The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  Father Mooring stood serenely by his fireplace, drinking tea from Panna’s cup. The captain turned his haggard gaze on him. “She was here, wasn’t she?”

  “Who?”

  “Panna Throme.”

  “Ah, the wife of our national hero.”

  “Yes, and wanted for assaulting a member of the royal family. Was she here or was she not? I want the truth.”

  “You don’t want the truth.”

  “Of course I do!”

  “No—no you don’t. But I’ll tell it anyway.”

  “And you’ll tell it now!”

  “Very well. The truth is this: Panna Throme was here in this room tonight. She was here because Prince Mather, whose bidding you are now doing, has abused his privileges with her. Anything she did to protect herself is fully justifiable, whereas the prince’s actions are not. If you find her and take her back to him, he will continue his shameful conduct, and you will be as guilty as he.”

  The captain’s eyes went wide. “That is none of your business!”

  “The truth is my business.” He gestured at his robes. “But as I said, it’s really not what you want to hear.”

  The captain stepped closer, put a finger in Bran Mooring’s face. “If you think you’re safe from me because you’re wearing a robe, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  Bran looked him in the eye. “I am sad, but I am not mistaken. And you should not be mistaken, either. You can do no more to me than God allows.”

  “I am willing to test that limit.”

  “And I am willing,” the priest said with great determination, and in a tone that sounded like a threat, “to submit to whatever test God allows you to bring me!”

  The captain looked perplexed. The attitude was there, but the words were anything but intimidating. He shook his head, unwilling to follow Father Mooring’s moral logic, whatever it was. “Where did she go?”

  “Into hiding.”

  “Where?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  “Don’t play games with me. Did she tell you where she was going or not?”

  “She did not.”

  “Would you tell me if she did?”

  The priest’s intensity turned soft, and he smiled. “Now, my dear Captain. Why ask me a question like that? If I would lie to you about what she told me, would I not lie about whether I would lie?”

  The captain grabbed the priest’s robe at the throat. His teacup hit the floor and broke in half. “What is it you know that you aren’t saying?”

  “Well, quite a few things, I would guess. But pertinent to the moment, I know this: While you attempt to wrench information from me that I would not give you even if I did know it, time melts away. If she’s not here, I would suggest you search for her somewhere else.” He nodded at the doorway.

  “She’s not here,” the captain said to his men as he released the priest. “Go find her.” But after they left the room, he turned on Bran Mooring one more time. “If you’ve lied to me, you’ll go to prison.”

  “The fact is, I have not lied to you. But the truth is, the facts will not keep me out of prison if you determine I should go.”

  The captain looked quizzical. “You think you’re the only one with a moral obligation or a shred of conscience. But you’re not.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “If she’s innocent, I will do all in my power to keep her safe.”

  Father Mooring’s look turned compassionate. “But dear Captain—how much power is in your power? Can you keep her safe from the prince?”

  The captain said nothing. After a moment, he turned and left the priest’s home.

  The priest locked the door behind him, then peered out from behind the curtains for some time. When he was finally satisfied he was in no imminent danger of their return, he picked up his broken teacup, examining it as he walked back to his kitchen. He dropped both halves into the pile of dirty dishes, and slid the stove away.

  Panna climbed out. She was covered in dirt and dust, but otherwise she was fine. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m so sorry for what I said.”

  He looked confused. “About what?”

  “I doubted you.”

  He beamed. “Not at all! I am in fact quite a foolish old man, you know. But fortunately, God in His grace intervenes on my behalf quite regularly. In most cases, that more than makes up for my own shortcomings.”

  “Why do you have a hiding place like this in your kitchen?”

  “For hiding you, of course! I just didn’t know it until tonight. Up until now I’ve thought it was for hiding onions and potatoes, storing butter, and saving up a little bit of beer.”

  “That’s not why you built it.”

  “I didn’t build it at all. It’s ages older than me. The Old City is full of secrets, and since we are not fifty feet from the Rampart, I can only assume that at one time some passageway led to the tunnels within it.” He waved a hand. “Ancient history now. But your dress is ruined, I’m afraid.”

  She looked at the dark dirt and dust on her hands and arms and down the front of her dress. Her wide, starched skirts had functioned like a chimney brush. “It certainly needs a good cleaning.”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Please.”

  “I have several robes. You’re a bit taller than me, not so round, but I’m sure one of them would be a comfortable fit. And you will be far less noticeable around these grounds in a hooded robe.”

  “That would be very kind.”

  “I’ll just pour you some hot water so you can bathe off some of that grime.”

  “Thank you.” She followed him to the living room, where he pulled the teapot from the fire with a heavy rag. “Is there anything you can do for my father?”

  “Well. He was put in prison by the prince. Not many powers in the land can undo that.”

  “I was hoping, perhaps the Seminary could appeal directly to the king?”

  He nodded, carrying the teapot into the kitchen. She followed, watching as he set it on the stove and found a large bowl, and blew dust out of it. “The dean of our Seminary is the head of the Church. The High Holy Reverend and Supreme Elder, Father Harlowen Stanson.”

  “Hap.” She fought disappointment, though she didn’t know why.

  “Hap. He has the ear of the prince. But I would be hesitant to seek his help in this matter.” Panna stared in silence as he poured some of the hot water into the bowl, then tapped the surface with a finger. “Needs some water to cool it just a bit.”

  “But why?” Panna asked. “He has power. He should be able to use it.”

  “Ah, he has power, and he is certainly able to use it.” The little priest picked up a brown jug and glugged a cup or so of cool water into the bowl. “But I am sorry to report to you that he does not always choose to use his power as you or I might hope, or expect, from the highest cleric in the land.” He tapped the water with his finger again, then settled a hand into it. “There. That’s better.”

  He looked up at Panna with a smile, which melted as he saw her stricken look. “Yes…well, you see, in every heart there is good and there is evil. I wish it were that only good would be allowed in the hearts of those who enter the work of the Church. But it is not so. Men everywhere are free to choose. Even after they become priests.”

  “You’re saying Father Stanson is an evil man?”

  Father Mooring held up a hand. “All of us are evil, except to the extent that God makes our hard hearts soft. But like your Prince Mather—”

  “He’s not mine.”

  Father Mooring smiled sadly. “Like our Prince Mather, he has made choices. Not all of them have been wise.”

  “I know all about the prince’s choices. What about Father Stanson?”

  Bran Mooring looked quite empathetic. “He has made the choice to align himself with, and befriend, and draw power from, the king. And Prince Mather.”

  Panna was crestfallen. “He’d turn me over to the prince.”

 
; “I believe he might.”

  “So what can be done?”

  “We can pray.”

  Panna sighed.

  “God has His designs. We can ask Him to release your father, and set things right. He’s far more interested in justice and mercy than we are.”

  “Well, I know He’s interested in mercy. But I sometimes wonder about justice.”

  “I do not wish God’s justice upon anyone, even my worst enemy.” The priest shivered at the thought. Then he brightened and said, “I’ll get you that robe.”

  The priest did own a hairbrush. He was quite sure of this, though his certainty was not accompanied by any actual evidence, at least not for the several minutes during which he contemplated, scratched his nearly bald head, looked in cupboards and cabinets, then contemplated with furrowed brow once again, then searched an old knapsack and a duffel bag. Finally he looked deeply into a lower shelf in the kitchen, behind an ancient tin of brown shoe polish, and produced a flattened, matted bristle brush. “Dried boot paste,” he said glumly, poking the offending substance hardened among the bristles. “I knew I hadn’t thrown it away.”

  “I can go without a hairbrush,” Panna said cheerfully. “Really.”

  But he kept thinking. Her hair was a mess, as she had needed to wash it in order to get the dirt out of it, and even as she protested, she couldn’t quit running her fingers through it, trying to remove the tangles.

  “Wait!” He returned to his living room and cleared a path through the knickknacks and whatnots until he found a small, shiny black box, just about big enough for a child’s pair of shoes. He opened it and took out a small brush, the head of which was no bigger than two gold coins laid end to end. “It’s Urlish,” he said proudly, holding it up. “Sent to me by a student who went abroad as a missionary. I believe it’s actually a doll’s brush.” He handed it to her. “The Urlah have quite an extravagant culture when it comes to their children. At least, in the upper classes.”

  She held it delicately. It was quite ornate, made of silver inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “It’s beautiful. Are you sure you want me to use this? It was a gift.”

  “Dear Panna,” Bran said with a smile. “It sat in that box for more than ten years. Once you’re gone, it will sit in there for ten more, if God wills. I would be pleased if you would put it to use once in the middle.”

  “Well, then, if you’re sure.”

  “I am, quite.”

  She began brushing her hair. After a while, looking into the fire, she asked, “Father Mooring, why is it that men are so wicked?”

  He looked up from his book. “Are you asking about mankind, or men as a sex?”

  She thought a moment. “I suppose it’s the same thing, isn’t it? No offense meant to you, but isn’t it always men who ruin everything with their greed and their lusts?”

  “I would only remind you of Talon, who started this current war.”

  Panna thought again. “She seems like an exception.”

  “She certainly was exceptional. But I believe that men and women are equally lost. So the Scriptures say. It’s just that the evil in our hearts shows itself in different ways.”

  She stopped brushing and looked at him. “Different how?”

  “Well, I think men are quicker to accept their own wickedness. They will give up on goodness, and consciously embrace evil, for any number of reasons. For a gain in the short term, for power in the long, for some passion or some ambition, as in the case of the prince. Women, however, when they give up on goodness, tend more often to justify their actions to themselves. They will try to convince themselves and others that what they are doing, no matter how vile, is actually a good thing. Or at least, that it’s making the very best of a bad situation.”

  “So you think women are more often deceived, while men more often commit evil with eyes wide open. Like in Eden.”

  He smiled. “You are a quick student as well. But it is complicated, and certainly it doesn’t hold true in every case.”

  “But wouldn’t that make a woman’s sins less bad? Isn’t it better to do wickedness believing it’s good, even telling yourself it’s good, than to do it purposefully, knowing it’s wicked?”

  Father Mooring smiled somewhat bashfully. “Ah, well. There is the heart of the matter. If I am correct, then you and I might never come to agreement on that point.”

  With their conversation wound to a comfortable halt, Father Mooring sat in his chair, working on his lessons. But he glanced up on occasion, as Panna brushed her hair out, sitting before the blazing fireplace.

  And then, glancing up once more, he realized he had misspoken. That little brush would never go back into its black box. She would take it with her. Or, if she left it behind, it would sit out on one of his side tables, or perhaps even find a place of honor on a wall. Then, when he was by himself again, as he most often was, and when he started to feel lonely, as he too often did, he would be able to look at it, as he did all his precious things, and remember.

  And he knew exactly what he would remember. He would recall their conversations, of course, and how God had protected her from the dragoons. But what he would remember most fondly was this very moment—when God allowed the fine, troubled young wife of one of his dearest, most remarkable students, in spite of all her dire circumstances, to sit in front of his warm fire, wearing his own brown priest’s robe, and unselfconsciously brush out her long, dark hair.

  And he would be thankful.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Quarto

  Talon was cloaked in her warrior’s robes, hood up, head down. It was impossible to recognize her as a woman, much less the infamous wife of the Hezzan. She stood outside a small building in a humble part of the city, where all the buildings were built of clay bricks, and the wooden and tin roofs were painted red to look like the more expensive tiles in neighborhoods further up the hillsides. Beside Talon stood Sool Kron, also dressed in informal robes. They awaited an invitation to enter.

  “You have sent a message that you are willing to bring the Zealots into your Court of Twelve?” Sool Kron asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. “They understand what is at stake for them.”

  “You are a brave woman. You are taking a great risk to come here,” he said.

  “I have taken greater,” she said easily. The fact that heavily armed members of the Hezzan Guard blocked all four streets with access to this building gave weight to her words. The fact that, at each hip, she had a long knife she could have in her hands within seconds, further bolstered her claim. But she knew she was about to put herself, her future, and her child at the mercy of the Zealots. And mercy was not their strong suit.

  A gruff man, poorly dressed and unkempt, opened the door. “You may enter now,” he said.

  Once inside the doorway, the humble building grew humbler yet. The vestibule in which they stood was unpainted, the floorboards filthy. Two men with swords drawn stood watch as two others began searching Kron and Talon to ensure they were unarmed. All four were dressed poorly, barely above the level of rags. This was a particular vanity of the Zealots: the appearance of poverty. In truth, the order owned nearly half the city.

  One man patted Kron, but the other stood with his hands out, unmoving, suddenly realizing he could not fulfill his duty. If he touched Talon, a woman who was not his wife, he would be guilty of a criminal act, according to the Rahk-Taa.

  She smiled at him, arms open. “Have you no women you trust for such duty?”

  “I will vouch for her,” Kron said, before any of them could answer.

  She nodded her thanks as they were ushered from the vestibule into a wide, circular room. It was dark except for two floor lamps on either side of a long table. Behind the table sat the four men who had risen to the pinnacle of Worthiness, who oversaw the resurgence of the true nature of Drammun and the purifying of their homeland. They used no names, having given up their individual identities to the service of Rahk, the Law. They were the Quarto.

&nbs
p; Talon studied them. Three were young, in their twenties or early thirties. The fourth was in his forties. It was known that three of them had killed their predecessors and the fourth had aided the other three. She guessed correctly that it was the elder who had engineered the coup. All, however, were grim-faced, dour, with hair and beards uncut.

  As her eyes adjusted to the light, she realized that all along the walls men were seated; a silent gallery, perhaps forty Zealots, here to witness these proceedings. Every one of them had a sword at his hip. She flicked her eyes over to Kron, wondering if this was a surprise to the old politician also. But either he was unconcerned about it, or pretended to be.

  “What is it you require of the Quarto?” asked the eldest bluntly. He was seated second from the right as Talon faced them.

  “Please Your Worthiness,” Sool Kron cooed, “the woman Talon requests permission to speak on her own behalf.”

  The gruff elder answered, “She may speak.” Talon stepped forward and removed her hood, displaying hair cropped, but grown long enough now to cover most of the scarring. Sool Kron noticed for the first time that she wore the triple golden earring that signified a wife of the Hezzan. He was quite sure he had never seen her wear it before. Talon opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the elder began to question her.

  “Do you place yourself under the jurisdiction of this body?”

  “I do.”

  “And do you swear before the Quarto and the Law that the decisions made here by this body will bind you in life unto death?”

  A chill went through her. “I do, according to the Law.”

  “And in turn this body swears to make the Worthy judgment, according to the Rahk-Taa, witnessed by the Worthies here present. Speak.”

  “I have come to claim the Kar Ixthano,” she said, “to claim rights, titles, and property according to the Rahk-Taa.”

  The elder nodded. At this, Sool Kron stepped away from Talon so that he stood off to her left at a right angle between her and the Quarto. Talon’s honed instincts for battle lit up within her. He was leaving her side, leaving her to her own devices. Treachery walked in those small footsteps. She now saw it in Kron’s eyes, felt it in the room. He had spoken to them already! But how?