When he pulled himself together again, he knew he had to get up, get out. “Guards!” he tried to call through the gag. His voice sounded ragged and desperate in his own ears, like the cry of some wounded animal. He listened for footsteps. But there was nothing. All was quiet.
With a great effort, Mather managed to roll himself out of the closet, pushing the doors open. With significant further difficulty he was able to free himself from both the comforter and the lavender gown that had come off its hanger, determined to entangle him in a permanent embrace. He made it to his knees, and then to his feet.
He hopped to Panna’s bed and sat. He was breathing heavily through his nose now. It hurt him. His whole face hurt him. His head pounded. If he could just get his hands free. Or get this gag off. But all the knots were tight, and each one seemed to pull tighter as he struggled against it.
He cursed silently, looking around the room for anything sharp, anything he might use to cut through these cords. But he had banished all sharp implements from her quarters. He had doomed himself to this fate. He hopped over to the dresser. Hairbrush, ribbons. No help.
Would he have to hop all the way downstairs? He closed his eyes as his anger rose, then turned to embarrassment, then to shame. Then it turned to resignation.
He took a deep breath. So be it.
And he hopped to the door.
Four dragoons were holding a ladder against a tree while a fifth stood at its top, perhaps twenty feet above the ground. He had a long pole in his hand, which he used to jab at the dark spot in the leaves. Lamps lit the branches. It was slow going because he got only one or two pokes in before losing his balance and hugging the tree trunk again, trying to regain his nerve.
“I don’t think there’s nothin’,” he called down.
Prince Mather stood in the doorframe of the palace entrance, gagged, bound, and sweating from his long and clumsy descent. He watched, confused. What on earth were they doing? For a moment he couldn’t get the thought out of his head that they were looking for Panna, that Panna had somehow climbed down the trees. Then it occurred to him that he might be the missing one. His confusion turned to rage. The stupidity!
He hopped down to where his brother and his sister stood.
Princess Jacqalyn turned to look at him. She blanched. Her eyes roved up and down him. She covered her mouth, stifling laughter. Finally she spoke. “Gracious, Mather, you always did know how to make an entrance.”
Prince Ward turned now, registered shock just briefly, then smiled warmly. He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “I am so glad to see you alive, if not particularly well. Say, you could probably use some help there.”
By now, the crowd was buzzing and gathering around their prince. The guests and dragoons were wide-eyed, at once delighted that their prince had not died and yet fearful of his wrath. The dragoon on top of the ladder called out for help, hugging the tree in a panic as those bracing the ladder abandoned their posts. But they did not return; he was left to descend the shaky thing on his own.
Jacqalyn couldn’t stop laughing. To her, Mather looked like some dimwitted fish: His mouth was pulled downward by the gag, which accentuated his small chin; his eyes were wide and listless; his arms were pinned behind him, his hands like little dorsal fins; even his feet were bound together like a tail. A purplish lump swelled beside his left eye, at the hairline.
But it wasn’t just his appearance she found humorous, but the thought that he had been outwitted, outmaneuvered, and apparently overpowered by the sweet little hero’s bride, who had now, finally and with great panache, escaped from his amorous schemes. The great Prince Mather, taking the reins of the state, remaking the halls of power, dismissing as incapable his own father the king, commanding the war himself…this same man stood here in his fine dress best, bound and bruised, as thoroughly humiliated as any man could be. Before God and everyone.
This she found endlessly entertaining.
Panna had made it out of the palace grounds, but she was far from safe.
She had needed to make her way through a good deal of shrubbery in order to stay out of sight, but fortunately, she knew these grounds as well as anyone. She had gotten past the guardhouse just before the alarm was shouted. Why the two gatemen there had simply let her walk out, she couldn’t say. But she had put her head high once again, ignoring the fact that her hair was a mess and her dress askew from her scrambles through the brambles. She had apparently made them believe she had every right to be where she was, doing what she was doing.
She was still within the Rampart, within the Old City. The great city wall now loomed before her—three, maybe four blocks away. As she neared she saw that a military checkpoint had been established at the Old Gate, under the stone arch that cut through the wall. She could see soldiers milling about, musket barrels pointed to the sky. They were preparing defenses against the Drammune.
The wall of the Old City, known simply as the Rampart, was over forty feet high. She followed it with her eyes to her left, northward as it rose and fell, its stonework visible wherever the yellow street lamps illuminated it. Guards patrolled along the top, shielded on occasion as they walked past a thick parapet. From these walls they could command much of the entire city, both within and without.
She saw where the Rampart turned, angling west. The ground sloped down from her toward that corner, but in the corner it rose up again slightly, revealing a small clump of buildings that looked familiar to her. But how could they be familiar? She had only been in the city twice before. Once was when Talon led her here, and the other was when she was very young, visiting with her father…
Panna’s heart skipped a beat. She turned left at the next street corner, headed for those buildings in the corner of the Old City. She did recognize them. That was the Seminary of Mann. She would find priests there, people who knew Packer, friends of her father. The Church was there, and would rescue her from the State.
Panna found the Seminary ringed by a low iron fence, painted black. The iron posts were pointed, but being only three feet in height and set at three-foot intervals, they were not much of a deterrent. But security was not their purpose; they were designed only to protect grass and gardens from the feet of wayward pedestrians.
Inside the fence were six small cottages and three large, square schoolhouses that also served as dormitories. A chapel stood prominently among them, but was not much bigger than her father’s little church in Hangman’s Cliffs. Robed seminary students wandered in the gardens, walking in no hurry from building to building to chapel. Panna sighed. All of them were male. Of course. They would have no facilities to take care of a young woman arriving at night without her husband.
She shook her head in disillusioned anger at her country, her people, and their leadership. How did it happen that only men seemed to run anything? And the kind of men in power, in authority…Scat Wilkins in business, Mather Sennett in government. Who headed the Church? Harlowen Stanson, the man they called “Hap,” the one who’d given Packer a sword and treated it as though it were a cross. She could only hope he was a better man than the other two.
And then she considered the possibility that at least some of the priests who taught here must be married. The wooden cottage nearest her had a low roof, reaching down almost to eye level. She couldn’t decide if its slightly ramshackle look was relaxed or just lazy, inviting her or warning her away. Before she could make up her mind, an elderly priest, dressed in a full, dark-gray robe, stepped out the front door. He was quite wrinkled. As he approached she could see that the skin of his face was very loose, so that it pulled down on his eyes, showing a red half-moon beneath each one. The whites of his eyes seemed oddly yellow, but his pupils were sharp and focused, and they danced as he looked at her. He seemed kind. “Hello,” he said gently. “You look as if you’ve lost your way.”
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose I have,” she said. “I could use a little help.”
He put gentle, wrinkled hands on the black iron
fence between them. “We don’t get many young ladies in need here. But help is what we do.”
“I would very much appreciate a small measure of it.”
He looked at her for a moment. “Come, follow me.”
“Thank you.” She was thankful he didn’t ask the hard questions about who she was and why she was out alone at night. They would be difficult to answer right here, in the open, in the dark.
As he turned to lead her to the gate, he glanced quickly around him, as though scanning the area for someone. She followed his gaze, saw only the students milling in the distance. She took another look at the cottage, the warm lights coming from within. Then her eyes caught the small sign on the postal box by the door, dimly lit but quite readable: Fr. Usher Fell.
The name held no meaning for her. No one had ever told Panna the name of the priest whose actions here had once caused Packer to lash out in a burst of anger—a response that had led to his expulsion from the Seminary.
CHAPTER 17
Protected
Packer was asleep in his hammock when the knock came. Delaney didn’t wait, but stuck his head in and whispered hoarsely. “Packer! Can I come in?” But he was already in, closing the door.
“Sure.” Packer sat up and scratched his head. He had been having unsettling dreams, but thankfully they had not been bloody. “What time is it?”
“Middle of the night,” he said, lighting Packer’s small lamp.
“What’s going on? You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Don’t I know that? But I got something you should see.” Packer rubbed the sleep from his eyes as Delaney held a bit of cloth up to his face.
“What is it?”
“You tell me.”
Packer took it in his hands. It was an odd material, thin and flexible, but firm to the touch. It felt like chain mail, but was much lighter. He tried to unfold it. It was cup-shaped. “Looks like a hat.”
“It’s what covers them Drammune helmets.”
Packer felt a chill as he squinted at it. Now he could tell that it was indeed the crimson color of the Drammune chain mail. The coloring had rubbed off, or had been scratched off, in a couple of places, showing the metallic sheen underneath. This was an article of clothing from a man Packer had killed, no doubt. A heavy curtain dropped down within him. “Why did you want me to see this?”
Delaney took the thing back and pulled it onto his own head. “Hit me.”
“What?”
“Hit me in the head.” Delaney stood stock still, crossed his arms, squeezed his eyes tight shut. “Careful you don’t hurt yourself.” He awaited Packer’s blow.
Packer was tempted to laugh. “I’m not going to hit you, Delaney,” he said gently.
Delaney’s eyes popped open. He was disappointed. “Well, fine then. Looky here.” Delaney balled his own hand into a fist and struck himself in the head with his knuckles. It knocked like the sound of wood on wood. “See that?”
“Yes. You hit yourself in the head.”
Delaney pulled the cap off his head in frustration. “No! This is armor! The helmet it came off was nothin’ more than a thick piece a leather. It’s this little thing what made their heads into iron skillets. Watch now!” He held out his left hand, palm up, with his fingers spread open so that they formed a cup. Then he put the cap over his hand, covering it. With his right index finger he slowly pushed down on the center of the small expanse of unsupported cloth, pushing the material down to his palm. “Just a piece a’ cloth,” he said.
“I see that,” Packer said, still amused.
“But watch now!” He did the same, but instead of slowly pushing with his finger, he hit the unsupported cloth with his right fist. His knuckles bounced off it, as though it were hard as a steel plate. Now he had Packer’s full attention. “See, it’s the impact does it,” Delaney said with glee. “Stays soft until you strike. Then somehow it all tenses up, like.”
Packer took the cap back and studied it. He punched it, felt it harden instantly under his knuckles. He turned it inside out. The back of it was soft like kid. He could see it had been sewn together with thick thread. He looked more closely at the mesh. Now he saw small interlocking plates, in no discernable pattern. A chill went through him. “These are scales.”
“It’s Firefish hide, and no lie! They colored it all up somehow, but it’s the same stuff what’s hangin’ on our hull.”
Packer could only shake his head. It couldn’t be. “But they’re Drammune.” How would they… “You’re saying all their armor is made of this?”
Delaney nodded. “Admiral’s got us practicin’ to fight like you. He’s callin’ us ‘little Packers’—you know, those who move in and out, like you done. Point is, he gave us their armor, what we took off the dead ones. Next time we fight, he says we’ll be protected with this. Just like they were.”
The two men stared at each other for a long, quiet moment. Then Packer looked back at the armored cap in his hand. “The only way the Drummune would have this,” Packer said simply, “is if Scat Wilkins sold it to them. If John Hand sold it to them.”
“Maybe the Drammune figured out how to do it, too. They’re a clever lot, you know.”
Packer shook his head. Scat had protected his monopoly. “You sailed on this ship a long time.”
Delaney felt awkward, then downright uncomfortable as those blue eyes seemed to be searching him. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well. We sold the meat in a lot a’ ports. Leastways, I always thought it was meat. I wouldn’ta knowed if it was other than that. Captain was always secret about it, you know.”
“Did you stop in Hezarow Kyne? Anywhere in Drammun?”
“Once. In their big city, what you called it, the Hedgerow Kind. No one but Captain Wilkins and Captain Hand ever went ashore, that I knew anything about. I didn’t think we ever even delivered nothin’ to ’em. Not even meat. But now I wonder.”
All along, Packer thought, John Hand knew. He knew the Drammune had this. The whole Firefish industry was suddenly suspect in Packer’s mind. Why hadn’t he seen it before? But now it was so obvious. “It was never about the meat.”
“What?”
“It was never about the meat. That was just the story. To cover the real product.” Packer was utterly sure now. No meat, no matter how legendary, could provide the kind of money that might be made by draping an army in invincibility. It all fit now. That would be why Scat was so greedy, and so secretive, why he wanted no fishermen aboard, no ports of call for his crew. He wanted only pirates, who knew better than to ask questions, and who, if they did ask questions, could disappear with no inquests or courts. Scat wanted men like Delaney, who were accustomed to obeying without question.
“Can I borrow this?” Packer asked.
Delaney nodded. “Sure. Anything you want. But what are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to ask the captain of the Camadan, the commander of the Trophy Chase, and the Admiral of the Fleet of Nearing Vast just how it is that common sailors in the enemy Armada end up with painted Firefish hides on their hats.”
“We obeyed you, sir. And we believed Mrs. Throme,” Chunk said proudly, almost defiantly. “If that deserves prison, then so be it.” He was so relieved that Panna hadn’t killed the prince, he was almost glad to face punishment.
Prince Mather was seated in a velvet-covered chair in the Great Hallway of the Palace just outside the Blue Rooms, his left eye shut, a cold cloth on his temple. “It does deserve prison. Because either you were deceived by her then, or you’re trying to deceive me now. And frankly, right now I don’t care which. Captain, take them both away.” He fluttered his hand about in a gesture of dismissal.
The Captain of the Guard motioned, and two other dragoons stepped forward. Glaring looks from the new prisoners were returned with sympathy by their comrades. But not so much sympathy as to allow any doubt about how this would go. “Hand over your arms,” the captain said firmly. He was a solid man, a bit rounder than his uniform was
comfortable covering, a bit grayer than he had been when his uniform was tailored, but careful and dutiful and quite comfortable with his long-held, unquestioned authority. He watched as Chunk and his partner handed their pikes and swords to their captors. Then the four guards left the prince’s presence.
As they did, a clattering of footsteps approached. “Your Highness!” said a breathless dragoon as he burst through the front door into the hall.
“Yes, what?” Mather asked testily.
“Please your Highness, two gateman saw her leave.”
The prince’s receding jaw tightened. He stood. “Where are they?”
“Right behind me, sir.”
In a moment two guards appeared before their prince, looking as miserable as any two schoolchildren ever summoned before a schoolmaster.
“Well?” Mather asked. “Where is she?”
They stole glances at one another. The older one of the two spoke for them both. “Not sure, sir. We was just changing places, bein’ at the end of the shift. She walked by, and we didn’t know her. But we now believe it was Panna Throme leavin’.”
“Which way did she go?”
“Straight down the street, then turned left before she reached the Old Wall.”
“She stayed inside the Rampart?”
“Yes, sir.”
The prince turned to the captain. “She was spooked by the checkpoints. Make sure every guard unit at every gate of the Old City knows no young women are to pass through. Then search house-to-house if you have to. I want her back in the palace before dawn.” The captain hurried off to make it so.
The prince turned back to the two offenders. “And why didn’t you stop her? Were you unaware of the standing orders regarding Mrs. Throme?”
The younger one now spoke up. He was technically the one on duty. “No, sir, we were aware.”
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 68