FSF, January-February 2010 (3 page)

At last, Zann draws silent, satisfied with his performance.

An obvious question begs to be mentioned, but Rake says it first. He turns and offers a cursory, “Sir,” to gain his superior's attention. Then he asks, “But what if the enemy is as numerous as we are? And what if their damnable nation is boundless too?"

"An infinite mouth, you mean? Large enough to consume any meal?” The field marshal grins, pretending to consider this thorny problem. But then he says, “Oh, that's an easy one, boy. Remember that distant valley, fifty leagues across? I have seen reports: Our enemies have put down ten thousand pairs of rails at the border, troop trains running endlessly as they move into what is ours. Yet even with that, what is possible? One turn of the clock and a million armed soldiers charge forward. But what do those armies matter, set against a multitude that will swallow every foe, forever?"

For the sake of my sanity, I have concluded that Rake is not my enemy. At least for this moment, we are partners in a great endeavor, and that's why I ask about our engines and fuel loads, plus the tricks that he uses to calculate the distance covered and our current position.

"Eight leagues,” is Rake's estimate of how far. Then, one associate to another, he admits, “If we weren't towing this heavy skiff, we'd be a lot closer to Marvel by now."

A grunt comes, and I glance over my shoulder. The general and field marshal flank the Emperor, each carefully holding an arm and elbow as He kneels, trousers at His ankles, concentrating His aim on the empty bucket.

Nothing but gas and blood escape from His bottom.

I turn away, ashamed by my prurient, little-boy curiosity.

"Over there,” Rake says, pointing out into the heavy fog. “Can you make out that dark mass?"

"Barely."

"The Isle of Blue,” he reports.

The map in my hand began the day as a pristine relic from an earlier time. Since then it has been folded and written upon, flying steel has cut through it, and someone's filthy thumb has left an ugly brown print on the Isle of Blue. Yet if Rake is correct, the island's near shore isn't half a league from us. “We should see it better than this,” I mention.

Rake nods, explaining, “The farther out you go on this lake, the worse the mist is. It has to do with the chilled water. At least that's what the fishermen claim. Though I have my doubts."

I wait, thinking he will explain.

But he won't. Instead, he says, “That patch of rough ground is famous for its ladies. Very pretty, very mean. They will play the most amazing games with a willing man, but if the objects of their affections disappoint, they will cut them off and throw them in the drink."

"Delightful,” I offer.

We laugh grimly, quietly.

Then, for an instant, if that, one engine loses power. It is a sudden event that passes so quickly I'm not certain it actually happened. But Rake heard enough to frown now, admitting, “I don't trust our fuel. It's old and possibly wet, and water in the lines might present problems."

Another concern on top of a mountain made of worries.

He dips his head now, and with a conspirator's tone whispers, “I listened to what the Zann was telling you."

I ignore him, examining the map, trying to find a nearby island to serve us if our boat loses all power. Not the Isle of Blue, please.

"About our nation's size...it was fascinating, wasn't it?"

"We shouldn't discuss this,” I remind him. Then I repeat the old saying, “'Keep secrets off your tongue, and nothing can be told.’”

Yet Rake won't let the subject die. “I know I haven't been in His court as long as you. A few weeks compared to how many years? But ever since I was big enough to understand what people were saying, I've heard stories about our Emperor. How He is good and wise. How no other soul could direct the war against our sworn foes. Maybe His face was a mystery, and His given name too. But He builds passion among people everywhere. For instance, I can't count the times that I've heard grown men argue about the size of His boots, or the size of His prick."

I nod, appreciating that reasonable confusion.

"I had never seen the Emperor. But when I spotted your group—at a distance and through the smoke—I understood that this was His court. And with a second glance, I understood which soggy, sorry fellow was Him."

The Emperor moans now.

I bite my lip, making my own tiny pain.

"The nation must have its leader,” Rake admits. “It always has. Those fortunate enough to see His face describe Him to others, and those others do the same when they wander far, and that must be how these stories flow. This empire. This wonderland. It seems incredible, but that's how it is. Which makes me wonder how such a thing can occur so easily...so perfectly—"

"What else could happen?” I ask.

"I don't know,” he concedes. “But doesn't it make you curious, thinking about the mechanism that holds our nation together?"

"And why does the sun rise, and where does it go in the night?” I reply. “Yes, your question is reasonable. But in these times, it is a fancy, unimportant question. Maybe later, once this war is finished...."

My voice trails off.

Both of us laugh quietly at what seems impossible.

Then the Emperor groans again, consumed by misery while His most loyal officers help pull up His dirty trousers. A few sorry blankets provide the simplest mattress for His suffering, fever-ravaged body. Zann and Hawthorne are focused only on their patient. And this is the moment when Rake leans even closer, speaking into my ear. “I am different from most people,” he promises.

I start to say, “You are not."

But he proves himself with the words that follow. “What if this man that we are escorting...what if he is not the true emperor? What if He, and I mean the real He, created a fictional court and sent off this imposter to play the role?"

"But why?” I blurt.

"To mislead our enemies for these last awful years, of course.” Nothing can be more obvious. “They chase what has no value, and meanwhile the heart of our people is free to move and act as He wishes."

In the same morning, I have heard two impossibilities. And if anything, this vision is more incredible than the infinite world.

I sit back in my seat, offering no reply.

"The Emperor is a story,” my companion maintains. “A great and probably eternal story, yes. But why should we believe—where is the compelling reason—for us to believe that the ill old fellow shitting out his guts behind us is really that great man?"

The engines remain strong, carrying our boat across the next fold on the map. I turn it over in my hand, and Rake asks the name of the next island that will pass to our left. What I see is a dot, nameless and almost invisible. I don't know why, but I invent the name, “Larner's Rock,” and his response is immediate.

"Yes,” he says. “Now I remember, yes."

I am tired enough to weep, but my head is full of ideas, questions, and possibilities waiting for a voice to shape them. I want to sleep and cannot, and then, believing that I will never again close my eyes, I fall away into a deep slumber that ends soon enough with a hard shake of my shoulder.

"He wants to speak to you,” the dark voice announces.

General Hawthorne is a powerful man, even in his latter years. He has always been a presence in the court, a disciplined force that approves of very little, and just now, for some reason or another, he seems to despise me utterly. But when I don't climb to my feet immediately, he repeats the order. “He wants your ear. Just yours. It's important, and I don't know why, but if you see any weakness, don't let Him talk. Tell me. Tell Zann. At the first sign of trouble."

"How is the patient?” I ask.

The general surprises me. A smile breaks out, sudden and brilliant, as he admits, “Better. The fever broke. Just a few moments ago, in fact."

Sure enough, the man on the blankets has better color, and while weak, He can smile as always, beckoning me with one hand, then the other.

I approach, and kneel.

He watches as His knuckles are kissed twice, and then He says, “Castor. I have a question for you, my boy."

"Yes, Sire."

"Do you wonder why I never promoted you to captain or colonel or some level more appropriate to your mission?"

I shake my head.

"Has the matter ever occurred to you?"

"It has,” I admit, wincing with shame.

"Well, there are good reasons, believe me.” Then He winks before casting His gaze at the three men sitting at the opposite end of that very little boat. “I must tell you something, Castor. Now is the time."

"Yes, Sire."

"Someone onboard this vessel is going to try to kill me."

This deep, awful lake has more impossibilities swimming in it than it has fish. No one else could offer these words and make me believe them. Even He, and even on this desperate day, strains my sense of place and purpose.

I say, “No,” too loudly, the others glancing over their shoulders now.

The Emperor says, “Quiet."

"No,” I repeat in a breathless whisper.

He watches me, and waits.

"Which one?” I manage.

"If you were to guess, which man would you select?"

I consider the matter, just for a moment. There is no way that I could feel more paranoid than I am now.

"Are you armed?” the Emperor asks.

"Yes.” But I force my hand not to touch my holster and the firearm inside it.

"Loaded, is it?"

"Yes."

"I don't quite recall, son. Are you a good shot?"

He does recall. His mind seems designed to recollect details like these. But He wants me to tell Him, “I'm an excellent shot, Sire."

That bolsters me, that subtle praise.

Our boat runs into a tall wave, and at the crest, we drop slightly. The Emperor lifts and then hits the deck, cursing softly. “How much longer do we ride this tub?"

I have a solid estimate, but the journey seems less important now. What I want is guidance, which is why I ask, “How do you know about this assassin? And for how long? On the shoreline, did you realize...that one of them is entertaining this kind of...?"

I can't say, “Crime.” The word is too tiny, too mild.

"I knew it on the beach,” He responds, enjoying His own opacity. “And that's why I picked who I picked to come on this voyage."

"Tell me who, Sire."

He shakes His head and lies back on a rough little pillow.

I sigh and shiver, wondering what else to say.

"Lieutenants are perfectly respectable officers,” He offers, answering his own long-ago question. “Your rank places you near the top of any hierarchy, but not so high that you are blinded. It is the perfect station from which to watch and learn. And that's why I kept you as such. Because if I made you more than that...."

His voice falls away.

General Hawthorne has come up behind me. “Enough, son. Enough.” The powerful hands grab me by the shoulders, almost dragging me to my feet. “You don't mind my interruption, do you, Sire?"

"Not at all,” the Emperor allows.

"Rest,” Hawthorne advises, “and I'll bring you some cold broth from our stores."

Says the Emperor, “I can't tell you how nice that sounds."

The assassin is here, and it must be Rake.

That was my first guess, and for a little while nothing else makes sense. But why would the Emperor invite His would-be killer onboard? A small man with odd ideas can easily be pulled aside and dealt with by other small men. But Zann and Hawthorne are different conundrums. How would the Emperor deal with a traitor so close to Him? What action could he take to defeat a figure so important and famous and loved...so vital to the nation that the simple accusation of crime would throw the court into an uproar?

The situation is impossible.

My burden seems immense. But when I close my eyes and think about nothing—willfully emptying my head of distractions and self-pity—the obvious answer waits, smiling at me like a cherished friend.

To the field marshal, I whisper, “We must talk, sir."

The old face regards me with suspicion. What did the Emperor tell me a few moments ago? He wants to know, as does Hawthorne. With a circumspect nod at his associate, he says, “Here.” A single step puts us as far from the others as possible, but when we lean across the boat's railing, eyes peering down into the swift gray water, he can whisper into my ear and I can return the strangely intimate gesture, the future of the nation balanced upon these next phrases.

"I've been given an order,” I begin. Then I look back across my shoulder, making certain that no one is overtly watching.

Zann nods, barely enough patience to hold his tongue.

"It's a difficult order,” I say.

"Often they are,” he agrees, trying to coax more from me.

"No,” I say. “This is not like His other commands. We aren't abandoning cities or good men for the sake expediency. This is much more personal and more terrible, and I want you to tell me something. Please, sir. Is that man lying behind me...is that our true Emperor?"

Zann starts to straighten and then thinks again. “Yes. Of course He is."

"And He has full possession of His faculties? Which is to say, this isn't just the fever throwing words at me."

"The Emperor isn't well, but He's lucid and sane.” The old man touches my forearm, assuring me, “The illness has been difficult, but He is as clear-minded as any of us. Really, we should marvel at the Great Man's capacities to endure, and feel blessed in so many ways."

"I'm not blessed,” I say.

"That is your failure, not His."

I nod.

The field marshal watches me, and waits.

With a measured tone, I pose the central question. “If you were given charge over the Emperor's fate—if He told you that no one else could be trusted with this critical mission—then would you accept the task and do it, without hesitation?"

"Without hesitation,” Zann claims, “and with joy in my heart. How else can one do the bidding of his master?"

"I'll search for the joy, but I don't think that I'll find it."

Zann shrugs, unconcerned by my palpable weakness.