Sam had been patient. He had become thirty lifeyears, and thirty-one and thirty-two, and then he had become Topman. Becoming Topman, in a way, helped solve his problem with patience. Being Topman was kingly and heroic and even godlike enough for him to go on with, for a time.
And in Voorstod, upon Ahabar, his father lived still, as he had always lived. Among the legends.
• • •
• In Voorstod, in the town of Cloudport (often called simply, Cloud), on the cobbled street that went from the square on up the hill to the citadel of the prophets, stood a tavern sign called the Hanged King. The tavern sign showed the king hanged by his feet and pierced through with daggers, his crown still jammed tight on his head. It was a measure of Voorstod’s hatred for the royal family of Ahabar that the face on the king was that of the first ruler, King Jimmy. Scarcely a season went by that some drinker did not suggest repainting the sign with the face and figure of the current monarch, Queen Wilhulmia. Since that would mean changing the name of the tavern, however, the owner had held out against the suggestion. “Kings and Queens come and go,” he had chuckled. “The Hanged King goes on forever.”
At a corner table covered with the circled stains of tankards and charred places where men had knocked out their pipes, Phaed Girat, with his usual bull-necked im-perturability, sat talking with a little man he had only just met, one who had been sent down to meet Phaed, so he said, from Sarby. He had a few amusing words to say about Sarby, up there in the far north, where the mists gathered thick as wool. Things washed in Cloud would stay wet for a week, he commented, but things washed in Sarby never dried. People went wet like frogs in Sarby, where they saw the sun only once every ten years or so. So said the little man in a jokey voice belied by the pinched look of his nostrils and the suspicion in his eyes.
“So what are you folk doin’ up there, in Sarby?” Phaed rumbled at him, stroking the whip at his side with one thick thumb. “You have wise prophets, I suppose, and many of the Faithful. Awaiting apocalypse and strong for the Cause, are you?” He pushed his big cap back on his head, letting the front of his hair show a little, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. It was warm in the tavern, for the provisioner had built a fire to drive off the damp.
“Strong as any, I imagine,” said the other. His name was Mugal Pye, and he was known as a quick man, with a word or with a knife. He was also known for his handiness in the assembly of various deadly explosives and sneaky weapons. People, speaking of him, said he was clever as a
their churchin’ and their nonsense. Oh, they grieve so over their children that they’re unbearable to live with, or they contract to go settle on some farm world, or they spend their time frettin’ over the Gharm pups. You wouldn’t argue with me would you, Mugal Pye? That women are a burden to the Cause.”
The little man had been watching Phaed narrowly, and now he nodded, though not with any great show of agreement. “I suppose they are. And seein’ how you feel about ‘em, it’s a good thing then I wasn’t sent to talk to you of that.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
They drank a while, not saying much, until Phaed demanded, “Well, did they send you to talk of anythin’ then?”
The little man made circles on the table top with his tankard. “They sent me to talk of one certain thing, the matter of a certain Gharm harp player out in Ahabar who’s come to our attention.”
Phaed growled a little between gritted teeth. “I know which one you mean! Have you in Sarby heard what the Queen of Ahabar intends? Have you heard she’s holdin’ out some mysterious great honor for this Gharm? What are they thinkin’ of out there! It’s a slap in the face of every man of Voorstod.”
“Of all of us,” agreed Mugal Pye, the dagger-points in his eyes glinting. “All of us, man. Too long the Gharm’s been out there in Ahabar, attractin’ attention, mockin’ us, while those of Ahabar make much of her. It’s time the matter was put an end to.”
“So,” growled Phaed. “What do they call her? Stenta Thilion, is it not? Two names they’ve given her, as though she was a human. Was there spawn of hers?”
“She had a mate, but he’s long dead,” said Muhal. “As for her spawn, they’re not in the Three Counties. They’re out in Ahabar somewhere.”
“And where did they settle?”
“In the eastern provinces, so I’ve heard. Near Fenice.”
“We’ve managed before, in the eastern provinces.”
“That’s true, that’s true. But we’ve made it look like accidents, Phaed. That’s what we’ve always thought best. Not to do anything openly in Ahabar.”
“It’s time we did! It’s time we started takin’ out the Gharm in Ahabar, in bunches, if we can manage it.”
Mugal Pye squinted and turned his glass, musing. “There’s those that’s who say we’d bring the army in.”
“You know that’s foolishness. Wilhulmia won’t order the army in without Authority sayin’ so,” Phaed declared with a fine brave thump on the table.
System government resided on Authority, one of Phansure’s many moons, while the army was stored on another, called Enforcement. On Authority and Enforcement of governance of System depended, or so it was assumed, though some felt Authority had outlived its ability to govern anything larger than a fairly small committee.
Phaed went on. “It’s time, I tell you, Mugal Pye. What will Ahabar do? I’ll tell you what they’ll do.
