Moonrise

Bajazet recalled Lord Peter – the old librarian peacefully dead and River-buried later in the same year – recalled him smiling after reading Bajazet's epic, skip-rhymed triplets on Kingdom River's flow through history from Warm- times onward. At seventeen, Bajazet had imagined himself a romantic figure, a duelist poet, and bound to be fatal to the ladies.

'I've read worse,' the Lord Librarian had said, '- and I've read better, poems made with longing and love, rather than pride in a great stack of rhymes, almost all of them beside the point.' Most of the old man's teeth were gone, so his th's, tongued off his palate, sounded odd.

Bajazet, having expected praise – even astonishment – had stood in the library goggling at the insult.

'Of course,' the old man had murmured, '- of course, if you believe me mistaken, you'll wish Queen Rachel to read this. There is no one with better judgment of writing's worth.'

Bajazet had envisioned killing the withered creature by hitting him with the heaviest possible copybook off his shelves. Failing that, he'd said nothing, turned to stride out of the chamber in dignity.

'Prince Bajazet.'

'What?' He turned back at the door.

'You asked me once about your First-father…'

'Yes, I asked once – and was told nothing.'

The old man had shifted on his high stool, his bony behind likely no comfort. 'Answers, like questions, have their proper-times. Do you wish to hear about him now?'

Bajazet had wished to tell the time-dried mummy to go to Lady Weather's hell of storms unceasing, but found he couldn't. He'd stood, listening.

The old man had smiled at him, gums almost toothless as a baby's. 'As you know, I tutored the Khan Toghrul through his boyhood at Caravanserai… I was fond of him, and found him brilliant beyond all others, though crippled.'

'Crippled…?'

'Yes. By the necessity to dominate all within his reach, and to extend that reach absolutely. It was a hunger in him, insatiable – and ruled his life as completely as he ruled others. But for that sad hunger, he would have been the greatest man of our age, superior even to the king.'

'The king beat him.'

'Yes, Sam Monroe defeated him – but only barely, and in alliance with Middle Kingdom. The king has never pretended he was the khan's equal in battle, has never pretended his success against him was not more a matter of good fortune than genius… And in that admission – its self-knowledge and sense of proportion – is revealed all reasons why he is the Great Rule's king… while your First-father is gone into history.'

'But, what was he… what was he like?'

'Ah…' The Lord Librarian had closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. 'Toghrul – as a boy, a young man – was serious, but also humorous in a somewhat chilly way. Absolutely confident. He was slender – as you are. Handsome – as you are. But much older for his years; the boy in him quickly vanished. Still, some of those close to your father, loved him; certainly the old khan loved his son, though he seemed puzzled by him on occasion.

So, Toghrul was loved by some, but feared by everyone but his father, one or two old generals, I suppose… and of course, your mother.'

'My mother…'

'I met the Lady Ladu only twice, and in passing – once on a path through the summer garden's brief beds of pansies and so forth. She was short, sturdy, and rather plain. Kipchak chieftains tend to be hawks – their ladies, partridges. She was no beauty, except for her eyes – your eyes, now. Eyes at first black, then seen to be the dark gray of evening. She was said to be very gentle… And of course, soon after your father's death, was murdered, with Chancellor Razumov, for sending the infant-you out of Ek-Tam's reach.'

Bajazet had tried to speak… say something, but found he couldn't, as if the library's warmth, its grumbling stoves, were smothering him.

'Murders,' the old man said, '- that among others, decided the king, your Second-father, to go west, defeat that general, and see him disemboweled at Map-Oakland.'

The Ancient had smiled his gummy smile. 'I know, young lord,' he said. '- I know it's easier for me to speak of these things, than for you, a boy, to hear them.' Another teetering adjustment on the high stool. Couldn't be comfortable for him. 'And I know something more – two things. First, you will be at best a competent poet. And second, your First-father's strength and your First-mother's gentleness will always war within you, and to your benefit.'

Bajazet had cleared his throat, and said, 'Thank you.'

The old man had nodded, and lifted the poem's pages. '- And this? To the queen… or the stove?'

'Keep warm,' Bajazet had said, '- dear and honored sir.'

'Keep warm.' A courtesy and blessing now poorly returned by Lady Weather, since it began to rain. An end-of- winter rain, but cold, and drifting in soaking curtains through the woods. – Uncomfortable, and lucky, destroying his tracks and his scent for the hounds. It would mean some difficulty and delay for the king's men… Bajazet unfastened his bow-string, coiled it, pushed it down into his pack, and tucked the quiver's soft cover up and over the arrows' fletching.

Then he climbed on through wet woods, water dripping from his cloak's hood, soaking it at his shoulders and down the front. The rapier and dagger sheaths were packed with oiled sheeps' wool; it would keep the steel a good while, even in wet weather – though it was hard to imagine the weapons as useful, should Boston's feral creatures have decided to follow.

… By evening, he heard voices calling that he almost recognized, voices barely heard above the rain, the steady patter of water dripping from the trees. He heard the voices, and knew it was a bad thing to be hearing them. There were certainly no familiar voices in the woods.

He looked for things to eat – chewed a while on a leather lacing from his shirt. He looked for mushrooms, for an animal to kill, turning in slow circles sometimes, before walking on… and was glad when darkness came, so he could look no longer, and be disappointed.

He stopped walking in a little brambled clearing, out from under the dripping trees. The rain gusts felt better than that constant dripping. He took off bow and quiver, pack and weapons, wrapped himself in the cloak – cold and soaked heavy – and lay down to sleep. Soon, it seemed the rain was a warm rain, lulling, protecting and hiding him.

He dreamed of flying – flying in rain, but that rain cold and blowing, making flying difficult. Dreamed of that, and was pleased it was too dark for hawks to hunt him, too wet for owls.

… I'm up Shit's Creek. With that so-ancient Warm-time phrase scribbled across his mind, Bajazet woke drenched and shivering to the last of dawn's fog, the beginning of a bright and sunny day… I am up the creek. Which left only the question of troubling to stand, or not. Putting on his pack, shouldering bow and quiver, buckling sword-belt on… or not.

To lie starving seemed oddly too much trouble, too full of shame and sorrow, so – gasping, unsteady as an old man – he climbed to his feet, staggering under the sodden cloak's frigid weight. He stumbled in half-circles to pick up and sling his pack, bow and quiver – arrow fletching soaked – and with some difficulty, managed the buckle of his weapons' belt. Damned thing…

Ready, sure he'd left nothing behind, he started away, bent under his wet cloak's weight. Had to wear it, of course; the wool would warm him, even wet. Had to wear it…

Bajazet started up-slope, the thud and jingle of swift pursuing cavalry on his mind. The king would be riding silent, saying nothing, perhaps remembering his son's toddler days… His officers would be silent as well, afraid of him. And out in front a Warm-time mile, foresters – trackers in the mottled green of Lady Weather's short-lived daughter, warm-hearted Summer – would be trotting bent, searching by Confusion's shallow water… the woods along the way. And finding confirmation enough.

Awkward shuffling steps were the only ones Bajazet could take as he climbed the apron of an eastern hill. Strides and jog-trotting were as unlikely for him as flight. He imagined coming to some improbable canyon that would bar the way of cavalry and a relentless king, but allow him to stumble past.

'Imagination,' he said aloud, then imagined he was being watched. To the right, the narrow creek rattled down, elbowing stones. To the left, brambles and brush… several evergreens, now.

He thought he might be being watched from behind – some forester having gone running at the chase's start,