Chapter 13: Surrender

The envoy was tired of running.

Swabians did not run yet here he was fleeing the camp of the Muthada in a desperate bid to put distance between himself and their new clan chief. Berimund resisted the urge to grind his teeth. Whoever this Jack Easterbrook character was, he’d put a significant dent in Lord Avila’s plans. Now that one of their major sources of slave revenue had dried up, it was time to seek greener pastures. Or at very least, come up with a contingency plan.

It was for that reason that he made all possible haste out of the camp during the attack by the Javans, hiding under the bodies of two dead men until long after the new clan chief had departed the scene. The smell was horrific, and the vacant expression on the dead Andalucian faces seemed to burn its way into his brain.

He suffered that treatment no longer than he needed to. After the Muthada had departed with Easterbrook, Berimund returned to the camp to scope out the scene. Of course the old clan chief Adulis would be dead; it was the only way Easterbrook could have taken over as the new leader. However, even the members of his inner circle were dead too, chief among them his cousin Bathal who had been Berimund’s primary liaison. Without any of the old leadership, his mission was in serious jeopardy, and he needed guidance on his next move.

It was for that reason that he had made his way back to the slaver city of Methusa, the site of the largest slave market in all of Andalucia. It was also the scene of where the majority of the slaves brought into the country landed, before being sold out to the various clans—a vital link in the plan of his overlord. There he could expect to find Adalbert, Lord Avila’s younger cousin, and the mastermind behind the two-way slave trade that they’d orchestrated to fill the Swabian coffers for war.

Upon reaching the city, Berimund had begun to relax. His first meeting with Easterbrook had gone far from well, and he wouldn’t put it past the man to seek retribution should Berimund fall into his hands. Now the reports from the central highlands were coming in that Easterbrook had not one but two clans in his possession, a dangerous combination for not only himself but his enemies. Berimund wouldn’t breathe easily until he was far enough away not to worry about it.

Or he had a stronger host.

He made his way through the city in the midmorning hours, looking for one house in particular, the residence of Adalbert. Grander than the houses in its immediate surroundings, it still wasn’t saying much when compared to the relative poverty and shabbiness of the entire city. Such a residence would barely be fit for the steward of a poor lord in Swabia, yet Andalucia was the land of backwardness. Such quarters would have to do to fit the circumstances.

Finding the door, Berimund rapped on it four times in quick succession and then three more in long, drawn out knocks. It was a code that the listener on the other side would readily recognize, a form of secret greeting that could only mean another Swabian was on the other side. Predictably enough, a small slot opened in the door, and a familiar pair of eyes greeted him.

“Berimund,” said the sentry. “What are you doing back here so soon?”

“The situation has changed. Give me entry so I can update our lord’s cousin,” said Berimund quickly, watching to see if anyone nearby was paying them too much attention.

The eyes on the other side of the door blinked at him several times before the peep hole was slammed shut. After a few more tinkers of the door, it opened up hesitantly without Berimund being able to see who was behind it. He quickly shuffled in like he’d done a hundred times before and locked it behind him. Only then could he see the sentry fully who then proceeded to direct him to the office of Adalbert just down the hall.

Berimund rushed to the office, immediately finding the younger cousin of Lord Avila sitting behind his own desk. He was not much more than a year older than Berimund and it showed. His hair didn’t have any signs of silver, and his face was unwrinkled even if it did carry a few scars. He was dressed similarly to Berimund, wearing a dark gray tunic, so much that dark gray seemed to be the national color of Swabia. Adalbert was reclined in his chair, a cigar resting against a tray on his desk, smoking.

“Berimund, what are you doing back?” questioned Adalbert with a raised eyebrow. “I hadn’t expected to see you any time soon.”

“The situation has changed, sir,” said Berimund with a deep bow. “The Muthada have a new clan chief. Adulis is dead.”

Adalbert pursed his lips. “What of it? Make the same deal with the new clan chief.”

“That won’t work,” said Berimund while shaking his head. “I’ve met the new man. He’s a foreigner to these lands. Not even from this side of the world. We got off to a bad start.”

“Define ‘bad start’ Berimund.”

“It seems someone has been feeding him misinformation about our people and our country. Our meeting was quite tense and nearly came to a fight.”

“You almost started a fight in the tent of the clan chief?” asked Adalbert. “My cousin would be most displeased to hear that.”

Berimund’s eyes went wide. Displeasure on the part of Lord Avila was a chief cause of death back in Swabia. Many didn’t disappoint the lord twice, since you usually lost your head after the first time.

“My apologies, sir. Nothing came from it but the sentiment was left lacking. I don’t believe this man to be someone we could work with.”

“That would be most unfortunate for you then, Berimund. It was your job to secure the Muthada for our part of the agreement. Their money for the purchase of slaves is crucial to our plan,” said Adalbert.

Berimund gulped heavily. “It gets worse, sir.”

“How could it possibly get any worse than this report?”

“This new clan chief, this foreigner Jack Easterbrook, has the leadership of another clan. I’ve gotten reliable reports that he’s now in charge of the Numratha as well. As you know, Yusef of the Numratha had a blood alliance with Adulis.”

“And yet, he still was not part of our plan. The Numratha weren’t purchasing our slaves as part of the deal so who their clan chief is makes no matter to us. Why is this bad for us?”

Berimund pursed his lips. “This Easterbrook is causing a disturbance over a good portion of the country. I have information that he’s been pursued by many clans now that he has the leadership of two. As you know, the Andalucians are fickle about having one man leading multiple clans.”

“Do you think these disturbances could upset the rest of our markets? Could they disturb the money coming in from the rest of the clans?”

“I believe so. Two other clans that we have deals with, the Cethusa and the Turvada, are becoming involved in the pursuit. I’ve heard that the high clan king has issued a declaration against this man and his clans so that the entire might of Andalucia will unite to destroy him. Supposedly his fate is to be enslaved.”

“All the better for us then,” said Adalbert. “He’ll be a temporary disruption until all the clans remove him and then things will go back to normal.”

“It gives me concern, sir,” said Berimund. “There was something off about this man. Something about him. He’s not an ordinary man. I couldn’t put my finger on it. He travels with Galicians though.”

“Blonde assholes,” snarled Adalbert.

“Truly, but to me this is a mark of something bigger going on. I don’t think this is limited to just Andalucia. Despite the odds being against him, he has managed to unite two clans, something that is forbidden by Andalucian law. It would be unwise to treat him lightly.”

“So you believe this man to be guided by the fates, hmm?” said Adalbert. “If that’s the case, what do you suggest?”

“This man is too dangerous to be left alive. With your permission, and the permission of our lord, I’d like to travel to the court of the high clan king and make a motion for him to kill this man as soon as possible, by my own hand if necessary,” said Berimund. “I believe him to be too dangerous to be left alive.”

Adalbert rubbed his chin while he contemplated that motion. “It sounds like they are already doing that. Are they not liable to kill him when they catch up to him?”

“I don’t think they’ll kill him. They’ll enslave him, in which case he’d still be alive and still dangerous. This man needs a knife between the ribs. Vertulis has been good for our part of the arrangement. If he knows that Lord Avila wishes this man dead, it will help give us leverage.”

Adalbert tapped a finger against his desk. His face studied Berimund’s while he thought about his decision. “Very well, Berimund. If you think this man is enough of a threat to what we’re doing here, you may go seek your audience with the king. Normally, I’d run this up the chain of command with my cousin but seeing as you have no clan to be an envoy with, I’m sure he’d approve.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Berimund with a deep bow. “I will get moving right away.”

“One thing before you leave though, Berimund. Get this done quickly. The loss of one clan to this arrangement is unfortunate. To lose all the clans is a calamity. We might all lose our heads if that’s the case. You’ve been granted something that usually doesn’t happen in our country—a second chance. Use it wisely.”

“Yes, sir. I will not stop until I’ve personally seen to it that Jack Easterbrook has drawn his last breath.”

There was endless darkness long before there was any hope for light. The feeling of being crushed consumed him, the cold hardness of the heavy stone treating his body like a plaything. Time meant nothing in the void, and consciousness fled only to return in brief waves of lucidity. It was his own form of purgatory.

But he was alive. That was one thing they couldn’t take from him. While he still drew breath, there was hope for retribution. For terror.

Bancroft had no idea how long he persisted under the rubble of the Admiralty. Nor did he have any idea on the number of dead and wounded. He barely clung to life, a persistent knocker on death’s door. Thankfully for him, no one answered.

At one point, he remembered being pulled from the rubble. Of a multitude of hands pressed against his now charcoal-gray, stained uniform. He had a brief notion of being carried until he passed out again, the flash of pain too violent for his senses to comprehend.

The next thing he knew, he was in the hospital. Sounds of organized chaos around him. A small, feminine face looking down upon his, blue eyes unblinking as she shined a light to ward away the darkness. He wondered for a brief moment what she would see looking back into his. Would she see the shadows? Would she see the tentative link that kept his heart beating?

“Give him more morphine. He’s still with us,” said the woman as she stepped away from the bed.

Yes. It’s not so easy to kill Percival Bancroft, he thought to himself. In the next moment, a rough hand grabbed his wrist, injecting the soothing liquid into his veins. A brief euphoria hit and then he was out again.

“Admiral Bancroft? Admiral Bancroft, can you hear me, sir?”

The admiral pushed away the darkness briefly as his eyes flicked open with heavy precaution. He squinted as soon as the first ray of light entering his vision, finding it blinding, painful to his long sedated eyes. Bancroft squirmed while he was able to, trying to get away from that awful source of pain, yet the bed wasn’t nearly as yielding as he’d hoped. There was nowhere to go.

“Admiral Bancroft?”

“I’m here. I’m alive,” he murmured as he hazarded a look once more. He didn’t recognize the face that greeted him, a man’s face in his early forties he suspected. A typical Javan face for that matter with his dark curls and eyes. At least he hadn’t woken in an Occitanian prison.

“You gave us all quite the scare, Admiral,” said the relieved orderly. “There were a few times there we thought we’d lost you.”

“Where am I?” he asked weakly.

“You’re in Belfort Military Hospital, sir. You’ve been here for over a week. Mostly out but in some moments, you were able to speak to us.”

Bancroft blinked several more times. “I’m not dead.” It was more a statement than a question.

The orderly smiled. “Thankfully so. The people are very grateful that their admiral is still with them. Even the emperor has detailed his best doctors to attend to you.”

“The emperor. Is he safe? What happened?” Bancroft attempted to sit up in bed, an uncoordinated move that sent pain up his spine.

The orderly motioned for him to remain prone. “All in due time, sir. There is much to catch you up on but now is not the time. We need you to rest. More importantly, we need you to heal.”

“Just tell me, have the Occitanians invaded? I need to know that to be able to rest,” begged Bancroft, grabbing the orderly’s sleeve before he could go.

The man shook his head gently. “Just a raid, sir. Thanks be to God, there are no Occitanian forces on our soil.”

Bancroft reclined into the bed and nodded his head glumly. Everything else could wait at that point. As long as there weren’t enemy forces nearby, he’d have time to catch up.

“I’m going to get you some water. We want to try to get you to drink something, okay, Admiral?”

Bancroft nodded weakly. “Am I going to get out of this bed someday? I’m not paralyzed, am I?”

The orderly shook his head. “Just a broken arm, some broken ribs, and a mighty concussion. All in all, you’re lucky to be alive. The entire Admiralty collapsed on itself. We’re guessing you shielded the rest of your body with your broken arm, but the fall and the weight of the stonework above you is what caused the concussion and the damage to your ribs.”

“What about Clark? Is Clark still alive?” asked Bancroft. “He’s my deputy, and he would have been in the same room as me when it came down.”

“Rear Admiral Jason Clark? Yes, sir, he’s still alive. In a similar shape as you are, but he’s been awake for days now,” said the orderly. “I’m sure he’ll be relieved to see that you pulled through as well.”

“Good,” answered Bancroft before he relaxed into the bed. “At least Clark made it out in one piece too.”

“You were some of the lucky ones, sir. There’s a whole host of the dead, and that’s just from the Admiralty alone. That wasn’t the only building hit either. They got several houses, a school, and our main polonium refinery. I’m afraid prices on that last item have already skyrocketed, but it was a costly raid for all of us. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be wanting some rest. I’ll arrange for you to have some privacy for now. Let me just bring you that water, and then you can continue with your rest.”

“All right,” said Bancroft weakly as the orderly soon disappeared from the room. He looked around, taking in his surroundings for the first time. It was a small room but at least it was all his. The walls were painted a dull, mustard yellow, and the main table with all of the supplies was made entirely of metal. It was a sterile environment that smelled like death. At least it wasn’t his own that he was smelling.

Bancroft never saw the orderly come back in with the water. Sleep overtook him soon after, his eyelids heavy with stress. All too soon, he was back in the land of dreams.

The days that followed his awakening weren’t nearly as bad as that first week where he spent most of it in darkness. By the third day, Bancroft was sitting upright, nursing his broken arm and using a generous amount of pillows under his back to take the pressure off his ribs. Yet, he was conscious and able to get a grip on the nature of the attack.

It appeared the raid on the Javan capital was quid pro quo for their earlier raid on Montauban, the Occitanian center of government. Luckily for them, the Javans had only lost a handful of buildings and people in the retribution. Their own raid on the Occitanians at least had them lose a handful of warships. He could count it as a victory, no matter how small in comparison.

That particular afternoon, Bancroft was already back to work getting a series of dispatches from the makeshift Admiralty that had been relocated to an underutilized wing of the imperial palace. He hoped such arrangements would only be temporary, not entirely liking the fact that he was now closer to being under the emperor’s thumb, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

At least Clark was up and running again. Bancroft had a very real moment of fear at the thought of his loyal deputy not surviving the attack. Yet Clark’s easy grin couldn’t be tempered by a few tons of stonework falling around him. The man was able to hobble his way into Bancroft’s room, taking up his prior duties like nothing had happened. You couldn’t easily replace a man like Clark. Loyalty that deep couldn’t be bought.

As Bancroft set another dispatch to the side, he saw Clark appear near the door, except that easy grin was missing from his face. Quite the opposite, he appeared ashen-faced, a sweat already noticeable on his brow.

“What is it, Clark?” asked Bancroft. “What’s the problem?”

“Sir, you have a visitor. The Crown Prince is here to see you,” said Clark in a near whisper.

Bancroft gulped heavily. What in the world would the crown prince want to see him for? Crown Prince George was nearly identical to his father, Charles. Cut from the same cloth, the early-thirties crown prince was just as corpulent and just as slovenly. However, there was one distinction between the two that Bancroft had detected over the years—George wasn’t nearly as stupid as his father. While Charles relied upon the authority of his throne to force his will, George didn’t have the same power. For that reason, when he engaged in intrigue, he was forced to use his mind to get the results he wanted. The end result was that George was a much more formidable adversary than his father.

The other matter that gave Bancroft pause was why would George want to talk with him? They almost never ran in the same circles, and the interest of the crown prince was always heavily rooted in the army. There were no councils on which they shared a seat together, and for the longest time, Bancroft only saw George at royal functions. Why he would be calling on him was still a mystery that he couldn’t decipher.

“Send him in,” Bancroft said finally. Clark nodded and disappeared behind the door while Bancroft pushed several of his notes aside. He wanted to give George his full attention, without the distraction of the dispatches on the nearby table.

Usually for royal presentations and parades, the crown prince’s arrival was marked by the sounds of trumpets or streams of ribbons being tossed into the air. In the military hospital, it was much less pronounced, and George waddled his way into the suite without any fanfare. He was dressed in a deep blue doublet, marked with a sash that ran diagonally from one shoulder to the waist on the opposite side of the body. Bancroft didn’t recognize the host of medals adorned to the man’s chest, a sure sign that they were army medals, not navy.

The thing that worried Bancroft most about seeing George was the look in the man’s eyes. A quiet confidence, a feeling that he knew more than he was letting on. It was disconcerting to see such a look right from the start, and it made Bancroft’s nerves flutter.

“Admiral Bancroft, you gave us all quite a scare,” said George as he rested his hand on the railing of the bed. “We thought we lost you for a moment there.”

“Thankfully for our people, God didn’t see fit to bring me home to his kingdom just yet, Your Imperial Highness,” said Bancroft with a false sense of piety.

Thankfully, George bowed his head slightly. “A blessing for the Javan people truly. Are you well? The doctors have kept us up to speed with your progress but nothing would make us more confident than to hear the words directly from you.”

Bancroft nodded. “Every day has been better than the last. The first day was pure hell—not knowing what was going on or if I was dead or alive. But I’m progressing. At least, that’s what they tell me. I don’t think this broken arm is going to heal quickly though.” Bancroft gestured to the sling that kept his arm tucked against his body.

George’s eyes locked on it. “Fortune has favored you then to only have the broken arm. Many of our people died in that attack. My father and I are glad that it wasn’t you amongst the dead.”

“As am I glad to still be among the living. Tell me, how is His Imperial Majesty? I trust he is well?”

“As well as can be, and he’s very much looking forward to the day that his number one naval leader can get fully back to his post,” said George with a serious look.

“I’ve made arrangements to move me to the palace within the next day so I can begin working in an office again,” said Bancroft. “If the temporary headquarters of the Admiralty will be there, then that’s where I’m needed.”

“Good,” said George with a subtle nod. “Father will be delighted to hear that.”

“Have we been able to launch a response on the Occitanians for their attack?” asked Bancroft before gesturing to his dispatches. “Nothing that’s been given to me seems to indicate a plan for reprisals.”

George shook his head. “Nothing of the sort has been planned. At the moment, all resources are being poured into the land forces for a possible invasion. Father does not wish to strike back using the navy.”

Bancroft’s mouth dropped open. “But surely that is the right thing to do, Your Highness? What other purpose are our steel bulwarks if not to defend our shores?”

George raised his chin. “Father believes our best defense is with the infantry. And I fully agree.”

Bancroft held his gaze on the fat prince for a moment without responding. It wasn’t an answer that surprised him. After all, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree when it came to the crown prince, and he’d seen first hand what the emperor thought of prioritizing the navy. Yet part of him hoped that the small amount of sense that George had, which his father lacked, might persuade him to be useful to his purposes. Unfortunately, the crown prince’s will was at odds with his own.

Bancroft’s assumed piety took hold once again. He bowed his head gracefully. “The emperor knows best. Truly a father to all of us in spirit if not in blood. We’ll do all we can with the limited resources at our disposal.” Bancroft chose the last words as a subtle dig at the sovereign. Limited resources was like calling a skinny pig a feast.

“I’m told that it’s not all as glum as it sounds though, Admiral,” said George with a slight sneer. “I hear your men won a victory out by Quiller’s Cove. The sinking of an Occitanian battleship. It seems you can make do with limited resources.”

Bancroft smiled. “We can always expect the forces of the Imperial Navy to do their utmost. That was an impressive victory because we won it despite being outnumbered and outgunned. The commander-in-chief of the task force, Rear Admiral Reynolds, is a talented officer.”

“Yes, he is. And what of your other man? The one in the Fourth Vector? Jack Easterbrook? What is his status?”

“He has gained us an alliance for use against the Occitanians,” said Bancroft with a stiff upper lip. “We can now count the land of Sorella as our foremost allies.”

George started to chuckle. “As you say. Just don’t ask anyone to find them on a map as I’m sure we’d all fail.”

Bancroft’s cheek flinched. “Commander Easterbrook’s mission is proceeding according to plan. As we speak, he’s on his way to another land where he’s confident in securing another alliance. Soon enough, we will have enough reinforcements to help us overcome our traditional enemies.”

“Not a moment too soon will it be, especially after the State Department received this just yesterday,” said George as he procured a dispatch from his pocket. He handed it to Bancroft, and the admiral quickly scanned its contents.

“From the Ruthenians,” gawked Bancroft. “Why, they are seeking to register a complaint about our fishermen poaching in their territorial waters. There are no Javans anywhere close to Ruthenian territory.”

“No, there are not,” answered George. “But this was expected one way or another. The Ruthenians are hoping to capitalize on our situation while our backs are turned dealing with the Occies. This is the first move. There will be other diplomatic complaints brought in soon in the coming weeks, I’m sure. All of them will escalate until they declare war. They wanted to wait until the Occitanians had our full attention before they plunged the dagger in our backs.”

“They picked the most opportune time to do so. We have our hands full already,” whispered Bancroft. “I don’t think we can fight both of them at the same time.”

“No, we will be crushed if we do. Which means we must put a speedy end to this war. That’s why the army gets priority right now, Admiral. And that is why we mustn’t have any distractions from that priority.” George gave him a knowing look, punctuated by a sneer that made Bancroft noticeably uncomfortable.

“No distractions,” agreed Bancroft, hoping to turn the conversation away from the course it was heading. He was largely unsuccessful when George produced another dispatch from behind his back.

“Good, then we won’t have any more mistakes like this one, will we?” asked George before depositing it in Bancroft’s lap. The admiral paled instantly as soon as he saw which one it was, recognizing it as the order where he prioritized a shipment of steel to the ship manufacturers over the transport of the emperor’s troops.

“This was a most unfortunate mistake that came out of the Admiralty,” said George with a subtle tsk-tsk. “Because of this very order, a whole division was delayed a week from meeting at its assembly point while an entire trainload of steel was sent to the west coast manufacturers. As you know, Admiral, we don’t need ships right now. We need soldiers. I’m curious how this mistake must have passed through your department without being corrected.”

Bancroft hazarded a glance at the man, holding his look without flinching. He’d have to settle on the right lie, made even more difficult by keeping the gaze of the man he was lying to. Bancroft knew if his lie was discovered, he could lose his head over it. “It must have been one of the lower officers. Such a mistake like this could only have originated there knowing the emperor’s priorities.”

George sneered before he reached out to crumple the order. “As you say. You’ll just have to make sure your officers don’t get any further ideas about usurping my father’s authority. Or they will be put in their place.” He then leaned in closer to Bancroft. “Will you make sure that message is given to your entire department?”

It was clear that George knew the true author of the order, and he was now just toying with Bancroft. There was no doubt in his tone that the message was meant for him. The only question was if George knew, who else did? Could the emperor already know too?

“Of course, Your Highness,” said Bancroft in a low voice. “I will make sure they are educated in proper protocol.”

“Excellent,” said George before leaning back away from him. “I knew I could count on you, Admiral.”

“Who else has seen the mistaken order? Has anyone else gotten wind of it?”

George started to chuckle. “As luck should have it, I’m the only one that has seen this malfeasance. If you can promise me that this will be the last time, I see no reason to tell father about this. You and I both know the kind of stresses he’s under right now, and he doesn’t need to hear about treason within his own navy. Don’t you agree?”

“Very much so,” said Bancroft. “I think that’s a wise course.”

“I knew you’d agree,” sneered George. “This is why you’re the top man in the whole department, Bancroft. You’ve got a head on your shoulders and something tells me,” he said while leaning in and losing the sneer, “you’d like to keep it there.”

There were only so many veiled threats he could take in one day, especially from someone like the crown prince. Bancroft nearly snapped. “Is that a threat?”

“No, Admiral. It’s merely a statement of fact,” said George as he began to step away from the bed. “A simple fact. After all, you’ve worked so hard to stay in the world of the living that why make it all for nothing? You’re a smart man, Admiral. Some would say you’re too smart. However, I think it’s long past time that you and I came to our own arrangement.”

“And that arrangement is?” seethed Bancroft.

“That you now owe me. And one day, I will come to collect. Remember your place, Admiral. You do not run this government, and your voice is one of hundreds that decides the course of this country. Don’t mistake your place as head of one department as the head of the entire Javan people. Greater men than you made the same mistake and paid for it with their lives. Don’t be one of them.”

“I’m fortunate then to have you here to tutor me on the nature of mistakes,” said Bancroft acidly. “I’m grateful you decided to see me today.”