Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(30)
Only recently had Meksnaak figured out exactly why she’d gone in the first place, why she’d chosen East over West, and specifically why she left him, of all people, in charge. The last was easy; because he was so committed to her and hated her absence so much, he was the perfect person to be her steward in the Filpin Lands. The clan councils couldn’t object, nor did they dare defy him as they might once have challenged her because of her age. For the same reason, her presence in the East was useful to the war effort there because he couldn’t refuse anything she or the allies protecting her asked of him. It was terribly unfair, of course, to use his loyalty so, but at the same time, deep down, he couldn’t help feeling a measure of pride in her for how well she was manipulating him. His high chief, still hardly more than a youngling in years, had grown up most agreeably equipped to lead her people—if she could only manage to survive.
He and his guards neared a group of men and ’Cats who’d obviously just arrived on the big, four-engine, weather-beaten Clipper. The flying boat’s hot engines ticked as they cooled after the long flight from Respite Island, and lizardbirds swarmed and skirmished along the leading edges of its wings, feeding on dead insects. The visitors noticed his approach and smiled wearily. He could tell that much as well, he noted; the body language of fatigue was also universal. One of the men, a very large one, in Meksnaak’s estimation, with the huge tuft of upper-lip fur so common among Imperials, but with only one arm, advanced toward him, holding out his hand.
Oh, by the Heavens! Meksnaak thought with dread. He wants to do that thing they do . . . shake hands, I believe. How can I avoid touching him without seeming rude? Saan-Kakja had been quite clear that she’d never tolerate rudeness toward their allies. He stopped several paces away and raised his own hand, palm out, in the sign of the empty hand. That almost-universal greeting among the people had diminished in use, probably because so many went about armed all the time. Another fundamental cultural change, he thought bitterly. Unless perhaps it has only temporarily faded due to a sense of hypocrisy among those who refrain, he reflected. The big man stopped as well, as did his companions, and all raised their hands in return. Quite ridiculous, Meksnaak grumped. Most are obviously armed with something. A blade at least. Then again, there are my guards. Perhaps I am being hypocritical?
“Lord Meksnaak!” the big one boomed. “I’m glad indeed ta’ make yer acquaintance at last.”
“Sir Sean Bates, prime factor and chief advisor to the Governor-Empress, Lord,” Meksnaak’s assistant whispered in his ear. “Your, ah, counterpart in their government, as he has been left to rule in her stead as well.”
“I know who he is,” Meksnaak hissed back. “They said he was coming!” He looked to the delegation and switched to English. “Welcome, Sir Sean, to Maa-ni-la. Welcome to you all,” he said, managing to keep his tone cordial. “Sadly, you will never see my city as it once was, but I hope you enjoy your stay regardless. There remain a few distinctive diversions, and the martial activities at the Advanced Training Center on the far side of the bay must rival those at Baalkpan, though I’ve never seen the other. This is my foreign advisor, Heraad-Naar. I assume he is the one most of you are here to see?”
Sean Bates grinned. “Not at all, though he’s the one most’ll end up with, no doubt. Yet our priority is ta thank ye, yer city, yer state, an’ yer nation for yer commitment ta the cause.” His grin turned to a knowing smile. “The Governor-Empress an’ yer own dear Saan-Kakja herself both said ye were a prickly one, opposed to what we do. Yet that only makes me gratitude to ye personally all the more profound.”
Meksnaak was taken aback, both by the boldness of the statement and the apparent sincerity of the compliment. “Indeed,” he said, with a creeping trace of genuine warmth. “But since we’re being so forthright, so quickly, let me ask the question foremost in my mind: Why else are you here, aside from a desire to extend your gratitude? In short, what do you want now?”
Sean grinned broadly again. “Can we nae at least refresh ourselves an’ have a drink, er even a wee morsel, before we get down ta business?”
Meksnaak actually barked a spontaneous laugh, completely astonishing everyone, particularly himself. He’d heard Bates was an engaging man, but he’d never instinctively liked any human on sight. He was uncomfortably suspicious that might be the case in this instance. He quickly controlled himself, however, and gestured toward the city, and the great hall at its heart. “Of course,” he said, a genuine smile touching the lips still tight across his teeth. “Forgive me. And to think I was once the one most given to promoting delay when it comes to getting to the point!”
? ? ?
If Maa-ni-la had been destroyed, in Meksnaak’s estimation, a theme he harped on as they wove their way through busy workers and mooing paalkas pulling heavy carts all the way through the factory districts, at least the Great Hall had been preserved. For one thing, it hadn’t been burned to the ground around the sacred Galla tree it encompassed as the one at Baalkpan had. And apparently, all the new offices required by the burgeoning industrial and military power of the state had been erected elsewhere and not allowed to intrude. Sean Bates (as the fugitive Sean O’Casey) had seen the Great Hall of Baalkpan in all its glory, and this one gave him a powerful sense of déjà vu. The tree, barely two hundred feet tall, was not quite as large, but, then, Maa-ni-la was a younger city. And the hall itself, massive and high, with a broad porch wrapping completely around, might’ve been transported directly from that older city and earlier time. And it brought back other memories. True, he’d been a fugitive of sorts from the Honorable New Britain Company and forces striving to supplant the throne, and a great battle had been looming that no one seriously thought they’d survive, but it had been a simpler time as well. He’d been just Sean O’Casey, a one-armed but quite capable protector of then Princess Rebecca, before she’d endured all the torment to come and accepted the mantle of Governor-Empress of a nation at war. He and Meksnaak were sitting on comfortable cushions on the west side of the hall, watching the sun descend toward the distant isle of Corregidor across the bay. Both drank nectar from large tankards, though Bates had flavored his with rum from a flask in his weskit pocket. Meksnaak had reverted to his earlier reserve to a degree, as they waited for a meal to be brought to them. Sean sighed deeply.