“I wouldn’t know,” Mather said, honestly enough.
“Funny. I hear you know little else these days, brother dear.” She smiled. “No potatoes,” she said to the servant, who pulled back the serving spoon immediately. “As always.” Jacq was eight years Mather’s senior, more like Mather than like Ward, and like him, had never wandered very deeply into her own feelings. She recognized the minefields that lay buried there, and stayed at the boundaries where she could mock them.
“Escaped from the Tower,” Ward said nonchalantly, as the servant heaped mashed potatoes on his plate. “Rather dramatic, the whole thing.”
“Yes, how very fairy-tale,” Jacq jibed. “But wait, something’s amiss. In the fairy tales, aren’t they maidens? And aren’t they rescued? And isn’t it generally the prince who rescues them?”
Mather shot her a glance but was silent.
“But I’m being callous. It is, of course, very troubling for you that she’s gone.” Jacq pouted. “Poor Mather will need to find another hero’s wife to dote upon.”
“Or another way to woo a woman,” Ward added breezily. “Shackles and blackmail never worked very well for me.” He smiled. “Not that I haven’t tried.” Then he looked around the tabletop. “Will there be meat of any kind?”
“Coming, sir,” the servant said.
They ignored their father, who ignored them in return as he ate greedily all that was put in front of him.
“Well, I do hope your next hero’s wife packs a little less power in her punches,” Jacq quipped. “This one would have been the death of you, eventually.”
“You know nothing,” Mather said, finally unable to hide his sour spirit.
“Nothing about love, you mean? Ah yes, that is what you meant, I can see it your eyes!”
“Your left eye in particular.” Ward winked.
“Well, well, Mather is in love.” Jacq now poured it on. “Ah, what a wondrous thing it must be! Tripping all over oneself, putting oneself in harm’s way, embarrassing oneself in front of servants and guests and God knows who else, breaking one’s nose once or twice! Or was it more? I may have lost count.”
“Only once,” Mather said, perversely allowing his sister to revel in his misery.
“How gloriously romantic to come so completely untethered while the nation hovers on the brink of destruction by an enemy force. I would only hope that everyone in the Army and the Navy, the whole kingdom for that matter, could know what it feels like to become such a blithering, foolish, idiotic, shameful—”
“That’s enough,” the king said dryly, picking up his wine glass and drinking deeply.
“Well hello, Daddy,” Jacqalyn purred. “I had almost forgotten you were there. Why, I was just talking about the wonders of love. But I suppose you and Mommy could tell us all about that, couldn’t you?”
“Leave Mother out of it,” Ward said, his spirit suddenly darkened. “She doesn’t deserve it.”
The only one of her three children to show the queen continued kindness and respect was Ward. He was more profligate than the other two combined, but in spite of that, or perhaps in some way because of it, he continued to hold her in high regard and watch out for her welfare, her comfort, and her feelings.
“And the rest of us do deserve it?” Jacqalyn asked. “Well, I’m sure you’re right, Ward, whatever ‘it’ is. Sorry, Mother dear. Now, where were we? Oh yes, love…”
“No, no,” the king said, swallowing the last of his wine and studying his empty plate with a frown. “I brought you here to talk about something else.”
“Excellent. I can’t wait.” Jacq smiled pleasantly. She held up her empty glass with the calm assurance that it would be refilled. It was.
“No sense beating around the bush,” the king said. “The fact of the matter is that I have made the decision to step down, and turn the throne over to Mather.”
There was silence. Jacq and Ward looked at Mather, who lowered his fork and looked askance at his father.
“You don’t seem pleased, brother dear,” said Jacq. “I would think you would leap for joy at such news. King at last.”
“Now is not the time,” Mather said, eyeing his father sideways.
King Reynard reached into a basket, found a roll, slathered butter onto it as he spoke. “While I am king, that is a decision I will make.” He bit into the roll.
“When?” Mather couldn’t hide his anger.
“Soon.” He shrugged. “It just needs to be arranged.”
“Why? And why now? We’re at war. Father, we’ve talked about this.” Mather did not want a change in power at this critical moment. And, when Nearing Vast lost to the Drammune, which seemed more inevitable every day, he would much rather be a mere prince than the king.
“I’m an appendage in this war. You know that. I’m long past my usefulness, as was proved in the small, unfortunate incident regarding the Fleet. I’m sure you recall it.”
“It rings a bell. But father, you must wait,” Mather entreated. “A few more days at least.”
The king sighed. He looked old. “If you insist. But I don’t want to wait long. I want to retire.”
“And you will. You deserve to.”
“Either way, I’m going to the Mountain House.”
Mather grew alarmed. “When?”
“Leaving tonight.”
“Tonight?” Mather studied him. “You’re fleeing. You’re fleeing the city. What news do you have that you haven’t shared? Have the Drammune landed?”
“Not yet. But the Trophy Chase has returned.”
“What?”
“Hooray!” said Jacqalyn, raising her glass with genuine glee. “The Hero returns to claim his bride! Oh, this will be sweet.” She drank.
“And what news does she bring?”
“The hero’s wife?” the king asked, baffled.
“No,” Mather said irritably. “The ship.” Why hadn’t anyone told Mather about this? But he knew the answer. It was because of Panna. Because people thought he’d lost his mind, and were worried about what he might do to himself, or to Packer. Mather’s world was growing darker by the moment.
The king spoke through a large bite of his roll. “Well, unless the wind changes dramatically, the Drammune Armada will likely arrive on our shores by morning, day after tomorrow.”
This poured cold water on even Jacqalyn’s spirits. “Oh, dear. Say, Daddy, would you have room for an extra passenger on your trip?”
“Of course. Ward, will you come along as well?”
“You’re taking Mother,” Ward answered, “right?”
There was a long pause. Then the king said, “What about it, Maeveline? Would you care to come with me?” He asked it with a rather sad smile.
She looked him in the eye, but didn’t answer.
“Mother, you have to go,” Ward insisted gently.
“Very well, then,” she said. But her desolation was complete. She was an appendage to an appendage.
“Good. And I’ll stay and help big brother fight the war,” Ward declared, grinning. He turned to Mather. “What can I do to help?”
Mather looked at him with a bitter half-smile. “You could ply the attacking hordes with the king’s rum. That might slow them a bit.”
“I’m glad to see that our kingdom’s imminent destruction has not lessened your wit.” Ward held up a glass. “It’s been a good ride, then, but it’s over. Here’s my last drink. I will remain sober until I celebrate victory, or die attempting it.” He threw the wine into his mouth and swallowed.
Jacq smirked. “Do you mean, die attempting victory? Or attempting to remain sober?”
“And my sister’s wit remains keen as well.” Ward turned to Mather. “Well, brother, what shall we do? Inspect the troops?”
“If you’re serious, say so.”
Ward looked him squarely in the eye. “If I can help motivate our men to kill rather than be killed, I will gladly do so. Yes. I am serious.”
Mather studied him. Ward had a st
range edge to him that had all the characteristics of determination. And Ward did know most of the generals and commanders, or at least had gone out drinking with them. “Well. I’m sure a visit from their prince would hearten the troops. Especially on the eve of battle.”
“Then I’m your man.”
“Touching,” Jacq offered. “But what about your woman, Mather? And your woman’s man? Surely Packer Throme will come looking for his innocent young wife.”
“I’ll tell you what, Jacq,” Mather said icily. “Why don’t I worry about that while you go pack your bags and run away. How does that sound to you?”
She smiled and held up her empty wine glass. “It sounds…inevitable.” The servant dutifully poured.
The two guards stood in the cell looking down at the body of the big priest. One had two shovels, one carried two poles with a piece of canvas sewn between them. A stretcher. They shared a discomfort that kept them quiet, and at the moment, immobile.
“Don’t seem right to bury him without a priest,” said the first. He had a sallow face, and the physical appearance of a man who had once been powerfully built, but who had not kept himself fit as he aged.
The second guard was younger, stronger, but wore a permanent, jaw-clenching frown. “He’s a priest already. Don’t that count?”
The first took it as a fair question. “Not if he’s dead, it don’t.”
The second man shrugged. “But the prince said keep it quiet.”
“Who’s quieter than a priest?”
“A dead priest.”
“Let’s just get him out of here.”
The Trophy Chase attracted a crowd almost immediately. Her rails and cabinets and cabins were splintered and battered—in many places gone, in others almost so. Her boats were shot full of holes. Cannon placements were blown up or blown away, with cannon cracked, askew, or missing. Her sails were shredded in places, her masts had large chunks gouged from them, splinters spreading like thistles. A few small grappling hooks still clung high up in yards and sailcloth, trailing their fine woven lines, waving in the breeze. Far above all these battle scars, the flag of Nearing Vast flew proudly from her mainmast.
But it was her hull that had everyone talking. The gray sheen of an odd material clung tightly to it, wrapping it, covering the wood. Underneath, the boards seemed undamaged, even pristine.
Not that the citizens who came by to gaze understood what they were looking at. “That’s western hardwood,” one grandfather told his small grandson as he pointed up from the dock. “Comes from the Farther Forest, where my own grandparents lived.” He spoke with pride. “You just can’t knock a hole in it. You can hardly see the grain there.” He pointed. “That’s how you can tell.”
The crew were not granted any leave. The Drammune were not far behind, and so only the most urgent repairs to cannon and gunwales, ship’s boats, sails and lines, were undertaken. The Chase would need to ship out at a moment’s notice. But leave or no, they were not sworn to secrecy, and so the crewmen spoke to anyone who wandered near. The stories spread from almost the moment the ship’s mooring lines hit the docks.
And the stories were marvelous.
Packer Throme alone had killed hundreds of Drammune warriors with his sword. John Hand had captured the enemy’s admiral, a man who stopped musket balls with his forehead. The Vast sailors had stormed the very flagship of the Drammune Armada, just before a Firefish ate it. Then Packer had tamed the monster so it swam alongside the ship, laughing like a porpoise. Then he’d trained it to attack on command. The Trophy Chase herself had become part Firefish, and was now pretty much unbeatable.
Of course, few were willing to believe any of this, at least at first, but here was some evidence: the battle damage to the decks of the Chase. And before too long, the chained figure of a Drammune officer, being taken from ship to shore to palace. So whether confirmed news or tall tale, the stories were heard, repeated, and passed along in the pubs and inns along the docks, through the ancient and honored channels, wives and barbers and old men on stoops, and also through the new network of raw military personnel that now spread through the city like a nervous system. And the system was plenty nervous, fearful of the impending attack, so the stories of the Trophy Chase energized the people and gave them hope, precisely as the Drammune commanders had feared.
Surely, the people thought, this would be a short war after all, and a great triumph for Nearing Vast.
Packer had seen nothing but the inside of his small cabin since the brutal demise of the Nochto Vare. He had watched it from the prow, of course, a clearer view than any man needed of that scene. The Firefish had ripped the warship to flotsam.
The eerily glowing beast struck not once, not twice, but three times before the craft sank forever beneath the waves. The cheering of the Chase’s crew, the roar of the cat, turned to an unnatural whimper, then to a horrified silence in the face of the sheer carnivorous energy meted out against the floundering ship. It was as though the beast, having been sent on a mission, was determined to prove its destructive bona fides. It lunged, it tore, it crushed, it lunged again, it whipped its body around, thrashing the offending warship, it lunged a third time, then thrashed at the fragments, then the fragments of the fragments, all the while devouring all the Drammune it could devour, electrified jaws clamping down again and again.
As the seas claimed the last of the Nochto Vare, as the flat pool of boiling waters, calming now as the men watched, receded into the distance, Packer stood silent at the base of the bowsprit, wondering at the meaning of it. God had saved them from battle. A prayer answered. God had spared the Chase. But what of the enemy? They were utterly destroyed. Packer took no joy in this; instead he felt a deep sorrow he could not name. What did such a thing signify? Why did God send the Firefish to Packer so that he might command it? Why did God not command the Firefish Himself? Packer wished that He had; the ache within him was keen, like an arrow, like a knife’s blade.
As he had pondered these things, the crew on deck, one by one, had turned back to look at him. Their eyes were full of questions. And fear. Packer looked around at the faces. He had seen this kind of fear once before, after Talon had revived him with the witch’s breath—so some of the crew had said—back when the men did not know who, or what, he was. Whatever they thought of him now, he would not be paraded around on their shoulders this tme. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel that this time, such a spontaneous outburst would be more appropriate than the last.
“God did it,” he told them, when all eyes were on him. “He sent the Firefish.” It was a confession, an acknowledgment.
Packer looked from face to face, but saw little evidence they believed him. Or even heard him. Delaney managed a nod and a ghost of a smile, but even he looked worried. Then Packer met Marcus Pile’s eye. Here was one, at least, aglow with the fire of God, with the thrill of a battle won by the very hand of God. Packer smiled warmly at him. Marcus.
The men parted as Packer walked across the decks. They gave way, allowing him plenty of room. Packer felt sadness grow in him. They did not want to touch him now. As a fellow warrior, as a fellow pirate who ranged the bloody decks of this world with a sword in his hand, he was sung and praised and hoisted to the skies. Now that he had made the harder choice his faith demanded and let God determine the outcome, they gave him wide berth.
He walked silently to his cabin. Only when he’d reached out to open the door had he noticed that he still had the Drammune war cap clutched tightly in his scarred right hand.
Now the door creaked open, interrupting Packer’s thoughts.
“Prince Mather needs a debrief,” John Hand announced, sticking his head in. “We’re going to give it to him, and deliver these.” He stepped in, displaying for Packer a leather-covered wooden strongbox, the hard-won battle plans. The Skull of Drammune had been tooled into it.
Packer sat up, then hopped down from the hammock. “We?”
“He asked for you specifically. He sent us a coach; we�
�re to take the prisoner and go straight to the palace.”
Cheers rose as Packer walked down the gangway. He scanned the docks, squinting, his eyes still adjusting to the bright sunlight. Hands reached out to him, citizens trying to touch him. But with John Hand in front and a beefy dragoon on either side and behind him, no one could get close. Packer felt more prisoner than hero.
He kept looking for Panna, and every face that wasn’t hers was a disappointment to him. Of course, she would have no way to know that he was coming home. It might take days for news to get to Hangman’s Cliffs. But at his last return, she’d been here, magically, miraculously, standing on the dock waiting for him. Packer couldn’t help but hope for some small, similar miracle.
He was put into a carriage much like the one in which Panna had ridden off, and at this very dock. The crowds were smaller now than they had been then; no proclamation invited the citizens this time. But those who’d come were plenty boisterous and excited.
The carriage sat for several minutes here, and then Fen Abbaka Mux joined them, his shaggy head and scowling face popping suddenly into the carriage, followed by a thick body in deep crimson, the Drammune naval uniform. He was chained hand and foot, his wrists manacled to a belt fashioned of iron. The crowd behind him booed and shouted catcalls, hurled apple cores and chicken bones that bounced off his back before the door was closed. If Mux noticed them, he didn’t show it.
Once they left the docks it was evident the city was bracing for attack. It reminded Packer of the hurricane preparations he had witnessed twice in these streets. Windows were boarded or shuttered, sandbagged walls placed at the foot of major streets. But more than high winds and water were on the way this time: Cannon placements lined these strategic posts, and men of the new Army dug and filled while uniformed soldiers, the regular Army, patrolled.
Packer tried not to look at Fen Abbaka Mux, who was seated across from him. The man’s glower was truly extraordinary; Packer believed he could see death in those eyes, and felt quite sure it was his own. Mux was a broad, strong man, and though he was thoroughly bound, he was still dangerous. It occurred to Packer that this man might at any moment simply lower his head and ram his skull through Packer’s chest before anyone else in the carriage could look twice, much less make a move to stop him.
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 74