Mitchell Smith - Moonrise

"And why not? The Cooper is dead. His only son is dead."

"Then some other river lord will likely be waiting to cut my throat." Bajazet spoke into the night and night's breezes, where only a small, outline woman stood. "- And now I believe it's my turn for a question."

"Then… ask."

"You're a New Englander, yet I hear you've said to those others that Boston has helped – I think now, more than helped – to murder my brother, and our friends." Bajazet touched his left-hand dagger's hilt, to be sure of drawing. "The Coopers are gone, but Boston remains, and I intend to damage those people and their town, if I can. – Why should I not begin with you?"

"Why not?" She grunted, seemed amused. "First, I wonder if you're good enough with those straight blades to take punishment to me – even once you're rested from the chase… Second, and only for acting as a mother should, I've been declared Beyond-town-limits… And third, I've just killed Boston's ambassador to Middle Kingdom, after seeing to the tribes' slaughter of the Township's chosen River King." A distant night bird called in the sedge, two faint sighing notes. "You will find it difficult, boy, to injure Cambridge more severely."

"Still… you are what you are." There was a green scent of bracken on the air, from stems broken, crushed by the savages' battle charge.

"Ah, I hear your cruel First-father speaking there; sad that we never met… Yes, I am what I am, and Boston made and bred – but the Faculty Selectmen, meeting on Cambridge Common, voted to take my son away. They hold him, though he's a baby, and certainly the One Expected."

"The One Expected…"

"Yes. They bred better than they knew. My Maxwell swims dreaming down lines of blood, through recalled history of its little bits. He follows those into the pasts of people gone, and looks out through their eyes, though understanding little."

"And this is true?"

"True, even though only a baby's dreams – a baby, it seems, who will always be a baby, though wiser and wiser. Wise enough already to frighten those fools who have labored – as other Talents have labored for hundreds of years – to bring him to us."

"And they took him for that?"

"That, and his dreaming into the future, more and more – I suppose by some arithmetic of possibilities the little bits tell him – so he sometimes sees what will be seen, though imperfectly." She stood silent before Bajazet a little while, starlight barely salting her white hair. "They intend to cripple him for their comfort. And I intend to have my Maxwell back… and have their heads, besides."

She'd stood so perfectly still, that Bajazet was startled when she suddenly turned. "Errol! Back to camp!" There was, perhaps, a rustling through the scrub, though nothing to see by starlight.

"A turned back," she said, "- after seeing so much killing here, is a temptation for his knives. Any helpless person. And a girl – or boy, for that matter – also a temptation, of another kind. Though young, he's very true to his part-sire, with rutting and murder being close to the same for him."

"More of New England's doing."

"Live on the ice, Who-was-a-prince. Live in the ice for the near six hundred years since Jupiter betrayed us, and the cold came down… then comment on what talents keep us warm and safely guarded."

Bajazet thought of answers… then decided not to speak them. A sharp shoulder of the quarter moon had just edged above a hilltop, and by that light his accustomed eyes saw the Boston-woman – Patience – watching him with eyes darker than the night. She stood close, but there was no odor from her; she might have been the shrub-scented air itself.

"- Now, my questions, boy."

"You've called me 'boy,' enough."

The Boston-woman turned to break off a stem of brush, twirl it idly. The little leaves flashed silver in moonlight. "Then what am I to call you? You're no longer Prince Bajazet – he died when you ran instead of dying. That 'boy' is dead as mutton… Wonderful Warm-time phrase, by the way."

"I keep my name."

"No, you should not. If the name lies, the man lies. What did your family – when you had one – what did they call you?"

"… Baj."

"Then 'Baj' is who you are – and should call yourself even inside your head, to keep their love with you. It is your best name, as 'Patience' is mine – though not the best description of me."

Bajazet said nothing, though he tried "Baj" to himself… and it did seem to bring some comfort. Also, it would likely spare him more of her Who-was-a-prince's. Words so sadly true, revived pain enough to twist any name to a different one… With "Prince Bajazet" lost, then better be only "Baj" to himself and everyone, as the broken tribes had named themselves for song-birds.

"So, New-named…" The woman turned and walked away – seen quite clearly now the moon was risen – so he had not much choice but to follow, warding brush aside. "As to your returning to Island… In all your running away, your scrambling through these hills as a Judas goat – very well, my Judas goat – did you ever pause to listen to the drums?"

"I heard cavalry trumpets chasing. Not drums." He shoved thistle and sedge crackling aside.

"Well, the drums were there. Almost always, if you're still, and listen. I've heard them thumping… thumping up the Map-Mississippi all the way from drowned Old Orleans, like very distant thunder. The Sparrows say so, too."

"They say what?"

She stopped, turned to face him. The moonlight seemed bright as morning before dawn; it shone on the rolling scrub as if on surf suddenly frozen still. "- They say, Baj, that old One-eye Howell Voss has left the governing of North Map-Mexico, and comes up from the Gulf on a galley – he and his dangerous wife – with Middle Kingdom's fleet already at his service, and officers of the Army-United pacing his ship's deck." She tossed the switch of leaves away.

"- The drums echo the fishermen's cheers as that galley passes. Apparently they were happy enough with your brother, young Newton, and mourn his murder… Now, I suppose, Howell Voss will be their king, and Charmian the queen. Isn't it odd? I would never have thought it when I knew them, those years ago… and I'm very clever."

"I'm glad to hear it. It makes a difference."

"Difference enough? – say he succeeds."

"Say he succeeds… I think there'll be vengeance enough, at least at Island. He and his wife and old Master Lauder will see to it."

"Yes." She nodded. "I well remember unpleasant Master Lauder. And that being done – what of you?"

"Nothing of me." Bajazet – "Baj," he supposed he would become – was tired of talking about it. Talking seemed to bring treachery and its tragedies back like swallowed vomit. "I suppose I'd be welcomed. Welcomed for my Second-father's sake. I would have a home."

"But not your home, anymore?"

"… Perhaps not."

"Perhaps…" Patience shook her head. "I wonder how comfortable a man might be, living his life with 'perhaps' as his home. Living with a family not his family – seeing all futures go to others."

"If they fight Boston, I would do it."

"Oh, Howell Voss will have a kingdom to rule – the Great Rule, from Map-Mississippi to the Ocean Pacific. For several years, he'll only hold New England at arm's length. You would be 'excess baggage,' – another fine copybook phrase – though treated however kindly."

"Excess baggage…"

"Yes. Isn't it sad, Baj, how unfair the world is? I've often thought so."

"So, only dreary truths from you, Lady – who seem to know so much."

"If you'd prefer lies, you still are a boy." She reached out to a shrub, tore free another leafy switch.