The Gospel According to Verdu (a Steampunk Novel) (The Brofman Series) (34 page)

Ollim attempted a graceful nod of his head and said, “I am Ollim ce’ Vada of the Mae-Lyn people, and captain of the
Fair Wind
. My brother, Rainor, fished your . . . wife out of the sea. According to our tradition, if you are welcomed on a Mae-Lyn ship, you are family for as long as you sail with it. We Mae-Lyn always help our family. We have heard of the Pramuc, and know her power, that she speaks for the gods—”

“Once,” Fenimore interrupted. “She spoke for the gods
once.
”

Ollim shrugged. “Isn’t that enough?”

Undaunted, he continued his story under Fenimore’s glare. “So, we came ashore to do the work of the Pramuc, to find Candice and help her head stay on her neck. We bought a Giftwind and—”

“A Giftwind? What’s that?” Fenimore asked.

“Well, she says it’s like an overgrown tricycle with a good-for-nothing wind sock. It was a fine plan to get us to Kotal, but as Mama ce’ Vada always said, ‘You cut the bait too quickly and you miss the giant fish.’” He gave Fenimore a
you know what I mean
gesture. Fenimore’s expression showed he did not.

“Haste makes waste,” Ollim said. “You see, the plan with the Giftwind was good. But the hands of the gods were not cupped around us. Trying to get to Kotal faster only slowed us down.

“When the breeze pushing the Giftwind slowed after the first hour, Chenda raised a breeze of her own. It was too much, and the Giftwind’s cone tore. Bad luck. However, we fixed it after an hour or so, and we set out again. This time, Chenda was more careful.

“At midday today, we were close to the capital. She worried that we were too long delayed and we weren’t going to be in time. The roads were very bad; everywhere was a hole and a bump, and I can tell you, it was horrid unpleasant. Anyway, we crested a hill, and we saw the city, and I said, ‘No problem! There it is!’ It was just then that we crash. That piece of junk was not worth what I paid. We bounced up and caught the crosswind swirling over the hilltop.” Ollim swished his free hand over and over, and then slammed the flat of his palm onto his knee. He clearly enjoyed the telling of a good story. “Crash. The right wheel popped off and merrily enjoyed its freedom by rolling away—right off the road and into a deep, rocky ravine.”

Ollim, shaking his head, pointed to his arm in the sling. “I don’t bounce too well. Chenda managed to stay in the Giftwind and was unharmed. We had a dark moment then,” Ollim said. “I have a wife, and I have made that wife very angry from time to time. The signs are now clear to me. It took a while, but I can be taught. A fit of rage was on the way, so I stepped back as fast as I could.”

“Vhat happen?” Ahy-Me said. She was enthralled by Ollim’s tale.

“The Pramuc, she kicked the Giftwind, and her palm set it on fire. I have never seen such a thing. I mean, I have seen fire, of course. But this was . . .
fire.
The metal burned . . . and it fought itself like biting eels. It was fearsome to behold.” His eyes flicked to Fenimore. “May you never quarrel with your wife.”

Candice nodded. “I believe Ollim is a wise man on that count.” She glared at Fenimore. “And what in the name of all that is good and holy was wrong with you, young man, that you felt you had to set this entire disaster in motion? You think there will be fire with Chenda angry, you better just try to survive my ire, mister!” Candice stomped her tiny foot and gave Fenimore a look that could melt granite, but Ahy-Me cleared her throat and made a slashing motion with her hands.

“Enough. Ve vill sort out zis complicated situation later. Ve are here now. Let zis Ollim finish de story.” She waved him to continue while Fenimore had the good sense to blush, knowing he was indeed the originator of all of this chaos.

Ollim picked up right where he’d left off. “Frightening as her fiery tantrum was, it caught the attention of the watchman of the
Brofman
.”

Captain Endicott took the story from there. “Lincoln was in the bow. He saw the rather peculiar flames wrestlin’ below and thought it might be a Tugrulian takin’ a shot at us. He signaled to me, and one look told me that what he was seein’ weren’t your average Tugrulian weaponry. I circled around and saw a dirty white flight coat running toward Kotal with a fella limping after.

“You could have dangled me from my own bitter-end from the shock. Talk about finding a needle in a haystack, but there she was—trying to run to Kotal on foot. That girl has some will. . . . Anyway, I dropped straight down to her. The shadow of the
Brofman
catches her eye and she stops, collects Ollim here, and we scoop the pair of them up faster than you can whistle a tune.”

The captain stabbed the air with his thick fingers. “She’s not back on board for a hot minute before she starts giving me orders about what we’re going to do. She barked at that one”—he pointed at Ollim—“and tells him that he has to stay on the ship, and”—jerking a thumb at himself—“I’m to circle around the city and drop her behind one of the mountains so she can run—
run
—alone the rest of the way to the square. I had me a right little shouting match with her over that. I said we needed to come in guns hot and just keep shooting until they gave up my girl. Then she called me an idiot. Me. An idiot. But she was very persuasive with her ‘attract too much attention’ and ‘they’ll blow up the ship’ and ‘you’re more likely to kill Candice in the crossfire’ arguments.”

He squeezed Candice’s elbow. “I find it hard to see reason when it comes to you, darling. Given the choice, I would rather
do
the wrong thing than do nothing. So, I guess I am an idiot.”

“You’re sweet,” Candice reassured him, “and it seems that you, in the end, listened to the voice of reason.”

“So, how is she going to call for us?” Fenimore turned the discussion back to Ollim and his message from Chenda.

“She said you would know it when you saw it.” Ollim, green with pain, turned to rest his bones on a crate in the stern and said in a manner-of-fact tone, “So, now we watch and wait.”

Verdu winced as the needled zigged into his skin and out again. With fists clenched and shaking, he worked hard to change his tone from hostile to inquisitive as he addressed the physician. “Excuse me, doctor. A moment of your time?”

Surprised, the man with the flashing needle looked up. “Of course, Highness. What is it?”

“I’m going to need you to hurry these last few stitches along. Someone is here to see me, and I hate to keep a lady waiting.”

The eyes of the surgeon and Nameer turned to the open door, where Verdu’s attention was already riveted. Chenda stood framed by the archway and flanked by a handful of edgy and battle-worn resistance fighters.

“Hello, my dear. Did you happen to pick off a few archers on your way into the marketplace? Because if you did,
you
get to pay the good doctor here for his services.”

Chenda, seeing that Verdu was alive and well enough to tease her, broke into a smile and strode across the room. She leaned over the bed and greeted him in the traditional manner of the Pramuc. At the end, she could not bear to let go of his arms. After so much time apart, such worry for him, she could barely believe that she had found him.

The surgeon, near frantic to get away from the unlucky prince and the woman the emperor had forbidden mention of on pain of death, sloppily tied the last suture and practically tossed a roll of bandages at Nameer. In Tugrulian he said to them as he sprinted to the door, “With my apologies, you are stitched and can possibly have no other use for me.” A moment later, he was gone.

Chenda looked at Nameer critically as she held her hand out for the bandages, which he silently relinquished. “Help him sit up,” she said to him in the language of the Republic. Nameer did as she asked, proving that he knew the language and the voice of authority when he heard it.

Quickly and without conversation, she started to dress Verdu’s wound. The pain radiated from the slowly weeping gash across his chest. The only relief was the brush of her cool fingers as she passed the bandage roll from hand to hand around his back. The sensation of a caring touch sent a shiver down his spine. Chenda’s eyes flicked to his again, and she offered him a compassionate smile. “It hurts?”

“She’s on the
Brofman
with Ahy-Me, Fenimore, and the crew.” She finished with the bandages and tied the wrappings off. Running a hand down the brace on his leg, she asked, “Now, can you walk? We need a full run to get out of here.”

Chenda was baffled. Before she could argue further, someone from the hall called to Chenda, “Pramuc! I hear footfalls. Heavy boots. We must go.”

Nameer stood. “I will take care of this,” he said, and ran out the door, which he pulled closed behind him.

“Verdu, get up. We need to go,” she said, slipping her hand into his to help him from the bed. Rather than following her lead and standing, he pulled her back. She sat down beside him, a puzzled expression on her face.

“We need to stay.
We
. I have an opportunity here that can do more good for the people than ever the resistance could do by biting at the heels of the emperor. You are the cultural and spiritual locus of these people. I plan to take the throne—and I am very close. With you beside me, we could accomplish everything. We could change the world. We could unite the resistance and the government—the old ways with new. We could save so many lives. . . .”

Her puzzlement turned to shock. “What exactly are you saying, Verdu?”

“I
will
be emperor, Pramuc, and very soon. It seems so clear to me now how this all fits together. It’s so simple. I want you to help me form a government that will allow Tugrulia to become a great nation. The only way, the best way, to make a peaceful transition for all the factions and disparate sides is to enter into a union in the same way that two strong Tugrulian families would join.”

Verdu, still holding Chenda by the hand, raised her fingers to his lips, and softly kissed her hand. “I want you to marry me, Chenda.”

chapter 21

Kotal Rex

Nameer told the surviving resistance fighters to stay silent and in the shadows near Verdu’s door. They were to fight to the last man if imperial guards got past Nameer. The councillor darted to the next intersection of the corridor that led away from Verdu’s suite. He could hear the steps of palace guards running toward him, and he fell to his knees on the tile floor and clutched his stomach. Covered in Verdu’s blood as he was, it would appear to anyone who encountered him that he had been wounded, especially as he started to gasp for breath.

Seconds later, the first guard of an imperial squad rounded the corner. Nameer waved a bloodstained hand in the direction of the hall leading away from Chenda’s men, deeper into the palace.

“That way!” he coughed. “They are seeking the emperor! They are searching for him in the Grand Gallery. Just seconds ago.” He hacked loudly again. “They come! Run! Avenge… me.” He let his voice trail off as he slumped onto his side, blocking the corridor that
actually
led to the huddled group of invaders.

The guards, disinterested in the body that was no longer issuing useful information, ran in the direction of the gallery. As the footsteps faded away, Nameer pushed himself off the floor and brushed himself off. Grinning at his own cleverness, he strutted back toward Verdu’s room.

Rounding the last bend in the corridor, he nearly tripped over the body of a dead resistance fighter. Three more lay between him and the door to Verdu’s room, a door that was now standing open. Each of the men littering the floor appeared to have been killed silently from behind with a knife in the base of the brain. There were no signs of struggle. Terror gripped Nameer’s heart as he ran to doorway. There were no sounds coming from the room. He feared that his prince and the Pramuc had been taken by surprise.

Verdu still lay on the bed, his head turned away from the door. Nameer could not see if he was breathing, but he did see fresh blood over all of the bedclothes.

At the washbasin across the room, water was flowing from the tap and spilling onto the floor at Chenda’s feet. She scrubbed at her face and neck with a bright pink washcloth. Her creamy flight coat was splattered with blood and chunks of other things that one rarely sees outside of an autopsy. Nameer tried hard not to examine them too closely or think about them at all. The vile smell in the room nearly made him vomit, and the sight of what was on the far side of Verdu’s bed finished what the smell had begun.

Chenda finished scrubbing as Nameer continued getting sick. His deepest fears were relieved as he wiped his chin with the back of his wrist and saw Verdu turn his head toward him.

“The others outside?” Verdu asked.

“All dead,” Nameer replied. “Not by the imperial guards, however.”

“It was him,” Chenda said, pointing to the piles of ick around the room. “A traitor in our midst. In the pocket of the emperor, most likely.”

“What did you . . . do to him?” Nameer asked.

“He rushed through the door, screaming and stabbing for Verdu, and I panicked.” Her tone was a little embarrassed as she went on, “It was sort of fire, and kind of water, and it mixed all up inside him as he jumped at Verdu, and . . . boom. His momentum carried him over the bed.” She paused to shudder.

“Splattered him over the bed, more like,” Nameer said. “Let’s get His Highness up.”

Each reached a hand over to Verdu and helped pull him off the bed. He, lying flat on the bed at the time of the attack, had gotten drenched in exploding assassin. He groaned as he got up, leaving behind a Verdu-shaped clean spot on the sheets.