THE LONG RETREAT

by Robert Reed

* * * *

Robert Reed jokes that “I adore good thought problems. When my daughter wakes me from a perfectly good sleep, I’ll say, ‘Leave me alone, honey. Daddy’s working on a thought problem.’ Then I’ll ask myself important questions, like: What if every sofa in the world grew six inches longer? What if cats made agreeable pillows, instead of people being disagreeable pillows for cats? And what if there was a world so large that you never needed to stop running away from your problems?”
Perhaps this new story grew out of that last thought problem. But probably not.

The beach is made of white sand and fine black mud, but the blood is what catches the eye—red and clotted, the largest splotches connected to severed limbs and the soggy, deflated remains of other men’s vitals. Immune to the carnage, our Emperor walks slowly down to the water and half-falls, half-sits, and then slumps forward, fighting to catch His breath. Moments such as these are rare and ruled by exhaustion. Soldiers wearing our colors died at this place, yet no one asks about the units involved or the names of lost officers. All that matters is this delicious opportunity to do very little. If the great man rests, His court is free to do the same. Even the busiest of us sit while accomplishing our work, conferring quietly, using yesterday’s maps and each other’s friable memories to determine what our next step should be, assuming that we ever possess enough energy to move again.

Only the best ideas are presented to the Emperor. Or rather, to His long-serving assistant.

I am that man, officious and loyal Lieutenant Castor.

In sober, fearful voices, staff officers inform me that fleeing east along the lakeshore is impossible. Last night our enemies surrounded Jicktown, and even though reports claim that the redoubts are holding, we know better. Trapped men always lie, hoping for salvation. Our scarce, badly equipped reinforcements have been dispatched to places less doomed. Most pushed west, marshaling for a weak counterattack. But great fires are now burning in the west, columns of dense black smoke rising high up in the morning air. When the breeze allows, we can smell the new ash and hear the soft cough of enemy howitzers. Yet despite such bleak evidence, several officers insist that following our doomed legions is the only viable route. These are generals and high colonels, and I am nothing compared to them. Yet they speak in imploring tones, hoping I will listen, praying that this lowly lieutenant will agree with their assessments. Because no decision has value if the Emperor decides otherwise, and that is why my superiors treat me as special, hoping my voice will find a skillful way to offer up these urgent, critical opinions for His judgment.

Better than anyone, I understand the great man.

Perhaps better than He knows Himself, say the whispers and long, openly envious looks.

I finally stand and go to Him, saying, “Sire,” while bending low. “Perhaps we should strike out toward Illig.”

The Emperor will always be handsome, but little sleep and a miserable diet have degraded His chiseled features. Like all of us, He needs hot water and soap. But His situation is worse than simple filth. I smell urine. I smell feces. Not for the first time, I wonder about His health. He has been demanding privacy and a toilet, which is odd considering how little there is to eat. It occurs to me that our leader must have soiled Himself: a small problem with obvious solutions. I could approach any officer, demanding clothes for our master. To the man, they would fight for the privilege of serving Him. Yet I decide to ignore the stink. The Emperor is also a creature of supreme dignity, and what leader, no matter how dire the circumstances, accepts spare underwear from His people?

These are my thoughts when He looks up suddenly, as if hearing my thoughts.

We are a miserable lot. But despite every deprivation, the great man is aware enough to ask, “What about the Owl Division?”

“Our Owls or theirs, Sire?”

Both armies like to name their crack formations after admirable predators. But we lost our Owls, as he reminds me. “They were broken last week,” He says, leaning near enough that I can see every white whisker as well as the artful scar inflicted in an adolescent knife fight. “Right now, their Owls are just past that foul smoke, pushing between Gothemburg and Illig. But if we hurry, we might just slide past unnoticed. If we leave right now.”

How does He know this? I haven’t seen any trustworthy intelligence to support that claim. But as I remind myself, no one else has access to every dispatch, including those too terrible to share.

“If we leave now?” I ask doubtfully.

A soft, sorry laugh leaks out of Him. “No, now is too late. Our moment just slipped past, unnoticed. Sorry.”

As the war worsens, His humor sharpens.

On my own initiative, I say, “Perhaps we should steer north again. Slip past the slower troops and back into the Dale Grand?”

He dismisses that idea with a single deep grunt.

My knees ache. I sit directly on the beach, glancing at the nearest officers. Then one of them—a girlish young fellow with yellow-white hair, chimes in, “We could strike out across the lake, maybe.”

The idea isn’t new. Each of us has considered the possibility, and for endless fine reasons dismissed it out of hand.

But the great man straightens His back, smiling now.

“Yes,” He announces. “Exactly.”

Because the question must be asked, I blurt out, “But how do we do this? We’ll need quite a few boats and enough fuel, if everyone is to come.”

How many boats? How many drums of diesel? Even as I deny the possibility, my methodical nature spells out the enormous, probably insolvable difficulties with this kind of undertaking. We have been traveling for months now with trucks and lighter vehicles, and our feet still enjoy clomping about in worthy boots. To become a navy here, on a whim, seems like the wildest dream.

Then the girlish man says, “I know a little bay, very close.”

Only our Emperor considers this unexpected source of hope. No one else is desperate enough.

“A bay, you say?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The man kneels and bends forward, kissing blood and mud. “I grew up not far from here. That bay has a big village, and the village has always made its living fishing these waters. These are thrifty people, and pragmatic. Exactly the sort to hide away fuel in tight times and keep their strong little boats in good repair.”

“How little are the boats?” I ask.

The fellow blinks and says, “Pardon?”

Our leader has a deep, irresistible voice known across the world. “Suppose we acquire everything that floats. How many boats, and how many of us will be able to slide off across that water today?”

The officer calculates, or at least pretends to. “Seven boats, I would guess.”

He must be exaggerating.

“We can take maybe eight people per vessel, plus pilots.”

This news devastates. There are more than a hundred of us in the Emperor’s court, and we have been this way for a very long time. Despite casualties and constant illness, our group has endured, additions matching losses, a small but robust gathering of talents serving as the center of our glorious if badly damaged nation.

The great man stands. Never as tall as I imagine, He is impressive nonetheless. Swaying slightly, not quite certain about His balance, He speaks with a secure, robust voice. “That’s what we will do,” He announces. “Act on my orders this moment, and spare nothing to make me glad.”

I want nothing as much as His praise and a flash of that admiring grin. Even when I know the prospects are lousy, I want to believe that He will pat me on a shoulder and thank me for my selfless service.

But it is the youngster, this upstart, who begs for that coveted pat.

“Every boat, every drop of fuel,” the Emperor demands. Speaking to His new favorite, He orders, “Whatever method is best to achieve these prizes. If patriotism fails, chop off heads. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Take who you need and add three tough bodies, just to be safe.” Then He turns, teasing me with a half-wink and adding, “You’ll remain beside me, Castor.”

I want to cry, and I’m not certain why.

After glancing across the flat oily water, He asks, “How many islands do we have to choose from, Lieutenant?”

Many, I have heard. But I confess that I have no idea of the count.

And with a deep laugh, He says, “Perfect, son. Just perfect!”

* * * *

One of the old map boxes, sealed for years and laboriously carried to this nameless place, is cracked open and its contents are pulled free, the most useful maps unfolded and scattered on small tables. Places that I have never seen fill the enormous sheets of paper. Islands beckon. The largest splotches of gray are substantial and usually quite distant. The smallest dots are nameless, riding on the white lake water without towns and little hope of habitable quarters. But there are several land masses not too far offshore, some with vaguely familiar names and little cities that intrigue Him and then His staff. Distances are measured, travel times estimated. We feel busy as well as important, and that is when the war intervenes. One of the Long-Arm guns has been fired—a gigantic cannon that was dragged in pieces to a hillside, then assembled and loaded in an operation that takes a thousand men several busy days. The weapon is malevolent and loathed because of it. No warning roar cuts through the air, no sense of impending doom. All at once, an enormous shell explodes above the beach perhaps a quarter league to the east, many tons of explosive turning to noise and hot gas, driving steel balls across the muck and smoke-infused water.

Four men fling themselves over our leader’s body.

I am first on top and untouched by the steel, and jubilant because of it.

It is a brief, bracing terror, and as often happens in moments like this, what follows is peace and a sense of renewed security. Most likely, this was a random shot. And even if the enemy knows our location, we are safe for the time being. The Long-Arm is inaccurate and very slow to fire—an instrument of terror designed by engineers and touted by pudgy generals sitting in distant quarters. If this is their best means to kill us, then we might as well drop our trousers and wave our bare asses at the fangless bastards.

The euphoria lasts several minutes. And then the boats arrive.

I count three boats, no more.

Standing on a chair, the Emperor counts six but admits that only three are lake-worthy, each towing a small skiff in its wake.

The girlish man stands on the lead boat, on the bow, looking grim-faced until he is close and then putting on a false smile that makes me want to laugh out loud. Three boats, is it? And tiny ones at that!

In his absence, I asked for his name.

Captain Rake—the last known survivor of the infamous Ocelot Brigade. He joined us just two weeks ago, after one of our resident generals took him in as a second-tier assistant.

By name, I call to Rake. He flings a heavy rope in my direction, his burly arm powerful enough to bring it within a few strides of shore. But I refuse to retrieve the offering. A colonel, rather less proud than me, wades in to his waist and brings back the prize. Rake orders the motor killed, presumably to save fuel, and then like a small king, he waits while his superiors tow the filthy old fishing boat to the beach.

“We can carry six,” he begins, referring to his craft. “Seven, including the pilot. And I can do that job well enough.”

“What about the skiffs?” I ask.

“Eight more bodies in each. Though it’ll be a cold, wet ride, particularly if we push our pace.”

The Emperor studies each vessel. Then with an expertise that I didn’t suspect, he points out, “That little trout-chaser there...she looks faster than these other two, am I right?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Rake admits.

“Are any more boats coming?” I ask.

Rake shakes his head. “This is all that was left.”

No one speaks, waiting for an opinion from Him.

Then, to give the rest of the group hope, Rake adds, “There’s a second bay farther along. Not a place for fishermen, but it used to have vacation homes and quite a few sporting boats.”

Tiny craft short of fuel, but I keep my opinions to myself.

“The rest of you could go to that second bay,” the captain suggests. “Take what you need there and follow us later.”

He says, “You” and “Us” because he can’t imagine being left behind. An obvious plotter with all the cunning of an eight-year-old boy, and I can only hope that the Emperor will pick another pilot for the next portion of our retreat.

“So how many can that trout-chaser carry?” the Emperor inquires.

“Four, and some luggage if you don’t mind the crowding,” Rake admits. “Plus the pilot, of course.”

“Can you handle that powerful machine?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Easily, yes.”

I hear the mistruth in the voice and wait for the Emperor’s wrath. Yet the great man startles me, fooled by this sloppy act, accepting every promise that is being thrown His way.

Nodding, He says, “Fine. Wonderful.”

He turns toward the rest of us. “Field Marshall Zann stays with me. With my luggage and the crowns and our two strongest radios. And I want General Hawthorne too. And...”

He hesitates.

I die, for an instant.

“And Castor, of course.”

Of course, yes. I try not to sigh but can’t help myself, and I fight the urge to laugh in relief, succeeding only by the barest of margins.

“The maps will be carried on my skiff,” the Emperor continues, plainly having thought these matters through. Then, to frame that decision in the kindest light, He adds, “We’ll be moving fast, and it wouldn’t be fair, drowning my loyal team in my wake.”

Heads nod weakly in agreement.

With neat efficiency, He decides who rides in the remaining two boats, those not mentioned now forced to find other means to cross open water. Then lifting one of the maps, he says, “We’ll rendezvous here,” and points at a circular island waiting twenty leagues offshore. “Called Marvel, by the looks of it. And what a rich, perfect name that is!”

Loading the Emperor’s boat is the first concern, and that honor is carried out with rushed efficiency. Those to be left behind work fastest. No doubt they want us gone so their self-centered hunt for suitable vessels can begin. I don’t blame them. In their place, I might do the same. But when they begin tossing the sealed boxes into our skiff, I approach and stare until the captain in charge says, “Neater, men. Neater.”

Field Marshall Zann has already claimed the seat behind the pilot, its empty partner reserved for Him.

The Emperor will be last onboard. Despite our desperate circumstances, He lingers for a few moments, giving orders to one general and repeating those words to another. What matters is this final opportunity to be saluted and knelt before. What He relishes are these tiny gestures of affection from people who might be dead by nightfall, or wish they were.

I sit beside Rake, noticing as he studies the helm a little too intently.

“You say you can handle this machine?” I ask.

He says, “Absolutely.” But then he glances at me—a liar’s gesture to see if his audience believes what it just heard.

At last the Emperor steps into the cold surf, grimacing as the water climbs to His knees. His shock betrays much; weakness rises from His core. Accepting one of General Hawthorne’s hands, He fights just to climb over the low railing and then collapses on the deck. His skin is gray, every muscle limp. This deep lack of vigor perplexes Him. But worse, his sickness terrifies us. Zann and Hawthorne even trade glances, using their eyes to pose the same awful question:

“What if He should die?”

He won’t die. He cannot. My certainty is sudden, reflexive and primal. Yet I struggle to find good reasons to hold onto these instinctive beliefs. A greater-than-mortal master, the Emperor is wise and powerful in a multitude of ways. During these awful years, He has survived ambushes and miserable luck. Worse abuse than illness has rained down on his body and soul, yet hasn’t He always come away grinning? But remembering that grin, I try to recall how long it has been since that weary face lit up the world with its joy.

The past is no guide for the future. Circumstances change, and while history is endless, someday this Emperor will pass. His health is lousy. But just as terrible is my own foolishness, unable to imagine an existence where this man does not stand astride our great nation.

“Drive this damned boat,” Hawthorne yells.

Rake turns and pushes at the throttle, the boat’s twin engines shivering as they press against the lake water. We accelerate quickly—faster than our pilot intends, no doubt—and the beached skiff feels the yank of the rope and fights the pressure until it has no choice but to turn and follow.

“Careful with the maps,” Zann snaps at the pilot.

Rake says nothing. But the skiff almost capsized, and he shudders and shrinks down a little, considering the consequences of that nightmare.

For some while, we say nothing. Spent and reflective, we are thrilled with our escape but too ashamed to admit it. I watch the land recede. Men are running, making ready in their mad fashions, but faces vanish quickly and then the uniformed bodies are soon lost as well. Nothing remains of the beach but a narrow gray line where water meets land, and moments later the beach too is swallowed.

The Emperor remains sitting on the tiny deck. Joking, He claims that the heat and vibrations of the engines help the ailing body.

Hawthorne looks at me, perhaps wondering if I’d like to take my turn caring for our leader.

I surprise myself, allowing him that grave honor.

What matters is watching Rake handle the boat’s wheel and the long brass throttle, and how he reads the map and both compasses, and his method of aiming at the waves that continue to roll toward us. Boats are simpler than trucks, it seems. But I tell myself that I could master this job well enough, if design or an emergency placed me in his seat.

Something moves behind me. The general suddenly throws a steel pail into the lake, clinging to the rope and bringing it up full. Half is poured back. The other half is given a shot of detergent—the harsh brand normally used to wash fish scales off raw hands. But his intention is to soak rags and wipe down the Emperor’s face and arms and hands, sounding like the father of a very important boy, saying, “Now look up, Sire. Higher, please. I want that neck a little less grimy, Sire.”

Unnoticed by me, the land has vanished. Behind us is nothing but water and the enslaved skiff. I watch the latter for a little while, trying to anticipate its shifting, almost carefree motions. Then a thought suddenly strikes. Or rather, I remember its presence. More than once, this odd matter has brought me out of the deepest sleep, and for hours I have lain awake, helplessly trying to pick apart the conundrum.

Zann is the perfect audience, and an occasion this ripe will probably never come again.

Leaning over my seat, trying to speak just loud enough for one man to hear, I ask, “When does this change?”

“Change?”

“The war’s nature,” I say. “Its plan, its course.”

“Change how?” Zann is a brilliant, perceptive man. A good military mind with twice as many soldiers wouldn’t have accomplished the miracles that he has. But what seems obvious to me is a mystery to him. Shaking his head, he admits, “I don’t know what you mean, son. What about the war is going to change?”

I lean closer. Through the throb of the engines, I shout, “When do we stop retreating?”

He looks baffled.

Hawthorne stares at both of us. Did he hear what he thinks he heard? He wants to know, but the Emperor has just unfastened His black dress jacket, exposing a rib-rich chest more suited to a plucked bird.

“Stop retreating?” Zann repeats.

Rake glances my way, implying that the same sorry problem has also occurred to him.

“You think this is a retreat, Castor? Is that it?”

We never use such an explicit term, no. “Except I can’t remember the last battle won,” I say. “We lose divisions, entire armies. The enemy rolls deeper into our country, until the Emperor has to abandon His estate and flee.”

“But there is a difference between retreat and a simple redeployment,” Zann warns. “Between losing ground and surrendering the war.”

I say, “Yes, sir.”

He fumes.

“There are matters that I don’t understand,” I admit. “I’m just one person, and certainly not half as smart as a field marshal—”

“You’re a small man,” Zann snaps.

Not physically, no. But I accept his criticism without complaint.

Yet I haven’t understood him. With a firm tone, he explains, “Everybody is small, Castor. Even the Emperor is just a tiny creature compared to the enormity of our good nation.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Now I’m going to ask you one question.” He leans forward, gray eyes burning. “Do you know how large our nation is?”

“Of course not, sir.”

“And why not?”

Embarrassed, I confess, “I’m only His assistant. And our nation’s precise dimensions are the deepest, deepest of secrets.”

“Who does know this?”

I glance at the sickly man on the deck.

“Not even Him,” Zann warns.

My surprise is total. And, overhearing the conversation, Rake jerks his head and then the wheel, causing the boat to swerve sideways across the open water.

The field marshal enjoys our mutual astonishment. “When the Emperor’s grandfather was still a young man,” he explains, “brave explorers were assembled, then sent forth to map the full extent of our empire. Armies cost less than that expedition, and for the next twenty years those exceptional souls pushed out in every direction, out to the fringes of what was known, and then past. And do you know what they discovered?”

“Not at all,” I mutter.

“No end to the cities and villages, to the lakes and seas and continents beyond. Elaborate, inadequate maps were drawn. Each map was made secret and stored inside the heavy boxes behind us, waiting for the awful moment when we would need such tools. Yet even our best cartographers managed only a partial mapping of one corner of the nation. It is that vast, and we are that tiny.”

“But the people,” I begin, trying to comprehend this logic. “Those distant souls in far-off cities and villages?”

“Our people.” Zann gestures over his shoulder. “His people.”

My mind refuses to understand.

“Our nation isn’t just endless, Castor. It’s also ancient beyond measure. And there has always been an emperor at its heart—this man’s ancestors, and before them, other family lines that are barely remembered. It is the Emperor and His court that maintain this culture of ours, a society that can endure the worst abuses imaginable.”

“But our enemies—”

“What about them?”

I don’t quite know what to ask.

So he asks for me. “How can our nation be endless, yet find itself invaded by others? Is that what you want to know?”

I nod, though I’m not sure that is my concern.

“Now that is a very good story, Castor.” He laughs sourly, shaking his gray face. “One thread of His grandfather’s expedition did manage to find an edge to the Emperor’s realm. There is an invisible but utterly real line, a kind of boundary or border, where our people do not live and the others begin.”

“Where?” I blurt.

He gestures over his shoulder with one hand, while the other hand thoughtfully strokes his ragged beard. “The truest particulars of this story have been lost. We don’t know who to blame or why. But what we believe happened is that our explorers met a similar team representing their realm, and standing at that border, somebody chose their words poorly, and that’s how this war was born.”

I have never heard this tale. Absorbing it will take time; I wish the field marshal would have pity and stop talking now.

“Do you understand? When your territory is boundless, retreat is an impossibility.”

I don’t find his logic convincing, and perhaps my body says as much.

Zann ignores all doubts. “Our most vital and secret maps show that critical border region. We know its length, Lieutenant Castor. We know how the land looks. Think of a flat, barren plain fifty leagues across, bracketed on both sides by mountains that cannot be climbed. That’s the only route between their lair and our good nation, and yes, maybe they are winning the battles today, and maybe that will continue for the next thousand years. But we are a different people. You recognize that, surely. We are one soul, and even though they can slaughter millions and billions, some of us will endure inside the conquered lands. Even as slaves and wolf packs, we will persist. No matter how many they murder, more of us will join even newer armies, giving back the miseries in kind. And that’s why their fight is hopeless. They throw their soldiers into punishing and securing what cannot be held. Their lines of communication grow precarious. The war front widens every season, demanding more and more from their armies. It is the invaders who are the fools, and even if we do nothing, this flood will eventually run out of blood.”

At last, Zann draws silent, satisfied with his performance.

An obvious question begs to be mentioned, but Rake says it first. He turns and offers a cursory, “Sir,” to gain his superior’s attention. Then he asks, “But what if the enemy is as numerous as we are? And what if their damnable nation is boundless too?”

“An infinite mouth, you mean? Large enough to consume any meal?” The field marshal grins, pretending to consider this thorny problem. But then he says, “Oh, that’s an easy one, boy. Remember that distant valley, fifty leagues across? I have seen reports: Our enemies have put down ten thousand pairs of rails at the border, troop trains running endlessly as they move into what is ours. Yet even with that, what is possible? One turn of the clock and a million armed soldiers charge forward. But what do those armies matter, set against a multitude that will swallow every foe, forever?”

* * * *

For the sake of my sanity, I have concluded that Rake is not my enemy. At least for this moment, we are partners in a great endeavor, and that’s why I ask about our engines and fuel loads, plus the tricks that he uses to calculate the distance covered and our current position.

“Eight leagues,” is Rake’s estimate of how far. Then, one associate to another, he admits, “If we weren’t towing this heavy skiff, we’d be a lot closer to Marvel by now.”

A grunt comes, and I glance over my shoulder. The general and field marshal flank the Emperor, each carefully holding an arm and elbow as He kneels, trousers at His ankles, concentrating His aim on the empty bucket.

Nothing but gas and blood escape from His bottom.

I turn away, ashamed by my prurient, little-boy curiosity.

“Over there,” Rake says, pointing out into the heavy fog. “Can you make out that dark mass?”

“Barely.”

“The Isle of Blue,” he reports.

The map in my hand began the day as a pristine relic from an earlier time. Since then it has been folded and written upon, flying steel has cut through it, and someone’s filthy thumb has left an ugly brown print on the Isle of Blue. Yet if Rake is correct, the island’s near shore isn’t half a league from us. “We should see it better than this,” I mention.

Rake nods, explaining, “The farther out you go on this lake, the worse the mist is. It has to do with the chilled water. At least that’s what the fishermen claim. Though I have my doubts.”

I wait, thinking he will explain.

But he won’t. Instead, he says, “That patch of rough ground is famous for its ladies. Very pretty, very mean. They will play the most amazing games with a willing man, but if the objects of their affections disappoint, they will cut them off and throw them in the drink.”

“Delightful,” I offer.

We laugh grimly, quietly.

Then, for an instant, if that, one engine loses power. It is a sudden event that passes so quickly I’m not certain it actually happened. But Rake heard enough to frown now, admitting, “I don’t trust our fuel. It’s old and possibly wet, and water in the lines might present problems.”

Another concern on top of a mountain made of worries.

He dips his head now, and with a conspirator’s tone whispers, “I listened to what the Zann was telling you.”

I ignore him, examining the map, trying to find a nearby island to serve us if our boat loses all power. Not the Isle of Blue, please.

“About our nation’s size...it was fascinating, wasn’t it?”

“We shouldn’t discuss this,” I remind him. Then I repeat the old saying, “‘Keep secrets off your tongue, and nothing can be told.’”

Yet Rake won’t let the subject die. “I know I haven’t been in His court as long as you. A few weeks compared to how many years? But ever since I was big enough to understand what people were saying, I’ve heard stories about our Emperor. How He is good and wise. How no other soul could direct the war against our sworn foes. Maybe His face was a mystery, and His given name too. But He builds passion among people everywhere. For instance, I can’t count the times that I’ve heard grown men argue about the size of His boots, or the size of His prick.”

I nod, appreciating that reasonable confusion.

“I had never seen the Emperor. But when I spotted your group—at a distance and through the smoke—I understood that this was His court. And with a second glance, I understood which soggy, sorry fellow was Him.”

The Emperor moans now.

I bite my lip, making my own tiny pain.

“The nation must have its leader,” Rake admits. “It always has. Those fortunate enough to see His face describe Him to others, and those others do the same when they wander far, and that must be how these stories flow. This empire. This wonderland. It seems incredible, but that’s how it is. Which makes me wonder how such a thing can occur so easily...so perfectly—”

“What else could happen?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he concedes. “But doesn’t it make you curious, thinking about the mechanism that holds our nation together?”

“And why does the sun rise, and where does it go in the night?” I reply. “Yes, your question is reasonable. But in these times, it is a fancy, unimportant question. Maybe later, once this war is finished....”

My voice trails off.

Both of us laugh quietly at what seems impossible.

Then the Emperor groans again, consumed by misery while His most loyal officers help pull up His dirty trousers. A few sorry blankets provide the simplest mattress for His suffering, fever-ravaged body. Zann and Hawthorne are focused only on their patient. And this is the moment when Rake leans even closer, speaking into my ear. “I am different from most people,” he promises.

I start to say, “You are not.”

But he proves himself with the words that follow. “What if this man that we are escorting...what if he is not the true emperor? What if He, and I mean the real He, created a fictional court and sent off this imposter to play the role?”

“But why?” I blurt.

“To mislead our enemies for these last awful years, of course.” Nothing can be more obvious. “They chase what has no value, and meanwhile the heart of our people is free to move and act as He wishes.”

In the same morning, I have heard two impossibilities. And if anything, this vision is more incredible than the infinite world.

I sit back in my seat, offering no reply.

“The Emperor is a story,” my companion maintains. “A great and probably eternal story, yes. But why should we believe—where is the compelling reason—for us to believe that the ill old fellow shitting out his guts behind us is really that great man?”

The engines remain strong, carrying our boat across the next fold on the map. I turn it over in my hand, and Rake asks the name of the next island that will pass to our left. What I see is a dot, nameless and almost invisible. I don’t know why, but I invent the name, “Larner’s Rock,” and his response is immediate.

“Yes,” he says. “Now I remember, yes.”

I am tired enough to weep, but my head is full of ideas, questions, and possibilities waiting for a voice to shape them. I want to sleep and cannot, and then, believing that I will never again close my eyes, I fall away into a deep slumber that ends soon enough with a hard shake of my shoulder.

“He wants to speak to you,” the dark voice announces.

General Hawthorne is a powerful man, even in his latter years. He has always been a presence in the court, a disciplined force that approves of very little, and just now, for some reason or another, he seems to despise me utterly. But when I don’t climb to my feet immediately, he repeats the order. “He wants your ear. Just yours. It’s important, and I don’t know why, but if you see any weakness, don’t let Him talk. Tell me. Tell Zann. At the first sign of trouble.”

“How is the patient?” I ask.

The general surprises me. A smile breaks out, sudden and brilliant, as he admits, “Better. The fever broke. Just a few moments ago, in fact.”

Sure enough, the man on the blankets has better color, and while weak, He can smile as always, beckoning me with one hand, then the other.

I approach, and kneel.

He watches as His knuckles are kissed twice, and then He says, “Castor. I have a question for you, my boy.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Do you wonder why I never promoted you to captain or colonel or some level more appropriate to your mission?”

I shake my head.

“Has the matter ever occurred to you?”

“It has,” I admit, wincing with shame.

“Well, there are good reasons, believe me.” Then He winks before casting His gaze at the three men sitting at the opposite end of that very little boat. “I must tell you something, Castor. Now is the time.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Someone onboard this vessel is going to try to kill me.”

This deep, awful lake has more impossibilities swimming in it than it has fish. No one else could offer these words and make me believe them. Even He, and even on this desperate day, strains my sense of place and purpose.

I say, “No,” too loudly, the others glancing over their shoulders now.

The Emperor says, “Quiet.”

“No,” I repeat in a breathless whisper.

He watches me, and waits.

“Which one?” I manage.

“If you were to guess, which man would you select?”

I consider the matter, just for a moment. There is no way that I could feel more paranoid than I am now.

“Are you armed?” the Emperor asks.

“Yes.” But I force my hand not to touch my holster and the firearm inside it.

“Loaded, is it?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t quite recall, son. Are you a good shot?”

He does recall. His mind seems designed to recollect details like these. But He wants me to tell Him, “I’m an excellent shot, Sire.”

That bolsters me, that subtle praise.

Our boat runs into a tall wave, and at the crest, we drop slightly. The Emperor lifts and then hits the deck, cursing softly. “How much longer do we ride this tub?”

I have a solid estimate, but the journey seems less important now. What I want is guidance, which is why I ask, “How do you know about this assassin? And for how long? On the shoreline, did you realize...that one of them is entertaining this kind of...?”

I can’t say, “Crime.” The word is too tiny, too mild.

“I knew it on the beach,” He responds, enjoying His own opacity. “And that’s why I picked who I picked to come on this voyage.”

“Tell me who, Sire.”

He shakes His head and lies back on a rough little pillow.

I sigh and shiver, wondering what else to say.

“Lieutenants are perfectly respectable officers,” He offers, answering his own long-ago question. “Your rank places you near the top of any hierarchy, but not so high that you are blinded. It is the perfect station from which to watch and learn. And that’s why I kept you as such. Because if I made you more than that....”

His voice falls away.

General Hawthorne has come up behind me. “Enough, son. Enough.” The powerful hands grab me by the shoulders, almost dragging me to my feet. “You don’t mind my interruption, do you, Sire?”

“Not at all,” the Emperor allows.

“Rest,” Hawthorne advises, “and I’ll bring you some cold broth from our stores.”

Says the Emperor, “I can’t tell you how nice that sounds.”

* * * *

The assassin is here, and it must be Rake.

That was my first guess, and for a little while nothing else makes sense. But why would the Emperor invite His would-be killer onboard? A small man with odd ideas can easily be pulled aside and dealt with by other small men. But Zann and Hawthorne are different conundrums. How would the Emperor deal with a traitor so close to Him? What action could he take to defeat a figure so important and famous and loved...so vital to the nation that the simple accusation of crime would throw the court into an uproar?

The situation is impossible.

My burden seems immense. But when I close my eyes and think about nothing—willfully emptying my head of distractions and self-pity—the obvious answer waits, smiling at me like a cherished friend.

To the field marshal, I whisper, “We must talk, sir.”

The old face regards me with suspicion. What did the Emperor tell me a few moments ago? He wants to know, as does Hawthorne. With a circumspect nod at his associate, he says, “Here.” A single step puts us as far from the others as possible, but when we lean across the boat’s railing, eyes peering down into the swift gray water, he can whisper into my ear and I can return the strangely intimate gesture, the future of the nation balanced upon these next phrases.

“I’ve been given an order,” I begin. Then I look back across my shoulder, making certain that no one is overtly watching.

Zann nods, barely enough patience to hold his tongue.

“It’s a difficult order,” I say.

“Often they are,” he agrees, trying to coax more from me.

“No,” I say. “This is not like His other commands. We aren’t abandoning cities or good men for the sake expediency. This is much more personal and more terrible, and I want you to tell me something. Please, sir. Is that man lying behind me...is that our true Emperor?”

Zann starts to straighten and then thinks again. “Yes. Of course He is.”

“And He has full possession of His faculties? Which is to say, this isn’t just the fever throwing words at me.”

“The Emperor isn’t well, but He’s lucid and sane.” The old man touches my forearm, assuring me, “The illness has been difficult, but He is as clear-minded as any of us. Really, we should marvel at the Great Man’s capacities to endure, and feel blessed in so many ways.”

“I’m not blessed,” I say.

“That is your failure, not His.”

I nod.

The field marshal watches me, and waits.

With a measured tone, I pose the central question. “If you were given charge over the Emperor’s fate—if He told you that no one else could be trusted with this critical mission—then would you accept the task and do it, without hesitation?”

“Without hesitation,” Zann claims, “and with joy in my heart. How else can one do the bidding of his master?”

“I’ll search for the joy, but I don’t think that I’ll find it.”

Zann shrugs, unconcerned by my palpable weakness.

Unfastening my holster, I lift my pistol from my hip and turn and shoot Rake in the back of his skull. He has no warning. He dies and slumps forward, and the boat attacks the next large wave too brazenly, our little boat starting to turn in response, threatening to come around and collide with the towed skiff. It is all that I can manage to throw the body aside and grab the wheel, and then with the hand that holds my weapon, I shove the throttle up until the big engines are idling.

We have existed inside a war of sudden and vast violence, yet neither officer can react to something this close, this sudden. Hawthorne tries to rise to his feet, and in doing so drops the cup of cold soup into the Emperor’s lap. He looks down, offering some quick apology. Then he looks up again as I shoot him in the forehead, sending him off into the cold, bottomless water.

“Son?” Zann exclaims. “What is this—?”

I shoot him last. I shoot him twice. That second shot is revealing. I have never liked the field marshal as an officer: too talented for armies that deserve less brilliance at the helm, too much genius stubbornly achieving wonders when what is required is to change the nature of this endless conflagration.

Zann’s body crumbles into a uniformed heap.

I go to the Emperor, kneel, and say, “Sire. I didn’t know what to do. And then I realized you weren’t sure which man was your enemy....”

The handsome, badly weathered face stares at me carefully.

“To save you and your office, I killed each one of them.”

“Yes, I see,” he whispers. Then a little louder, “Your weapon, Castor. Give it here, please.”

I place it in His hand.

He says, “Yes, I thought you might take this wise course. Which is why I like you, son. Why I trust your good sense and your rational soul. You adore the nation that you serve, enough even to do this awful deed.”

“Thank you, Sire.” I bend low, I kiss His soggy, water-bleached feet. “Thank you.”

“But here is the crux of the matter,” the Emperor continues. “I have fallen out of love for this collection of worshipping and foolish people. My feelings, in fact, are nothing but bitter anymore. And how can I serve such a throng when I know another being is more suited?”

My eyes lift.

He smiles at me. “You misunderstood what I told you, yes. Which is entirely reasonable, yes.”

“Sire—”

“None of the dead were the assassin,” he claims.

And in another moment, He gives me the most terrible proof.

* * * *

The mist lifts in time to reveal a flat, wet island of no possible significance. Even from offshore, Marvel betrays the comfortable poverty common among places that barely belong on any map. My first inclination is to continue on my way, shepherding my fuel until I reach more fruitful destinations. But the boat’s engines hesitate again, and one simply refuses to start up again. I sit at the wheel, aiming for what looks to be a small city. Locals gather on the wharf, watching the approaching fishing boat. But nobody seems particularly interested in this stranger. I am just another refugee: a curiosity and a small distraction from their little days.

Suddenly my last engine chokes on the nefarious water. I drift nearer, and one last time, I spin the dials on both radios, learning nothing except that our enemies have improved their jamming techniques.

When I can make out each face, I stand.

The gasp is audible, prolonged but full of doubt. Could it be? Is such a thing remotely possible? Each man and woman asks the same inescapable question, but it is the boy standing in front who thinks to yell at me, demanding answers.

“Where are you from? Who are you? And why do you wear the Emperor’s uniform and crown?”

I say nothing. When it serves my interest, I will answer. What matters most is to study those who study me, employing that calm parental glare that I have seen used every day in the Emperor’s court. Then to the boy, I call out, “Swim to me. Grab my line and tow me in.”

To his credit, the boy hesitates.

Then some older fellow says, “Do it,” and the boy launches himself, covering the cold water with a few strong strokes, grabbing the soggy rope and fixing it in his teeth, turning and grunting as he serves my bidding.

Others join in, although not always the best swimmers. Legs kick and hands fight for their hold, and the effect of so much confusion and wasted energy gets me to the wharf no earlier than I would have on my own. Yet by the end, a portion of my audience is saving the Emperor. I am He, the heart of our nation. Despite my own pounding heart and a mouth parched as a hot stone, I have the authority to thank all of my helpers and watch others drag their cold, suffering bodies into the air.

Kneeling is easier than swimming; most of my audience pays respect to my jeweled crown, if not to me.

Each wants to know where I have been.

“Between Jicktown and Illig,” I say, motioning toward the mainland. “The rest of the court is following me in other boats.”

My conviction meets doubt and some pain.

Then a young woman steps forward, kissing the back of her hand because mine has not been offered. “But Sire...that shoreline was taken this morning. One of the enemy’s lightning brigades struck while your generals were on the beach, still loading their boats—”

“How do you know this?” I roar.

“A fisherman friend of ours was watching. He was offshore, and he saw it all.”

“We thought you were dead,” another woman admits.

Everybody stares at me, and in particular at the stains left behind on my one-of-a-kind uniform, blood and shredded brains refusing to surrender to soap and determined scrubbing.

“How do you know what this fisherman saw?” I inquire.

“He came straight back here,” she says. “He arrived almost one bell ago. But he didn’t see you out on the water.”

The mist must have hidden me. And I wasted moments drifting, disposing of bodies and changing my clothing while piecing together what still feels like a ludicrous plan.

Yet it is a plan, and what does an Emperor do better than make ready?

With a firm voice, I claim, “There is good in this awful thing. My court is dead, yes, but perhaps our enemies believe I am dead too.”

Confusion twists their faces.

“We have been given extra time,” I point out. “There are no boats to be had on the mainland, and it will take the invaders days to bring new boats overland. They won’t realize I am here, with you, until I have left for safer ground. With my new court beside me, of course.”

This city of modest fishermen and bakers and machinists and smart, soggy children is beginning to crowd near me, each one of them wondering how it would be to belong to my chosen few.

“First,” I say, “I need food and a bath.”

They nod willingly.

“Next, a number of trustworthy boats.”

A small fleet floats in this little harbor.

“And I want those boxes and my other luggage unloaded and guarded. And while I rest, you will begin to build a militia, arming your men and women however you can over these next few days.”

With a few words and barely enough breath to fill a child’s balloon, the Emperor has changed the character of everyone’s life.

Noble delight bubbles forth, and that first boy asks, “So how soon will we attack the bastards, Sire?”

“Very soon,” I promise. Then, pointing to the north, I add, “There is a valley waiting for us, son. Between high mountains, and it is the only important place in the world. But you and I will go there together and bring down those mountains, closing it off and winning the war for All Time...!”