But it came. He had tried to embrace her! She had seen it as an attack, and fought back. But it wasn’t an attack. He had thought she would respond…differently. A deep shame filled him, raising his body temperature, making his head throb all the more, and opening sweat glands from head to foot. How utterly foolish. How completely asinine. How much wine had he had? Enough to lower his inhibitions a bit, but not near enough to plead drunkenness. He wanted to disappear, simply to crawl back into darkness and stay there.
He looked around him. The candles on the table had burned down but a little. He hadn’t been out long. He was thankful he was alone, thankful he had made it clear to the servants they were not to return once he had dismissed them. He didn’t need them to witness this.
But wait, he had given himself this opportunity. He had dismissed the servants on purpose, as though he had planned the whole thing. But he hadn’t. Or had he? His heart sank further. Some part of him, at least, had fully intended to take that beautiful, infuriating woman in his arms. What was wrong with him? Was he two people, or one? What was going on within him?
Mather struggled to his feet, then sat gingerly on the nearest chair. Thank God she had hit him, he thought. Thank God he had not overpowered her.
What was he saying? What was there to be thankful about? And then he realized the extent of his own jeopardy. What if she told someone? What if this became widely known? She was a captive here precisely because he couldn’t trust her not to talk. She would make this out to be something awful, something more than a moment’s poor judgment. His instincts for survival now overcame his remorse, as he realized he had to make a move, now, to keep her quiet.
He would have time to consider later, time to figure out what had happened to his willpower, why he had misjudged the situation so badly. There would be time to work things out with Panna, get her to understand. But for now, she had to be silenced. For her own good. For the good of the kingdom.
He stood, calling for the dragoons who were certain to be stationed outside the dining room, somewhere within earshot. Panna needed to be out of harm’s way. She needed to be controlled.
She needed to be locked up.
Yes—yes, he thought. She needed to be locked up where she could speak to no one, see no one. No one but him.
CHAPTER 10
Dead Reckoning
The Chase had been running southwest since the horizon had filled with the red sails of the Drammune. She ran at hull speed until somewhere near midnight, when John Hand gave the signal to turn due east. They sailed east for three more hours. And then, at around three in the morning, the admiral had given the command to turn again.
Now their heading was northwest.
“So we’re sailing in a circle,” Packer said to Delaney. The older sailor dropped down from the rigging, spry, like a young cat.
“A triangle, more like,” Delaney nodded. He spoke in a whisper, looking up at the quarterdeck at their captain, whose hand held the ship’s wheel as he studied the sea, the sky, the sails, the wind. “Been sailing all night by dead reckoning.”
Packer looked up at the clouded sky. “You mean he’s guessing.”
Delaney nodded grimly. “That’s the thing about dead reckoning. You don’t know how much of it’s guess till you’re done and there.”
“Or not there.”
“Exactly. If John Hand is the seaman I think he is, he’ll come out pretty close to there.”
“And where is ‘there,’ do you suppose?”
Delaney looked at the sails, scanning them for cut and fill. He looked at the sky. The moon provided a sudden faint glow of grim light through the heavy blanket of cloud, and then was gone again. Delaney looked back at Packer. “If I didn’t know how crazy it was, sonny, I’d say he wants to sneak up on the Drammune from behind.”
Moore Davies was impressed by the quality of ships in the Drammune Armada. He had been confident he could outrun them, but now he knew he could not. He had held his lead over the ships directly behind him, but this was an illusion. The Drammune ships on the wings, both north and south of him now, had increased their speed and were flanking him. This could only mean that the ones directly behind were holding back. The Drammune were surrounding the Marchessa.
It was still well before dawn, and though Captain Davies knew his predicament, his crew did not, at least not yet. They were running hard and watching behind. In the next few minutes Davies would need to pick a spot, pick an enemy, stand, and fight. Otherwise, they would close in on him and he would be taken prize. Or, he would have to fight them all.
Abbaka Mux watched the Marchessa through his telescope. He was not impressed. The Vast ship was little faster than a Drammune freighter, built on a design Drammune engineers had surpassed five years ago. She was captained well, certainly better than the clumsy Silver Arrow had been. But this ship would go down just as easily.
The Vast were arrogant and lazy, living in the past, while the Drammune exceeded them in every way. Pawns, that’s what they truly were. They were soft even for Pawns, though. “Sahr hund,” the Drammune liked to call the Vast, to distinguish them from the Unworthies of other lands. Salamanders, hardly worthy even of being called an enemy. Mux was pleased with the opportunity he had been given to kill them, and claim their earthly dominions. Killing the Vast was his high calling. It was his duty and his privilege to take all they had. This was the great Kar Ixthano, the Right of Transfer, so central to war in the Rahk-Taa. Mux knew the passages by heart, as did all Zealots. He quoted the key passage silently now. “The Law commands the Worthy Ones to rule. Therefore the Worthy who takes the life of the Unworthy earns all his titles and treasures.”
In the past, many Drammune had used those words to justify piracy and plunder, but those days were gone. The Zealots had higher ideals, and the future was theirs. For the sake of Rahk, the Glorious Drammune Military would slaughter many Pawns on this voyage. These salamanders would die while the upright Drammune assumed their place on the earth. This was right, and good. And besides that, it was wholly logical. Such a law ensured that Worthy men would always rule the earth.
Fen Abbaka Mux did not want or expect the spoils of war for himself. The dominion of Nearing Vast, by order of the Zealots, would be passed up the chain of command to the Hezzan, who had decreed their honorable slaughter. With this, Mux was more than satisfied. He would sweep souls into the Dead Lands tonight. And tomorrow. And for weeks and months to come. As the Drammune stormed the gates of Nearing Vast, the Unworthy would storm the gates of the Dead Lands, by the hundreds, by the thousands.
They deserved no more, he knew. They defied all that was right by teaching one another that humiliation and death were the highest honor, claiming this as a message from some Almighty God. This was absurd. Humiliation was dishonor by its very definition. It was like saying dishonor is honor, and honor dishonor. The babbling of lunatic minds. And death by crucifixion, that was dishonorable in the extreme.
Surely, even the Vast secretly knew their religion was false, for they refused to follow their own beliefs. They fought for their lives like animals; they plundered one another as if there were no law; they drank and murdered and sold themselves for money, taking whatever they could on this earth as their own, behaving as though hoarding treasure was their highest calling.
They were a miserable people. They deserved only death, and death they would have. Mux would assure it. He was Worthy.
As Fen Abbaka Mux focused his heart on slaughtering the Vast, Packer Throme focused his telescope on Mux’s ship, the Rahk Thanu, watching its progress through the darkness. He tried to steady the long telescope against the new brass rail that circled the recently rebuilt platform high above the waves—the crow’s nest, where Lund Lander, the Toymaker, had breathed his last. Packer’s heart raced, and he suppressed fear that pulsed through him.
“That’s her, dead ahead,” Packer said as evenly as he could, certain he had located the flagship of the Drammune Armada.
“You see it?
” Delaney asked. He had climbed up to the crow’s nest to join Packer, to be of whatever help he could. Packer appreciated it more than Delaney knew.
“I think so. The one in the middle, behind. The signals are coming from her.” Packer handed his friend the scope.
“It ain’t a she,” Delaney said as he focused on the trailing ship of the Armada.
“What?”
“Drammune don’t call their ships like women. It’s just a it.”
Delaney saw the quick, bright flashes of communication Packer had seen. “They don’t waste for letters, do they?”
“A code of some sort.”
“You see the Marchessa?” Delaney asked.
“No. Do you?”
Delaney went silent for a moment. “They got her ’bout surrounded.”
“What? Let me see.” Packer couldn’t believe he’d missed something like that. “Where?”
Delaney looked at him like the question was daft. “In the middle. You know, surrounded.”
Packer scanned the dark waves. “I don’t…”
“Look for sails. She’ll have no lights burning.”
Of course that was true. Now Packer saw her, very faint gray puffs against the dark sky. The Drammune had made a wide arch behind the Marchessa, with their flagship in the middle, at the keystone. The warships on the wings had spread themselves out and moved forward, and now were moving in, pincers closing on the fleeing ship. “They’re gaining on her.”
“They’ve already caught her. Just a matter of time now.”
“We have to tell the admiral.”
Delaney took the telescope, his face grave. “I’ll watch. You tell him.”
Packer climbed down the mainmast to just below the yardarm of the highest sail, the main topgallant. It’s where he had left the boatswain’s chair, kindly offered him by the bosun, Stil Meander, who was nursing his injuries and preferred to stay on deck.
Packer climbed into the sling, untied the lines, and thanks to the ingenious pulley system lowered himself at a much higher rate of speed than he could have climbed down. He had no trouble until the last twenty feet, when he lost control and swung well out over the waves, spinning once before slamming his hip against the rail. He paid no attention to the pain, though. He climbed over the gunwale and out of the chair, scrambling onto the deck as sailors nearby laughed at his clumsiness.
Packer cut his eyes at them, and they were silenced. But he wasn’t angry; he barely noted them. He was thinking about what he had just seen, not on top of the waves, but under them, as he descended. He limped quickly up the stairs from the main deck to the quarterdeck, and found Admiral Hand scanning the sea ahead with his own telescope. He looked over at Packer.
“You okay?” he asked with a grin.
Packer’s mouth was dry; his heart was pounding. “Sir. Their flagship is the one farthest back, in the middle. If we stay on course we’ll run up on her.”
“Good work.” Admiral Hand looked at Packer more closely. He was white as a ghost. The boy was staring out over the port rail as though looking for something. “Anything else?”
Packer looked back at John Hand. “The Marchessa, sir, is ahead of them. They’ve got her surrounded.”
John Hand nodded grimly. He suspected as much. “And the Silver Arrow?”
“No sign.”
Hand nodded again. But Packer kept scanning the ocean. “Something else to report, Ensign?” Hand asked.
Packer sucked some moisture into his mouth. He pointed at the sea off the port side. “Aye, sir. We’ve got company.”
Hand looked quickly at the seas, scanned them with his telescope. “Drammune?”
“No.” The image Packer had seen as he spun over the ocean played in his mind. Dark waves with whitecaps, and then just under the surface, a long, gray-colored beast, its back laced with triangular fins. “It’s a Firefish.”
“Ah, that. Big one, isn’t it?” the admiral said with a smile.
“You…you’ve seen it?”
“It’s been running with us for at least an hour.”
Packer was dumbfounded. Running with us? “What are you going to do?”
“What do you recommend?” The way John Hand asked it, it was clear he thought there was little or nothing that could be done.
A Firefish was swimming alongside the ship. It was going to do what it was going to do. They had lures and bait, but attempting to kill a Firefish right now did not seem the prudent choice, not when the Marchessa was in danger. And no matter how big the beast was, a hundred Drammune warships were a greater threat, certainly to Nearing Vast. Packer walked to the port rail and peered over the edge. He could see nothing.
Hand joined him. “Why doesn’t it attack?” he asked Packer.
Packer looked at the captain with surprise. “I don’t know, sir. I was going to ask you.”
“If I knew, I’d be rich.” He shrugged. “Richer, anyway. Could be it sees the Armada ahead, and doesn’t want to attract attention. Or could be it’s had a bit of dinner already.”
Packer paused. “The Silver Arrow.”
Hand nodded. “And maybe the Seventh Seal, too.”
“The explosion.”
Hand nodded.
“Why is it waiting?”
“Scat probably gave it a bellyache.” Hand laughed at his own joke. “Wouldn’t that old pirate love to know that his rancid soul saved the Chase from being eaten?”
Packer ignored John Hand’s cold-blooded comment. He took a deep breath, still looking for the monster, still seeing nothing. But the thought of the pirate captain inside that beast right now was, somehow, terrifying.
“I don’t think he’s going to hurt us, though,” John Hand said.
“Who, the captain?”
The admiral laughed again. “The beast. Apparently it’s content to wait and see what happens. They seem to like the aftermath of battle, if I recall.”
Packer did recall—how could he forget the underwater river of fiery gold in the Achawuk territory, the yellow streaks of a whole school of these things following the trail of bodies thrown overboard? They had not waited then, but had attacked the Trophy Chase. The memory of that battle shifted his thoughts to possible battles ahead, where more bodies would be falling into the sea.
“Sir, are we going to attack the Drammune?”
“Aye, Packer. We do have our orders.”
Packer thought a moment, then looked into the water again. “That’s one smart fish.”
Admiral Hand had few advantages, and he meant to use them all. The clouds had cleared and the sun was rising bright and crisp as the Trophy Chase approached the Rahk Thanu from the east. Coming out of the sunrise, it would be difficult for any aboard the Drammune flagship to make out details of her attacker, or to get a clean read on her distance. Hand knew he had the fastest ship on the seas, and could fairly pounce on his enemy. His ship also had impenetrable armor. And he had a battle-tested crew that bordered on the bloodthirsty. They had beaten the Achawuk. They had beaten Scat Wilkins. They believed they could beat anybody.
And, if all that failed, John Hand had God on his side. Or at least he had Packer Throme, who had God on his side. Or at least, the men believed it was so.
For John Hand, to attack and take down the lead ship of a vastly superior force in the midst of the Armada was but another test of what could be accomplished with foresight, knowledge, leadership, and an understanding of how to maneuver in the tides of time and human activity. Admiral Hand had no illusions about the difficulty of this battle. But he also had no intention of losing. This was not a suicide mission. It was an opportunity to harness and ride the powers that drive history.
He called the men to the main deck.
“Gentlemen!”
Several of the gathered crew looked at one another with sheepish grins.
“Warriors, sailors, men of action!” Now they nodded. That was better. “Not even we can defeat an entire Drammune Armada.”
“But we’ll give �
�er a try!” shouted a sailor. Others laughed and called out their agreement.
“What we can do,” Hand continued, “is destroy its leadership. Before the day is done, as God is with us, we will take down the Drammune flagship, and capture or kill the very leadership of that Armada.”
Cheers rose.
“That done, we will leave the rest in disarray, and we will fly like the wind, like only the Trophy Chase can fly!”
More cheers.
“They’re after the Marchessa now. They’re close in behind her. I don’t know if we can save her, but if we can, we will. Our target is dead ahead, the dark ship, the one called the Rahk Thanu. We will catch it in less than half an hour.” He saw concern on their faces as they scanned the Armada, its flanks far out ahead. “We are not attacking them all, nor will they all turn and fight us. They are closing in on their prey. Calling off their attack to deal with a single ship would be Unworthy. If their commander is arrogant enough, he may even think he can take us alone. But regardless, with our speed, and his Armada so far out ahead of him and spread across the sea, we have a good chance at single combat.”
The older hands squinted and nodded, winking at one another. Their new commander was not just a good seaman, but a wily warrior.
“So we’ll attack him the way Scat Wilkins attacked us,” the admiral continued. “And with no armor, and no ability to penetrate our armor, that little boat will go down, just as the Seventh Seal went down. Raise your swords, men!”
Swords went high in the air.
“Dead ahead are the very ships that sank a peaceful envoy of Nearing Vast off the shores of Drammun.” Hand raised his voice to a shout. “Will we have vengeance this day?”
“Aye!” “Vengeance!” Swords crossed one another with a scrape and a clatter.
“One more thing. Packer Throme here,” and he put his hand on Packer’s shoulder once again, “has spotted an old adversary who is traveling with us as a companion. You may see the beast as we fight. It’s a Firefish.”
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 56