The Gospel According to Verdu (a Steampunk Novel) (The Brofman Series) (17 page)

She rubbed her hands together and opened a fresh little blank book. She held it flat against her lap and quickly wrote Pranav Erato’s introduction, then turned to the next waiting page. She slowly, tremblingly, began to write. The words no longer needed to be continually checked against the original. She knew them by heart after so many copies. She felt the cave disappear as she wrote, along with the stone beneath her, and the small lamp, too. All she could feel was Verdu beside her in the tower room, his passion for his writing spilling into her. She found herself speeding up, her hand scrawling the words onto the page. She forced herself to slow, to parse out each moment, each word one at a time, savoring it, making it last. Onward she would write, page after page, the agony of making it last causing a dew of perspiration to coat her skin. She slowed her pace even more the closer she got to the end of the work. Finally, the ending came, and the world around her came back to her, along with its chill and loneliness and its pain in her joints.

She sat for a time with Verdu’s words lying open in her lap. She had no heart to close the cover just yet. Not knowing what else to do, she cupped the tiny book in her hands, held it to her breast, and sobbed a little.

It was really hard to be in love with a man who didn’t know she loved him.

Bateem gently rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. Inside, the councillor was partially hidden behind a large mound of papers that were mounded on the center of his desk.

“Come!” shouted an annoyed voice from within. Bateem shuffled into the sweet-smelling office. Amid the piles of scrolls and books that seemed to have trickled off his desk and onto the surrounding bookcases and even the floor, Nameer Xa-Ven hunched over a stack of books on law and history. On one corner of his desk burned several cones of resin incense—a smell Bateem recognized as a calming unguent. He thought to himself, as he politely cleared his throat, that should a fire burn down the palace, the heart of the blaze could come from this very office.

The way the councillor was clutching at his cup of tea and angrily flipping through page after page of the abused book in front of him, Bateem recognized that the smoke was not working. He remained standing, silently waiting to be addressed, as Nameer slammed the book closed and picked up another.

Bateem shifted his weight, causing the floorboards to creak. Nameer let out a frustrated sigh. “What do you need, Bateem? Speak up.”

Nameer’s snappish retort made Bateem flinch, but he overruled his instinct to scurry away to do as he was told. Summoning every bit of his meager stock of courage, he sheepishly said, “I think it’s a little more complicated than a simple cold, my lord.” He took a step backward and held a hand toward the door. “Perhaps, my lord, you may want to come and see for yourself.”

Nameer finally gave his full attention to the clerk. For the most part, he found Bateem to be a mild yet diligent bootlick who had maneuvered easily through the politics of life on staff at the imperial palace. In short, he was a capable toady, so it rather surprised him that the little man was asserting his own will. But most of Nameer’s world had gone topsy-turvy of late, so he swigged down the remainder of his tea, pushed his kneeling chair back from his cluttered table, and followed the clerk out of the room.

“Tell me of this illness,” Nameer ordered as they walked through the polished stone halls of the palace.

“He has taken to his bed, my lord, and he wants nothing anymore. He does not eat, nor does he speak. Were it not for his occasional sigh, I would think him dead.”

The clerk cleared his throat. “If his will for life is not restored, my lord, I am afraid His Highness may die. I dare say, he
wants
to die.”

“You understand that he is likely to die whether he wills it or not. He has many crimes to answer for, and is too close in the line of succession to be considered safe. What difference is it to you if one or another of the many heirs lives or dies? Each is much like any other, as you well know.”

Bateem hesitated for a moment, stroking his hand on his chin and weighing his answer. “Perhaps, but in the case of Prince Kotal Verdu, I think not.”

Bateem continued on in silence for several paces, until Nameer urged him to explain.

“Well, my lord, despite his current turn, I thought His Highness capable of being much like the other princes of the blood. But, in his favor, I think His Highness lacks a certain cruelness that seems prevalent in so many of the heirs. He has strength, to be sure, and intelligence, but on the whole I find him . . . kind.” Bateem said this last word in a tone of wonder.

The pair continued walking in silence through various lavishly furnished halls, past works of art in stone and precious metals, gem-studded alcoves and broad marble staircases. They journeyed deeper into the heart of the palace.

Finally they turned down a narrow corridor, and Bateem waved aside two burly guards flanking a stout metal-studded wooden door. The clerk opened it and stepped over the threshold, but was pulled back by one shoulder to face Nameer.

“Thank you, Bateem. I’ll send for you should I need you.” The councillor’s tone left no doubt that Bateem was dismissed. Bateem wanted to stay and help, or at least to see what Nameer would do, but his survival instincts took hold and he bowed and turned away as Nameer closed the door.

Inside, the room was still and quiet. The tubes of sunlight splashed a diffused dapple onto the floor next to the large, disturbingly pink bed. The air was stale and thick with the smell of a man who had refused to wash for some time. The smell got stronger as he approached the bed. Verdu’s back was to Nameer, and he did not stir at the other’s approach.

“Still waiting to die?” Nameer asked.

Verdu grunted his response that said,
Maybe yes, maybe no.

“I hear reports of you that are most vexing. You are neither angry nor cruel and yet neither pleasant nor friendly. You demanded little and then nothing—both of which, of course, you got in abundance. The rebellious cleric Erato even sends me letters about you and attempts to convince me of your strength and wisdom.”

Neither the mention of Pranav Erato or the slight of dropping his proper appellation caused any reaction in Verdu, so he went on, “Strangely enough, that sycophantic little clerk Bateem likes you and wishes me to consider your illness, only the One True God knows why. So, here I am. And I must say, you seem to be almost devoid of life already. I’m not sure I can see what all the fuss is about over you, as you hardly seem a threat to anyone but yourself. Damned rotten luck that I got picked to be your advocate. I’ll be the laughingstock of the other councillors for ages over this. So much work to do to act in your defense, just to bring a half-starved carcass to the executioner. What will people say about the emperor’s hospitality then?”

The lump that was Verdu made no movement. Nameer sighed in disappointment. “What’s it going to be with you? Will you die here in your own stink, or will you wait to see what becomes of you?”

Verdu grunted, a sound devoid of commitment one way or the other.

Nameer walked around the bed to look at Verdu’s face. His eyes were open, but they did not so much as twitch as Nameer peered at the dark circles beneath. The beginnings of sunken cheeks; white, cracked lips; and the tangles of days of unkempt beard made the man look nothing like a prince of the blood. If the will for life did not return to him soon, Verdu would die within days.

Drawing in a ragged breath, Verdu whispered in a voice as dry as the desert, “Your ‘One True God’ is part of a continuum of all gods; to deny the others is to deny him. You should have more faith than hate.”

“Ah. You will talk theology with me, then? When I wish to talk of your mortality? Unbelievable,” Nameer said calmly. “You are looking like you won’t be my problem very much longer. And to think I found a loophole that will save your life.”

Verdu’s eyes flicked to Nameer’s face, and he blinked them into focus.

Candice awoke with a start, eyes open and blind in the darkened cabin. There was no sound on the ship, and it was far too still. Quickly adding up the facts, she jumped from worried to panicked. She tightened her flight coat around her as she felt her way to the door, then dashed out and up the corridor to the steps leading to the deck of the
Brofman
. Moonlight splashed down the stairs, making them pale planks slashed with dark, gaping shadows. She wondered where the soft glow of the hooded incandescents was, and why she could see no other lights from the galley or the crew quarters.

Cautiously she stepped up onto the deck and looked around. Germer was in the stern of the airship and silently waved at her, so she trotted toward him. She placed a hand over her lips so as not to shout at him before she reached the spot where he was pacing. The darkness and stillness demanded her silence.

“Germer!” she hissed in her best stage whisper. “Why are we in the dark?”

“First off,” he said, “it’s night. Strange weather phenomenon that happens every so often. Secondly, and more like the answer you been wantin’, we’ve run the battery completely dry.” Candice didn’t appreciate the tone he had taken with her, as if it were obvious that they were dead in the air. The reality of what that meant caught up with her all at once.

“Oh, my!” She waved her hands in front of her nervously. “Are we falling? Are we crashing? Are we—”

“Calm yourself, my dear professor.” Germer smiled at her. “We ain’t even airborne at the moment. Didn’t you see the dockin’ tower as you come up?”

Candice whirled around and looked over the port side of the ship, and indeed they were moored to an airslip and tied off. She could not honestly think how she had missed the large pole rising in the darkness from the side of the ship. She turned slowly back to Germer, whose bushy brown mustache was unable to fully hide his grin.

“Catch me up,” she said, feeling awkward. “Where are we?”

“Crider Island,” he said. “The cappie and the rest of the mates have gone down to knock on a few doors and see who’s about who mighta seen somethin’.” Germer started his pacing again, and Candice followed him. “Just you and me here, at the moment. Nothin’ to do but keep watch until they come up to us again.”

“When do you think they’ll be coming back?” she asked.

“Well”— the ship’s engineer scratched his head—“I can’t but guess. They been gone ’bout an hour, so they could be comin’ back soon, assuming they got some information as quick as they liked. But, I suspect they won’t be along for a time.”

Candice waited for more as they strolled past the wheelhouse, but nothing came. She signed at having to ask, “Why is that?”

“There’s no hurry, you see.”

“What do you mean, there’s no hurry? We’ve been racing to find Fenimore and Chenda before they get into even more trouble. We are in an all-fired hurry!” Candice snorted at the end for emphasis.

“Even if the captain gets a map and directions to find those two, we won’t be able to leave for several hours. Like I said, we’re dead. We ain’t goin’ another inch until the sun comes up and we get a ten percent power reserve back into the battery again. It’s still most of an hour till dawn, and then at least half again that much for a charge-up. Even then we would have to be cautious about our speed for a bit. The old girl got pushed hard last night.” He soothingly ran his hand along the rail of the ship as if comforting it. “It’s not like him to take chances with the old girl. He’s a cautious sort. His drawers are really in a bunch over losing another two. He had it rough when Verdu didn’t come back with the rest of ya, but with Chenda and Fenimore, too, he’s just not right with it.”

Candice touched Germer’s arm. “I know what you mean, and I feel the same way.”

She knew her answer was a bit cryptic, but she let the conversation end. Germer continued pacing around the ship, and Candice positioned herself beside the gangway and watched for any sign of . . . anything. It was in this very tower that she and Chenda had run for the departing
Brofman
as they were chased by agents of the Tugrulian Empire. Fenimore, buying time for his ship, Chenda, and Candice, almost did not make it, and he had the scars to prove that Crider Island was much too close to the empire for any of them to let their guard down for a second.

Candice grew increasingly more tense as the minutes inched along. Each time the incline car that ferried people back and forth from the mountain into the port town below engaged, she strained to see who would come out of the car and into the dim terminal at the other end of the airslip. She was tempted to leave the
Brofman
and step inside so she could be there the minute her Max came back. She reminded herself repeatedly that bad news would find her and good news would keep, and it was much safer for all of them if she just stayed where she was.

Finally, Candice saw the silhouette of people stepping off the incline car and moving in her direction. She quivered with relief. A moment later, men were through the door from the terminal and onto the airslip.

“Hail, the
Brofman
! Ahoy!” shouted a voice with a hint of an accent. “
Brofman!
Ahoy!”