the war, and Panna learned just how long the hostilities between the two powers had simmered. She had questions from the books she had been reading, questions that surprised the prince. She wanted to understand the impact of the loss of fishing revenue to the kingdom, and what had been done about it. A book she had been reading said that fully half the economy of Nearing Vast centered on fishing. How, she asked, could the fishing trade grow weaker and weaker as the Drammune took over, and yet the results seemed to affect only the little fishing villages? Why was not the whole kingdom plunged into poverty, as had happened once before, almost a hundred years ago?
Mather was impressed by the question. “In a word, the answer to your question is, Firefish.”
“Firefish?”
“Yes. My father, may he reign forever, was a silent partner with Scatter Wilkins.”
Panna’s amazement crossed into the realm of disbelief.
“The tax revenue to the kingdom from Scat’s venture has been enormous,” Mather explained, and then told her in confidence of the deal that kept Scatter Wilkins from hanging, and the kingdom from financial ruin. “War with the Drammune was not part of the plan.” He suddenly looked weary. “He has lost his way.”
“Who?”
“The king. I will take his place soon.”
“How soon?”
“He wants it immediately. I’m the one holding him off.”
Panna didn’t know what to say. No wonder Mather felt so much pressure. “I had no idea. Princess Jacqalyn said you were troubled…”
“On that point, she is quite correct. But she sees the world through a dark lens.” And then he talked about his
family, about how he was raised, how Jacqalyn had become so cynical. She was the eldest, wise in many ways but always excluded from matters of state because of her sex. Eventually that fact had broken her down, but he hoped one day to draw her back into affairs of state.
Then he spoke about how his younger brother, Ward, had turned to drinking and carousing, always uncomfortable in the shadow cast by Mather. Ward had ultimately decided that his own duties mattered little, and had begun to abuse his privileges. Mather further confided how Ward had begun to use the secret passages to go in and out of the palace at all hours of the day or night, ancient passages designed hundreds of years ago for emergency escapes. The king knew of Ward’s antics but said nothing, and so Ward grew more and more outlandish in his habits.
Mather avoided talking in any depth about his parents, however. He waved that subject away as if the situation were obvious and the conclusions unavoidable.
Then he spoke about himself. He had been raised and educated as though the very future of the world depended on him. He clearly had accepted that assumption. He was fluent in Drammune and Urlish, passable in Martooch and Sandavallian, almost as knowledgeable about their histories and cultures and religions as he was about his own. He was, of course, steeped in political strategy and economic policy. He had studied the sword under Senslar Zendoda, and seamanship under John Hand’s mentor, Admiral Andrew “Anchor” Tammerland, the legendary captain of the Far Horizon, now lost with the Fleet. He had learned the strategies of war from retired General Mack Millian, who had devised the brilliant defense of Oster in the Comitani Wars, and who now advised Bench Urmand. He talked about being both honor-bound and destined to restore his kingdom’s defenses, its economic vigor, and its status in the larger world.
Panna realized for the first time, really understood, that the man before her had no other purpose in life than to take his father’s place. He had been tutored, trained, disciplined, and directed for that one role. Mather Sennett was born to be king. She felt a new respect for him, and wondered how any boy could bear up under such an upbringing.
But then suddenly, he changed the subject. He asked about Packer. He seemed particularly interested in the details of his childhood, which surprised and pleased Panna. She spoke easily and joyfully about days she remembered: climbing with him at the cliff’s edge, building treehouses, organizing the village children in hikes and pirate battles. She was glad for a subject she needn’t be careful about, or tread lightly around. She could not remember ever being without Packer, she told Mather, not until the day he left for seminary. She missed him tremendously then, as she did now. Talking about him made her hurt more and feel better at the same time.
After he had heard several stories, the prince said abruptly, “He saved my life, you know.”
Panna sat up straight. “Who did?”
“Your husband. He wasn’t that at the time, of course.”
“Packer Throme saved your life?”
“He is lately a hero to many, but he has been a hero to me for many years.”
“What are you talking about? He never told me anything like that.”
“He shouldn’t need to. You were there.”
She was deeply puzzled, but he seemed to be serious.
“I remember you. You had long dark hair and dark, mysterious eyes, even then. You stood by the fire, where the water was being heated. You were, what, ten years old? I was fifteen.”
Panna’s mind raced. She couldn’t imagine…
The prince smiled. “You helped his mother pour hot water into wineskins. But that wasn’t what did the trick. It was him. I was dying of exposure. Packer’s father had foolishly carted me all the way up to Hangman’s Cliffs wrapped only in a blanket. His mother was the one to grasp the severity of my condition. She ordered Packer to strip to his skivvies and warm me with his own body.”
Panna’s eyes were wide as her dessert plate. “Oh, my Lord. That was you.” She remembered him coming around, color returning, remembered him looking at her. She blushed.
The prince nodded. “Ah, so you do remember. Yes, I was that near-naked, shivering boy. But you couldn’t have known it was me.” The prince’s attitude was breezy. His voice was smooth as the chocolaty dessert left behind by the waiter just before the prince dismissed him. “It was a secret.” Mather paused, watched her.
Panna felt the floor shifting under her chair. “But that means…Packer’s benefactor all these years, who sent him to seminary, and then to study the sword…”
“Yes. Packer’s benefactor was the King of Nearing Vast.”
“Packer doesn’t know this?”
Mather shook his head. “No, he doesn’t. Only you.” Something inside him ached as he said those words. So he said them again. “Only you.”
She suddenly felt trapped, unable to keep from going down a dangerous road with this prince. She did not like this shift in his demeanor, and she didn’t want to share any secrets with him. Certainly not secrets Packer didn’t know. She put her napkin on the table. “Thank you for dinner.”
“What? But we haven’t had coffee.” He looked pained.
“I’m tired.”
His look grew urgent. “Panna.” He reached a hand out, to put it on hers.
She jerked her hand away. “No,” she said instinctively, and stood.
“No what? What have I done?”
She gathered herself. “I’m just tired. Thank you for dinner.”
He stood, looking panicked. “There’s something else I need to say.”
She faced him, her instincts telling her to run, her sense of etiquette and duty telling her that would be rude. So she said nothing, and did not move.
“Panna!” he said softly, urgently, more hiss than whisper. “Help me here.”
She felt a ragged lump of fear in her throat. “With what?”
He looked at her with unseeing eyes. “I… I can’t get you out of my mind.”
“No!” she said, shaking her head and backing away from the table. So Jacqalyn had been right! Panna should have listened. How stupid of her to believe Mather rather than his sister, who was at least a woman, even if she was cynical and jaded. “Don’t say it, Mather. Don’t say anything more.”
“You feel it, don’t you? You feel something for me, even though it can never be.”
“No!” she repeated, and she turned for the door.
But he followed her, taking a parallel path along the other side of the long table. “Yes, Panna. You do, admit you do! You came to me in your nightclothes, you bathed outside my window…”
She ran.
He chased her.
At the end of the table he caught her, his grip hard on her elbow. He spun her around, intending to take her in his arms and kiss her, believing she would let him.
But she didn’t let him.
She broke his nose.
It was a single blow, a solid punch, well-aimed, well-timed, fueled by the same mixture of fear and anger that had almost killed poor Riley Odoms. She put her legs into it, her back, her shoulder. She felt the too-familiar crack beneath her fist. But this time when her opponent went down, she didn’t go on top of him. She watched him fall, watched his head bounce with an ugly thud on the polished wooden floor. She stood over his crumpled form, fist still balled, still angry, not knowing whether to kick him or hit him again.
He didn’t open his eyes.
Her breathing and her pulse slowed as she began to consider what had just happened. And what it might mean. Something had just changed. No, not something, everything. Everything had changed. She put her hands into her hair and pulled. Why had he done this? What would happen to her now, now that she had struck the prince? This was not some old fisherman who wouldn’t even recognize her. This was the Crown Prince of the Kingdom, at a state dinner. This was the very prince who had made sure all the charges against her were dropped the last time. And when he awakened, he would know exactly what had happened to him.
Assuming he would awaken.
“You stupid man,” she said to him. “You royal idiot. There are ten thousand women in the kingdom who would…” She grimaced at him.
She stood up and looked down at herself, at her dress. She seemed to be whole, in one piece, nothing torn, nothing much amiss. She looked at her right fist. Only a slight smudge of blood between her knuckles. She wiped it away with her other hand. She sighed once, took a last look at her captor and tormentor. His eyes were still closed, but he was moving now, writhing where he lay, a look of pain on his face as he came around.
She hurried out of the room, back to the Blue Rooms, to await the repercussions.
Prince Mather struggled up through a boggy marsh, looking for air. When he broke through, he came fully awake into a realm of black, dark agony. His head throbbed with the worst headache of his life; front, back, middle—his entire head seemed to be one sharp and focused, dull and pounding pain. He sat up slowly, and the pain increased, threatening to suck him right back under the surface.
By sitting perfectly still and concentrating only on waiting, on holding on, he was able to keep from falling over. The throbbing eased enough for him to take stock. It took him a few seconds to recognize that his nose had been broken. He touched it once, but then had to hold himself still again to wait for the pain to subside. It took him a few seconds longer to realize that the back of his head was aching, badly swollen. What had happened? He avoided the memory for as long as he could, but now it came.
Panna had hit him. Had hit him hard.
The image of her fist came back to him. He was backing away from it, but far too slowly. Her knuckles filled his vision, and then he saw a white flash, and then the carved wooden ceiling above him. Then nothing. She had most certainly hit him. And why? He knew he didn’t want that answer to come back to him either.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 55