by D. J. Butler
His first act of gramarye had given him a similar feeling.
He was different. He was not an initiate, or wasn’t fully initiated. Whatever Sarah had finally seen and done within Eden’s walls, he had no part of it.
But the goddess had given him a different gift.
He laughed out loud with joy. But can I be sure?
He licked his fingertips and snuffed the candle.
“Fiat lux.”
The candle sprang again into flame.
He snuffed it again and relit it.
And again.
Then he stood and danced around the room, holding an imaginary partner in his arms until the innkeeper banged on his door and demanded that he keep down the noise.
Tamping down the giddy delight with a series of deep breaths, he crumpled up the wrecked Himmelsbrief and sat down to draw out another.
* * *
Montse found Bill. At his insistence, he lay on a cot in the same building with wounded rank and file. Miquel was in the next room, sleeping soundly in an herb-induced trance. Montse expected to find Bill surrounded by surviving officers and leaders of the city—the artillerywoman Jaleta Zorales, or Vizier Maltres Korinn.
Instead, Gazelem Zomas sat on the stool beside the cot. A conversation between the two men was just ending.
“I will arrange payment as soon as I can, suh.”
Zomas waved Bill’s promise away. “Please don’t.” He stood and nodded at Montse before making his way out.
Montse had planned to stand—it seemed the right gesture of respect for the wounded general—but Bill pushed the stool in her direction with a groan, and she sat.
“What is this place?” she asked. From the outside, it had seemed like the home of one of Cahokia’s wealthier residents, a low, multi-chambered mound dug into a hill, with a wooden building crowning the top of it.
Bill looked around at the white-washed walls and the large open windows. “This belonged to a man named Voldrich. He held it, along with much land outside the city walls, by some sort of feudal tenure. Sarah has revoked his rights and taken back the land. For now, this building will serve as a hospital.”
“Later, she’ll give it as a reward to a faithful retainer,” Montse suggested. “Perhaps to you?”
Bill grunted. “Much as I might like to own a city house, I don’t believe Sarah is that kind of monarch. Nor do I want it. Would you want to be given a house for your service to Hannah Penn?”
Montse was quiet for a moment. “You know I did nothing for Hannah for which I expected to be paid.”
Bill nodded instantly. “I know. But you did it. You saved her daughter.”
“And you saved her son.”
Bill nodded again. “Hopefully we’ll see them both soon. But Sarah needs us here.”
This was the crux of the interview. “You command her army. What does Sarah need from me?”
Bill looked out the window. “There is nothing but the river between this city and the mad god Simon Sword. If we are to defend ourselves, we must hold that river.”
Montse nodded. “I will do it.”
“It won’t be with sailboats.” Bill cleared his throat. “The river isn’t deep enough. It will be with barges and flatboats and keelboats and, Hell’s Bells, what do I know? Shallops, is that the word? What the French call bateaux?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Canoes, I suppose. Perhaps we can purchase barges from the Memphites. If we don’t have enough slaves, we can get volunteers to work the oars. We’ll need to train some marines. I don’t know how to fight on a ship, but I suppose you must.”
Montse laughed. “I said I’ll do it already. Do you have more prepared speech you’d like to deliver before I go and get started?”
Bill shook his head. “May I drink a toast with you, then…Admiral?”
“Of course.”
A clay pitcher sat on a table beside Bill’s cot. He filled two small wooden cups with water. His hands shook—age?—but he managed not to spill any as he handed one cup to Montse.
“Many ways.” Bill raised his cup. “One people.”
Montse repeated the words, and they drank.
“It feels good to find a toast for Cahokia’s officers,” Bill said.
“A new toast and a new flag as well,” Montse said. “Not to mention a navy. These are heady days in Cahokia.”
“New flag?”
“Have you not seen it? I believe it was made at Her Majesty’s direction. It’s a white bird.”
“A dove?” Bill suggested.
“A white raven, I think.” Montse stood. “On a field of Cahokian gray.”
“Thank you,” Bill said.
* * *
Director Notwithstanding Schmidt sat at her desk, opposite one of the surviving Parletts. The Parlett spoke in a passable imitation of Lord Thomas’s voice, his eyebrows raised and his face elongated into a gentle sneer.
“MADAM DIRECTOR, THE OTHER FOUR DIRECTORS OF THE IMPERIAL OHIO COMPANY ARE HERE, IN MY PRESENCE. WE NOT ONLY HAVE A QUORUM, WE HAVE EVERYONE.”
“My colleagues are all in Philadelphia?” Schmidt kept her facial expression carefully neutral, knowing that the Parletts would relay an impression of that as well as of her voice. “I gather there is much work to be done in the capital.”
“VERY TO THE POINT, MADAM DIRECTOR. VERY TO THE POINT. NOW BEAR WITH ME WHILE I READ THIS COMPANY ACTION INTO THE MINUTES. MY LAWYER HAS DRAFTED IT, AND HE WANTS ME TO GET THE WORDS EXACTLY RIGHT.
“I, THE UNDERSIGNED SOLE SHAREHOLDER OF THE IMPERIAL OHIO COMPANY, DO TAKE THE FOLLOWING ACTIONS.
“ONE: I HEREBY REQUIRE AND ACCEPT THE RESIGNATIONS OF ALL CURRENT DIRECTORS OF THE IMPERIAL OHIO COMPANY.”
The Parlett then made yelping noises, which must surely imitate the cries of dismay that were being emitted in Philadelphia. Schmidt continued to keep a neutral expression; she wanted to howl with laughter.
“TWO: I HEREBY AMEND THE CHARTER OF THE IMPERIAL OHIO COMPANY TO REPLACE ITS FORMER BOARD OF FIVE DIRECTORS WITH A SOLE DIRECTOR, TO SERVE AT MY PLEASURE.
“THREE: I HEREBY APPOINT NOTWITHSTANDING SCHMIDT THE SOLE DIRECTOR OF THE IMPERIAL OHIO COMPANY. SIGNED: THOMAS PENN, SHAREHOLDER.”
“Thank you, My Lord President,” Schmidt said. “I am honored, and I am committed to doing my best in your service.”
“I KNOW YOU ARE,” Thomas said through the Parletts. “YOU AND I WILL SPEAK LATER ABOUT MY EXPECTATIONS, MADAM DIRECTOR. THIS MEETING IS ADJOURNED.”
Only after she had had Schäfer return the Parlett boy to his tent did Notwithstanding Schmidt permit herself to smile.
* * *
Maltres Korinn sat in his office in the unassuming building beneath the Hall of Onandagos, reviewing lists of the dead and wounded. When he could talk to Sarah—if he could talk to her—he would propose pensions and honors. He wasn’t sure where the money would come from, except that maybe he could sell the lands that had once belonged to the traitor Voldrich.
Or Alzbieta Torias’s lands? The priestess was without heir. Though it seemed more fitting, perhaps, that those should come into Sarah’s possession.
And should he, as Vizier, talk to Sarah about commencing lawsuits to make her claims to the Penn land fortune? Even if it was not his place to manage that suit, Sarah’s taking ownership of even a small portion of that wealth would be a great boon to Cahokia.
But where was it proper to bring such a lawsuit? Maltres was no lawyer, but he vaguely thought that the Philadelphia Compact must address such questions. Maybe the Electoral Assembly, or a tribunal of Electors, could hear claims against the Emperor.
He sighed. This would be another year in which his berry patches grew wild and untended.
“Vizier.”
Maltres looked up. A soldier named Lughan, formerly a warden, stood in the door. He had one arm in a sling and a bandage around his head, but he stood with his back straight and proud, not leaning on his spear at all.
“Yes?”
“There
are visitors to speak with you.”
“Here?”
“At the Hall of Onandagos.”
The Hall was consecrated space, but consecrated for public uses and open to all. It was the right place. Maltres closed his eyes. He was so tired that the act of shutting out the light nearly put him to sleep, so he forced his eyelids open again. He could tell them to come back tomorrow.
But no. “Orphans and widows?” he asked. “Aggrieved landowners?”
He stood, preparing to climb the mound with the soldier.
“Emissaries,” Lughan said.
“Not beastkind?” Maltres thought Simon Sword was done sending emissaries. Indeed, he was unsure why Cahokia hadn’t been attacked more than it had.
“The kingdoms of the Ohio,” Lughan said. “An earl from Chicago. Johnsland. The Sioux. The Algonks.”
“Our riders.” Maltres’s voice cracked.
Lughan nodded. “Some of them got through.”
Maltres ascended a hidden stair to the Hall of Onandagos and walked directly to the audience hall. The scene there resembled a ball, after dinner and before the dancing commenced, when all the guests stood about to talk, sharing news and gossip. He saw Ohioan tunics and boots, Igbo caps, and the rugged fur capes of Chicago.
Tears stung his eyes.
A young man in Johnsland purple bowed, sweeping his three-cocked hat low beneath his breast.
“Good morning,” Maltres said. “I’m Maltres Korinn.”
“Duke of Na’avu,” the young man said. “Vizier of Cahokia and First Minister of the Serpent Throne.”
“Yes,” Maltres admitted. “Did the Earl of Johnsland receive our courier?”
“No. But he received the messenger of Andrew Calhoun of Nashville. My name is Landon Chapel, and I’m here with three hundred men.”
Three hundred wasn’t many, objectively speaking, but the Earl of Johnsland would have to defend his own lands against attack from the north, if he went to war against Pennsland. “The earl is generous.”
“The earl is concerned.” Chapel swept an arm to indicate the other people gathered in the room. “Many Electors are. What Thomas Penn can do to one of us, he can do to any of us.”
Maltres Korinn wanted to scream, Why now? Why was no Elector concerned during the long and brutal Pacification, when our rights were slowly ground away?
But he was too tired, and too grateful to have any help he could.
“Welcome,” he said.
* * *
The guns failed, Oliver Cromwell said.
Cromwell had also failed, Thomas knew. But he wasn’t going to say that, not to Cromwell’s face.
He knelt before the Shackamaxon Throne, head spinning. “The guns failed,” he agreed. “Notwithstanding Schmidt tells me that Sayle has already paid for his failure.”
Thou hast promoted her to sole Director of thy company, Cromwell said. Cromwell stood beside the Shackamaxon Throne, in the body of one of the Parlett boys. Three others survived: one here in Horse Hall, and two with Schmidt, in the Ohio.
“She does what I tell her,” Thomas said. “With energy and imagination. I should have left the siege in her hand. I’m going to give her more control over the Pacification of the Ohio in the west. She’s already having Trustworthiness Certificates printed up.”
Trustworthiness Certificates? Cromwell laughed.
“Affidavits of good conduct and cooperation, sworn by Imperial officers or officers of the Ohio Company. Ophidians will require them to travel the Imperial highways and main rivers, enter universities, enter the Imperial towns, publish books, so on. She’s suggested passports, too, for traveling from one Power to the next, only I don’t see how that can possibly be policed.”
Random enforcement, Cromwell said. Stop travelers on the road.
Thomas nodded. “She said the same.”
The war is only beginning, Cromwell said. We have failed to take but a single hill. Our risen dead were also defeated in the field, but they are cheaply made.
“You will need bodies,” Thomas said.
Thou hast bodies.
Thomas nodded. “I’m not dismayed. My bride arrives tomorrow. With the Dutch on my side, and both Ohio Companies under my control, how can I fail?”
Thou actest with energy and imagination, my son. Rise thou, and come to me.
Thomas stood and approached the Shackamaxon Throne. His limbs trembled and his breath caught short in his lungs.
Parlett-Cromwell held in his hands a yellowed horn, sharply curved and capped with gold. Sit thou, my son.
Thomas sat. The corners of Shackamaxon Hall were deep with the gloom of night, but the act of resting on this seat suddenly lightened his heart.
Dost thou know the anointing of David?
“He was anointed by Samuel, while Saul was yet king.”
Samuel was led by the Lord God to the house of Jesse. “Jesse made seven of his sons to pass before Samuel. And Samuel said unto Jesse, The Lord hath not chosen these.”
“He didn’t choose the seven.” Somehow, the words comforted Thomas. “He chose the one.”
As the Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell poured oil onto the crown of Thomas’s head, the shadows in the far corners of the hall faded and disappeared. Light shone through Shackamaxon Hall’s tall windows, and the painting of William Penn, kneeling in a patch of sand to receive a similar anointing, seemed to smile.
* * *
The witch Marie was in labor. She had been in labor for two days.
“This is a bad way to birth a calf,” Ferpa said.
Naares Stoach had not left the side of the birthing couch—a pile of dried grass beneath a lean-to, beside the Still Waters—since Marie’s pains had begun. The blond man looked something like an anxious expectant father, if expectant fathers stood poised and prepared to murder their children upon birth. He held his spear and pistol and glared.
Kort and Ferpa also stayed by Marie. Since there were two of them, they could take turns eating and sleeping. They looked intent and alert, but well, whereas Stoach looked more ragged and maniacal by the hour.
“It’s a bad calf,” Stoach said.
“You do not know that.” Ferpa lowed, a sound like a growl in the depths of her throat.
“Even a bad calf can repent,” Kort added.
“This child has one value,” Stoach said. “The Heron King wants him.”
“The child could be a daughter,” Chigozie said. They all ignored him and continued bickering.
Marie ignored them all.
“Simon Sword wants the child,” Stoach said, “and we can trade him to Simon Sword. Except that the only thing worth having in exchange for the child has already been destroyed.”
“You care too much for your city,” Kort said. “It was only walls. Walls may be rebuilt. This soul is worth more than all the walls in the world.”
“A city is the people living in it as well.” Stoach glared at the beastman. “Will you rebuild my people? And what of the worth of their souls? Are you certain that the child of Simon Sword will have a soul?”
“There is life after this life,” Ferpa said.
“For you.” Naares Stoach snarled.
Marie groaned and kicked at the ground with her heels.
“Simon Sword is the destroyer,” Chigozie said. “Why would you think you can trust any bargain you make with him?”
“Simon Sword is a god,” Kort said. “He is bound by the pacts he makes.”
“He is not bound by his father’s pacts,” Ferpa added, nodding.
“Save one,” Kort said.
“Why would Simon Sword want this child?” Chigozie thought of the sacrifices he had seen, and the blood of the victims. “He does not seem to me to have parental inclinations. He does not seem fatherly.”
“Simon Sword must have a child,” Ferpa said. “That is not a pact, it is his nature. He will fight to have a child, and only a very powerful woman can bear the child of a god. A very powerful woman, or a bride who is herself assiste
d by divine powers. If Simon Sword can have a living child by this woman, then perhaps he will be free from the drive that would compel him to have a child by another woman.”
“By a woman who might oppose him?” Chigozie tried to imagine what the beastkind were talking about.
Kort nodded. “By a woman who might be mother to Peter Plowshare.”
“You mean,” Chigozie said, thinking through the information, “the reign of Simon Sword might last forever?”
Marie screamed. Chigozie looked about the valley of Still Waters; the Merciful turned toward the birthing hut, fear and uncertainty on their faces.
“The child is coming,” Ferpa said.
The birth happened then, in a gush of blood. Kort pointedly stood between Naares Stoach and the mother; Ferpa knelt to catch the child and ease it out.
Chigozie felt uneasy. Was it because he, as a priest, had no experience of childbirth?
Or did his uneasiness spring from the words of Ferpa and Kort?
The child was far too large and did not slide out, as a newborn child of Adam might. A beak emerged first from its mother’s birth matrix, and then talons, as if the creature emerging from its mother’s belly were trying to open a door rather than slide out a birth canal.
And then the talons tore in one direction and the beak in another.
Marie screamed as her body was torn open, and then collapsed back onto blankets soaked with her sweat and gore and amniotic fluid.
“My child!” she gasped.
The creature being born stood up in the ruins of its own mother’s flesh, tore the caul away from its beak, and emitted a hideous shriek of triumph that rang off the canyon walls. It had the body of a boy, though covered with fine white feathers from calf to neck. Its feet and head were both those of a heron.
The child was covered in blood.
He turned and pecked at his mother’s body, gulping a chunk of bloody flesh from Marie’s throat before anyone could stop him. Her arms flailed once and then she was still.
Ferpa pulled the newborn from his dead mother and gathered him into her arms. He punched and bit at her, but she persisted, wrapping a muscular embrace around him and then covering him with a soiled wool blanket. He chirped and croaked, and she made shushing noises until he calmed down.