It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,
They waded thro’ red blude to the knee;
For a’ the blude that’s shed on the earth
Runs through the springs o’ that countrie.
Aye, a trail of blood brought him here, and made him desired by kings and princesses. A river of blood. How much blood ran upon the decks of his Ship? Other Ships? Frozen in space? Soaked into the soil of Broadax’s World? How much blood?
“Blood,” he said, thoughtfully. “It’s always about blood and battle. Even you, my princess, are named after a sword. That’s what ‘Glaive’ means in our tongue. Did you know that?”
“Aye, as ‘Bilbo’ in thy mythos is named after an obscure word meaning a sword, a well-tempered blade. We chose the English translations of our names very carefully. Your language is so powerful, so beautiful. Like your literature, it has conquered us.”
Melville smiled. “Churchill called it, ‘the all-conquering English language.’ By the end of the twentieth century it was the common language spoken by every pilot coming into every international airport in the world, and over ninety percent of everything on the old Internet was in English. By the end of the twenty-first century it was the first or second language of almost every person on Earth, and all the other languages were well on their way to virtually disappearing. Even in Churchill’s time it was evident that English would conquer the Earth, but I wonder what he would have made of this.”
Melville was determined not to be distracted, so he brought the subject around to its original intent, to understand about her. “Princess Glaive Newra. That has subtle meaning to us. I understand the Newra part, but why Glaive, why a sword?”
“My father said that only two women had ev’r been faithful and true in his hour of need. His wife—mine mother—and his sword. When I was born he named me after his blade, and bade me to be straight and true.”
“Aye, he has named you well. And straight and true you have cut to my soul and pierced my heart. You are my glaive, and I am your warrior. But I cannot grant your request, I cannot obey your command. Not now, much as I may desire it.”
She looked bewildered as he continued. As if she couldn’t believe that he was denying her.
“I cannot explain it, but only the concept of duty, the fulfillment of my oath to Constitution and Queen, only they can make all the blood right. If I’m not under authority, then I’m just another criminal, and the vilest of mass murderers at that. But I follow an oath. Would you really want a man who could lightly set aside his oath? Would your father really want such a man? I would not.”
“Oh, Thomas,” she said, tears beginning to well up in her eyes, “our nation is at war and we need thee. Just pledge thy sword! Pledge thy sword, and pledge that silver tongue of thine. Pledge it to my grandfather. And . . . to me,” she added coyly through her tears. “And we shall take thee away from a lifetime of tramping across the galaxy, buying and selling, and give thee pride of place in a nation that honors its mighty warriors.”
He held her hand tightly and felt his traitor voice quaver, as he took a deep breath and said, “Send my love and my friendship to your grandfather, and you have my love and my heart. But my tongue is my own, and my sword is pledged to my Queen. Your grandfather couldn’t truly respect me if I broke my oath. I wouldn’t be the man you want, I wouldn’t be the man you love, if I were to do as you ask.”
“My toungue is my ain,” true Thomas he said;
“A goodly gift ye would give to me!”
“Now hold thy peace, Thomas,” she said,
“For as I say, so must it be.”
She smiled softly. O such a smile. It made his heart melt. “It is not over, dear Thomas. Thou shalt remember me, and thou shalt come back to me. I will call thee from across the galaxy, and thou shalt come. I have woven mine magic, the simple magic of a sincere woman’s true love, and now thou art mine. For as I say, so must it be.”
“Aye,” he said, and now it was his turn to reach out and stroke her face, striving to echo her gentleness with his rough hands, so calloused by sword, pistol and his Ship’s rigging. “If it is within my power, I shall return. I’m not sure of the ending, but it will never be boring. I promise.”
Chapter the 18th
Conclusion: The Dreamer
Sentry pass him through!
Drawbridge let fall, ’tis the Lord of us all,
The Dreamer whose dreams come true!
“The Fairies’ Siege”
Rudyard Kipling
After meeting with Princess Glaive in the Royal Glen, Melville went to the embassy to confer with Colonel Hayl. Now it was late in the day as he finally walked home. His guards were behind him. Ulrich was scowling along beside him.
His coxswain seemed to have been offended (perhaps mortified or humiliated would be a better word) at missing out on the gunfight against Aunt Madelia’s goons. He seemed to be determined to make up for it, right now, by starting a fight with every individual who came down the street. If looks could incite a battle, then Ulrich would have completed an entire war by the time they got halfway back to the Ship.
The Ship. His Ship. He was going to take his Ship to the far side of the galaxy. Distant ports. Exotic lands. Adventure! And his princess waited for him.
Adventure before him, great deeds behind him, and love waiting patiently for him. What more could any man ask?
As he walked along through the Sylvan streets an overwhelming fit of random, senseless happiness came over him. There was a song in his heart and a bounce in his step. Far more of a bounce than could be explained by the light gravity. He was walking on air with the disgusted, scowling Ulrich serving as his anchor.
As they headed down the streets toward the Pier, Melville saw something strange in front of him. Later he felt guilty for thinking it, but in truth the very first thing he thought was that a skinny man was leading an ape by the hand.
Then he realized that it was Hans and Broadax, in civilian clothing, walking hand-in-hand down the street. The two crusty ex-NCOs—his sailing master and his marine lieutenant—were walking down the street holding hands, headed toward him. Again he was ashamed of himself, but he couldn’t help a panicky initial inclination to duck down a side street and avoid the meeting. But it was too late; they saw him and waved.
He gulped, breathed, and tried not to change his pace as he walked toward them. Funny, when someone was watching you closely and you consciously tried to walk nonchalantly, it was almost impossible to do. “Conscious nonchalance” was probably an oxymoron, or at least damned difficult, and he suddenly felt very young and awkward as he approached them.
Their civilian clothing was in subtle disarray. Broadax was in a blue gingham dress (a dress by God!) and Hans wore denim pants and a red plaid shirt. Broadax was absent her helmet with her wiry hair in wild disorder, but she had her cigar in her mouth, puffing happily, and various lumps in her dress indicated that she was carrying her “cutlery” with her. There was also the distinct tinkle of her chainmail lingerie. Hans had a chaw of tobacco in his lip and a bulge that could only be a .45 (” . . . or are you just happy to see me?” said some uncontrollable, mischievous inner voice). Their monkeys lounged comfortably on their shoulders.
They also were obviously well lubricated by alcohol and . . . yes, apparently . . . love. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof . . .
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
As they drew to speaking distance, Hans wrapped his arm around Broadax (or kind of down and around) and caressed her. At least . . . that’s what it might have been, Melville tried hard not to look. They were both grinning like fools, but this last action by Hans caused Broadax to giggle, exhaling a cloud of noxious cigar smoke.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
Broadax.
Giggle.
Those two words didn’t belong in the same sentence. Hell, they didn’t belong in the same paragraph. Then Melville’s stunned mind realized that Broadax had little blue gingham bows in her sparse, stringy beard.