"Service, honor, faith, obedience. Justice tempered only by mercy; mercy tempered only by justice."
Fine words, yes. For me, they are all lies. Save one.
One word to live by; one word to live for: service.
There is no justice; Bear's mute lips speak loudly as to that. Me, I am drained of mercy and impoverished of faith, and care not a whit about such fripperies as honor.
And obedience? Let's not be silly.
But there is still service, and I will still be of service. I swear it. I wish I could swear it on Bear's grave, but I'd not let any man pollute his resting place with the oaths of the damned.
But I will be of service.
Do not think well of me for that; it's no sacrifice.
I really don't have anything else left.—Gray
There was brief talk of burying Bear at sea. He put an end to that.
Randolph made the short formal offer, although Gray could tell that he didn't expect Gray to accept, and Gray didn't, and Randolph just said, "Of course, Sir Joshua," and returned to his duties, and added not one word nor raised an eyebrow over sailors' superstitions about carrying corpses; he just nodded stiffly, and walked away.
Which was just as well, all in all.
Sigerson, Bigglesworth at his side, asked Gray for permission to preserve the body, and Gray had nodded. Bear's body had already started to stink, and even with favorable winds, tides, and seas it was four or five days good sailing to Gibralter, and probably another ten past that to Londinium, and who knew how long after that it would take to bring the body home to Fallsworth?
Sigerson was closeted up in the rear hold overnight, and emerged, as sagging and tired-looking as Gray had ever seen a man. He nodded, and reported that it was done, and Gray said, "Thank you," and Sigerson said, "You are welcome, of course." They didn't say anything else; they didn't have anything else to say to each other.
They held a brief mass on the main deck the second night out. Orders were orders, and Randolph's were to repair to England at all possible speed, so the topmen remained aloft throughout, prepared to reef if the wind picked up, as the Lord Fauncher had every scrap of sail flying from the foremast topgallants to the spanker, all the way aft.
Gray had heard Randolph instructing the first, who had the deck, that there was to be no slacking in activity, and if the situation called for orders to be piped or shouted, that was to be done, no matter the state of the service, and when he had seen Gray watching him, he had stood silently until Gray had nodded.
Of course. Orders were orders. The work had to go on. Gray could hardly fault Randolph for that.
They all gathered there: Randolph, of course, resplendent in his dress blues; Gray, and Niko, and Cully, and Fotheringay, Sigerson, and Bigglesworth—and, of course, Andropolounikos, visibly uncomfortable in the shore clothes borrowed from one of the officers, and which the ship's tailor had altered for him; his index finger kept running around the inside of his collar.
The knights' gear was hundreds of miles away aboard the Marienios, but the ship's sailmaker had done a fine job of laundering and as decent a one as was possible of stitching up their clothing, and if they looked shabby, and they did, Bear wouldn't have minded, so Gray pretended not to, either.
Gray said the Mass for the Dead, with Cully having done the preparations. Gray didn't feel anything; he just spoke the words. There was no question of doing Bear's death baptism aboard the Lord Fauncher; that would be done at Fallsworth, of course, along with his burial.
And it was just as well that first-form novices at Alton had learned all the masses by rote, and tested on them every year, and that what was early learned is one's possession for life, for it had been a long time since Gray had celebrated mass, and he wouldn't have wanted to stumble over the words that swam on the page of the missal minor that Cully held for him.
And then it was over, and Cully had taken the tray and missal minor away, and he and Niko had done the rest of the cleaning up, leaving Gray alone at the stern rail.
He wasn't sure when or how, but Gray had somehow ended up with Bear's sword—his mundane sword, of course—stuck through his sash, along with his own two. Part of him wanted to just throw it over the side, although he didn't know why, and he would, of course, return the sword to Baron Shanley, along with the body.
Gray stood at the stern rail for a long time.
Strange thing: his fingers hurt. Not the fingers of his remaining hand—the ones that should have been where his right hand used to be. Not the stump—it hurt, yes, but not much, not more than he could stand; the red had burned it clean to the bone, just above the wrist, but when he held it up, it felt like he could wiggle his fingers, and once or twice he tried to touch his own cheek with the ghostly fingers, and, of course, didn't feel anything in his cheek, or with the lost hand.
But the absent fingers ached, constantly.
Strange. Although why it should be strange, he didn't know. It wasn't as though he didn't already understand how something missing could hurt more than a strong man could bear.
He just stood, watching the water, trying to ignore the whistles and shouts of the deck crew, and not for a moment laying his remaining hand on the Khan.
He was left alone for what seemed to be a short time, or maybe it was a long one, but he became aware that Cully was standing to one side of him, and Niko to the other.
They didn't say anything at first.
"The Nameless is locked in the captain's strongbox," Cully finally said. "Marines on watch, and Fotheringay watching the marines—the other marines."
"I don't think there's anything to worry about," Gray said.
"Neither does Fotheringay," Cully said.
Gray nodded. He didn't care much for, or about, the sergeant, but Fotheringay would do his duty as he saw it. Probably just wanted to keep busy, since he had no real work to do.
Al-Bakilani was locked in the first's cabin, and there were guards on his door, too. Whether he was to be a prisoner or an ambassador was probably an interesting question, but it was one that other heads than Randolph's would have to answer, and he would spend the trip below.
The three stood silently again.
Then Niko spoke. "What happens next?"
Gray shook his head. He didn't know. He didn't care.
"For the three of us, it'll be up to the Council, which means the Abbot General," Cully said. "I suspect you and I won't have any trouble being relieved of our vows, eh, Niko?" He smiled in the dark. "Life goes on, until it stops. We go on. Worst case? You've got two hundred crowns of gold in the strongbox aboard the Marienios, and—"
"I wasn't asking about the money."
"I didn't think you were." Cully shook his head. "But a man—knight or fisherman—has to eat. Speaking of which," he said, turning to Gray, "you're going to have to eat something, Joshua."
"Tomorrow."
Cully nodded. "Good enough. Your word is always good enough for me, Joshua."
"I wasn't aware I gave my word."
"I thought you were doing just that."
"If you insist."
"Then we're agreed—and the boy does have to eat, as well. In a figurative, as well as a literal sense. That'll need to be seen to."
Gray shrugged. "Easily enough handled. Take him—I will get Sir Robert to come with me and take him—
"Which Sir Robert? Cooper or Linsen? Or some other Sir Robert entirely?"
"—I will ask Sir Robert Linsen to come with me and take him down to the City, and to whichever banking house Sir Robert uses. My word is good enough bond for Linsen, and his should be good enough bond, all in all—we'll get Sir Niko an advance on the money, enough to live on, while word's sent to the Governor's office to collect it—Langahan will probably end up handling that—and send a note back. Have to take a serious discount, given the distance, but we can leave it to Linsen to handle." He wasn't worried about the Abdullahs stealing the boys' money—the only people who had to worry about the Abdullahs stealing the boy's money were the Abdullahs—but there was, of course, the possibility that the Marienios wouldn't make it back home. Storms, pirates . . . and the Others, whoever they were.
The only question was how to handle the details. That was the sort of thing that he would have had Bear deal with.
His missing hand ached.
"How soon do you think we'll be there?" Cully asked. "Have to stop for water somewhere, if not other provisions. Gibraltar probably."
"No, not Gibby," Gray said, shaking his head. "Likely to make things too complicated—Digsworth would probably insist on being briefed, and that would delay things. Little love lost between Gibby and Malta; he might even decide that DuPuy overreached himself on having al-Bakilani clapped in irons, and I expect that Randolph will want to see that his own reports are the first to reach Londinium."
"It was ordinary rope, as I recall."
"You know what I mean. I don't think al-Bakilani would or will complain, mind you—I think he's as eager to get the Crown on the trail of these Others as His Majesty will be, and won't want to distract anybody's attention from that issue. And—" he stopped himself. "I see," he said, nodding. "You get me wrapped up in the details of the world, bind me to it more tightly . . ."
Cully patted him on the arm. "I think I'm supposed to say that I don't know what you're talking about." He gave a thin smile.
"Then again, you only do what you're supposed to, be it accident, or coincidence, Father."
"True enough." The smile vanished. "Do you think they'll make—let you keep the Khan?"
Gray stopped his hand an inch from the Khan's hilt. "Well, I could hardly serve on His Own with just one hand, now, could I?"
"I wasn't asking if you'd be allowed to serve on His Own. I was asking if you expect to be taken off the active list, or relieved of the Khan."
"I hadn't been thinking about that."
"Well, then, do so."
That wasn't quite true—he had been avoiding thinking about it. He couldn't even tie his bootlaces or knot his sash for himself. And he would never be able to hold his mundane sword in his lost right hand, the scabbarded Khan in his left, prepared to drop the mundane sword and draw the Khan as quick as a man could blink.
But there was precedent. While he had not served with His Own after the loss of his arm, Linsen had carried the Goatboy for years; it was age that had finally taken it away from him, not the disability. Then again, the Goatboy was White, and the Khan was Red, and while releasing holiness was not to be taken lightly, it generally fell more lightly on the world than unleashing evil always did, eh?
"I don't know," he said. "We'll see." It wasn't his choice, after all. He would argue against it, if anyone would listen to him.
Cully probably thought that Gray wouldn't notice how he tapped against Niko's arm, but he did. Talk-more? About what?
Niko piped up obediently with: "Could I ask a question?"
"You already did." Cully smiled. "But, yes, you may ask another, although I don't know what you'd have to ask about right now."
Niko tried to seem puzzled. "It's not important, I guess, but—what are those pennants at the top of the mizzen mast? I don't remember seeing them before."
Gray looked up.
The foremast, of course, flew the black flag of the Crown, Shield, and Dragon; and below it, the red-and-gold pennant of the Royal Navy. No solid-colored pennants, there, which was just as well—there wasn't a solid color that was good news.
The mizzenmast flew four pennants, and only one of those was solid: the topmost was black-and-white striped, and below it a red-and-white checkered one, a solid red, and another black-and-white striped.
"Oh," Cully said, nodding. "I see what you mean. The black-and-white one means that the Lord Fauncher is on courier duty. The red-and-white is 'urgency' or 'emergency,' and the solid red is speed. Captain Randolph is announcing that we're on courier duty—reasonable under the circumstances—and repeating the flag under the other two is him asking for any fast courier ship to come alongside. I think that's why he's back down in his quarters, writing dispatches. The Lord Fauncher is fast enough, but she's no courier sloop—my guess is that the captain wants to get his dispatches to Londinium ahead of us, if possible. Not the worst of ideas, for any of us."
Gray shook his head. "I couldn't write."
"You could dictate. I can write."
"And you could just have said, 'Gray, I think it would make sense to get your report to the Abbot General ahead of the Lord Fauncher, if possible,' instead of putting Sir Niko through this charade."
"Yes, I guess I could have."
He sighed, and let his hand rest on the hilt of Bear's sword.
"Let's get to it, shall we?"