percentage for a finder’s fee; but January had not even asked whether Jumdar had the authority to offer it. Privately, she hoped the Board would honor her promise. The ICC could be generous when it didn’t cost much; and January would get a ship almost like new; so he had no complaints coming.
The sandstone fit so comfortably in her hand that she took to carrying it with her. Like a scepter, some pardoned Loyalists in New Council House grumbled, and their Rebel coworkers agreed, for they hadn’t fought to make a Queen.
Yet, the proclamations she issued seemed reasonable, even inspired, and the people who heard her threw themselves into the Reconstruction with a fervor equal to their previous fury. There was even talk in some quarters, admittedly brief, that having a Queen was not so bad an idea. Jumdar seemed to get things done, and although some of the Guides in their remote Reek-side cabins grumbled about the “kiss-ass” of their fellow citizens regarding ICC dictates, everyone agreed that the dictates made good sense in the wake of what had gone before.
The wake of what came later was a different matter.
An Craic
“A goltraí, then,” the harper says. “A Lament for Hugh O’Carroll.” And her harp sings so mournfully that half the patrons in the room grow inexplicably teary-eyed.
The scarred man listens for a while, but without visible effect. “They are mad, you know,” he says. “The Eireannaughta are. But what can you expect from a folk who live on a raft upon a sea of seething magma? The Big Blow can come at any time, so it’s not surprising that they themselves erupt now and then.”
“Did Jumdar intend to keep the Dancer, or did she really mean to send it to Old ’Saken?”
“Not at first, I think; and in the end, it wasn’t her decision to make. What happened to Jumdar is of little interest, except to Jumdar. No, if you must have a lament, the truly tragic figure in the story is Handsome Jack Garrity.”
The harper is surprised and her fingers hesitate and still. “Is he? Why?”
“Because he was a man who won everything and gained nothing, and what worse fate is there than that? He found himself a deputy commissioner in a minor office. Small beer for the Hero of New Down Town. That’s why his struggle with the Ghost came to consume him. It was the one time in his life when he had mattered.”
The harper strums a mockingly conventional military march. “I’d not call him a hero.”
“No? What is a hero, then? Surely, a man larger than life, who acts with courage, who controls his contending emotions—his anger, fear, and despair—to achieve his goal. Handsome Jack did not succumb to despair until after he had won. Can only those be heroes who show courage in causes you favor? The Ghost of Ardow, maybe?” The scarred man gestures broadly with his arm, as if the Ghost has entered the Bar and the scarred man is introducing him.
“No.” And her earlier Lament turns twisted and jangled, and she sets the harp down at last and balls her hands on the table. “But I had thought he was a better man. Not an assassin, not a murderer.” She seems much affected. There are, it appears, emotions whose music is silence.
The scarred man laughs hideously. “But give him this much: at least he excelled. We suppose there is a difference between killing a particular man quickly and efficiently, and killing many men wholesale on a battlefield. Maybe you can explain the difference to us.”
“The heroic man,” she says quietly, “conquers himself.”
At this, the scarred man falls silent for a while. Then he takes his uisce bowl and spins it toward the far side of the table, where the harper snatches it before it falls off. “That’s a struggle,” he suggests darkly, “in which some of us find ourselves outnumbered.” He looks at the bowl and then at the harper.
The message is clear. She signals to the Bartender, and shortly, the “water-of-life” has been replenished. The
The sandstone fit so comfortably in her hand that she took to carrying it with her. Like a scepter, some pardoned Loyalists in New Council House grumbled, and their Rebel coworkers agreed, for they hadn’t fought to make a Queen.
Yet, the proclamations she issued seemed reasonable, even inspired, and the people who heard her threw themselves into the Reconstruction with a fervor equal to their previous fury. There was even talk in some quarters, admittedly brief, that having a Queen was not so bad an idea. Jumdar seemed to get things done, and although some of the Guides in their remote Reek-side cabins grumbled about the “kiss-ass” of their fellow citizens regarding ICC dictates, everyone agreed that the dictates made good sense in the wake of what had gone before.
The wake of what came later was a different matter.
An Craic
“A goltraí, then,” the harper says. “A Lament for Hugh O’Carroll.” And her harp sings so mournfully that half the patrons in the room grow inexplicably teary-eyed.
The scarred man listens for a while, but without visible effect. “They are mad, you know,” he says. “The Eireannaughta are. But what can you expect from a folk who live on a raft upon a sea of seething magma? The Big Blow can come at any time, so it’s not surprising that they themselves erupt now and then.”
“Did Jumdar intend to keep the Dancer, or did she really mean to send it to Old ’Saken?”
“Not at first, I think; and in the end, it wasn’t her decision to make. What happened to Jumdar is of little interest, except to Jumdar. No, if you must have a lament, the truly tragic figure in the story is Handsome Jack Garrity.”
The harper is surprised and her fingers hesitate and still. “Is he? Why?”
“Because he was a man who won everything and gained nothing, and what worse fate is there than that? He found himself a deputy commissioner in a minor office. Small beer for the Hero of New Down Town. That’s why his struggle with the Ghost came to consume him. It was the one time in his life when he had mattered.”
The harper strums a mockingly conventional military march. “I’d not call him a hero.”
“No? What is a hero, then? Surely, a man larger than life, who acts with courage, who controls his contending emotions—his anger, fear, and despair—to achieve his goal. Handsome Jack did not succumb to despair until after he had won. Can only those be heroes who show courage in causes you favor? The Ghost of Ardow, maybe?” The scarred man gestures broadly with his arm, as if the Ghost has entered the Bar and the scarred man is introducing him.
“No.” And her earlier Lament turns twisted and jangled, and she sets the harp down at last and balls her hands on the table. “But I had thought he was a better man. Not an assassin, not a murderer.” She seems much affected. There are, it appears, emotions whose music is silence.
The scarred man laughs hideously. “But give him this much: at least he excelled. We suppose there is a difference between killing a particular man quickly and efficiently, and killing many men wholesale on a battlefield. Maybe you can explain the difference to us.”
“The heroic man,” she says quietly, “conquers himself.”
At this, the scarred man falls silent for a while. Then he takes his uisce bowl and spins it toward the far side of the table, where the harper snatches it before it falls off. “That’s a struggle,” he suggests darkly, “in which some of us find ourselves outnumbered.” He looks at the bowl and then at the harper.
The message is clear. She signals to the Bartender, and shortly, the “water-of-life” has been replenished. The
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