The Emperor's Men 7: Rising Sun. Dirk van den Boom

When they had looked at the horizon one last time just before diving, there was no sign of fog far and wide.

      “If you allow …?” Inugami asked, and the Prince stepped aside to make room for him. It took less than a minute, then the officer turned his eyes from the eyepiece and left it to Aritomo.

      “We better return,” the Captain explained. “We don’t want to accidentally ram somebody. Few nautical miles away, the fog should have disappeared.”

      Aritomo immediately recognized the meaning of Inugami’s order. In fact, the boat was surprisingly navigating in a dense soup. Where it had come from so unexpectedly and in the face of these weather conditions – that was very puzzling. Something like that had never happened to him before.

      Here in relative proximity to the Japanese coast, there was a lot of busy shipping traffic. In fact, it was better to regain depth and avoid the danger of a collision. Not everyone took the regular operation of the foghorn seriously, and within the boat, one of those sounds could easily be overheard.

      “Thanks for the valuable hint, Your Highness,” Aritomo kindly thanked him as he had retracted the periscope. The Prince hinted a smile. With that he suddenly looked very, very young, like a child he in a way still was, after all. The first officer refrained from further comments. He had no intention of competing with his superior for the imperial favor.

      There was work to do, anyway.

      The boat sank cautiously back into the depths. At about twenty meters they stabilized it, and the electric motors pushed it through the waters. Five knots weren’t a lot of speed but enough to keep the boat steady and slowly clear the area of the strange fog banks that had appeared so unexpectedly. Inugami had ordered to keep this course for half an hour, then reappear and observe. Although not actually dangerous, this change of plan created some tension among the men and gave the Captain the opportunity to demonstrate his leadership skills.

      Aritomo frowned. There might be some tension but apparently not enough to keep the men awake. He watched as one of the helmsmen suddenly yawned and wiped his eyes. It was a bit too much for the first officer, and he gave the man a warning glance. Everyone was well-rested for this trip! But before he could say anything, Aritomo sensed that a sudden weariness overtaking him as well. Involuntarily, he ran his hands through his short-cropped hair and blinked.

      Tea. He might need a strong tea. He yawned involuntarily, his gaze moving almost automatically to the carbon dioxide display. The pointer had not moved. But was the instrument correct?

      He looked around. The same symptoms discernible with all men. Yawning. Blinking. The Prince was just now covering his wide-open mouth with his gloved hand.

      Carbon dioxide poisoning! he thought. Inugami looked at him, the same realization in his eyes. Something had to be wrong with the air supply. The adrenaline animated him.

      “Surface!” he ordered. “Immediately and hatches open!”

      The boat trembled. The ballast tanks pumped the water out. Aritomo felt the bow tilt up, imperceptibly, and stared at the depth gauge. Fifteen meters. His eyes blurred. He wiped his eyes. Ten meters. He had to hold onto the wall against his will as his knees softened. So fast … no CO₂ poisoning worked that fast.

      This wasn’t normal. He felt so terribly weak, very dizzy, a little sick maybe …

      He saw how Inugami swayed too. The old Sawada had already slumped to the floor, and the Prince slid down, clinging to the wall for a moment, as if to preserve some imperial dignity, uttering a soft, barely audible cry. Aritomo tried to fix his gaze on the depth gauge again. Five meters. The boat would break the water surface at any moment. If he only lasted long enough – or one of the other men – to open the hatches, at least one at the bridge … The fresh air would …

      Aritomo’s thoughts swirled, and he lost all concentration. Inugami was lying on the ground, didn’t move anymore. The helmsmen sank over their instruments. With superhuman effort, he took a step toward the ladder leading up to the hatch, then clung to the rungs for a moment, forcing his eyes open, trying to ignore the dancing black veils.

      He didn’t succeed.

      He almost felt the boat emerge with gentle sweep, but then he lost all strength and sank unconscious to the ground.

      There was no one on board to open a hatch.

      Aritomo came to lie next to the Prince and was as quiet as everyone else.

5

      K’an Chitam looked up the temple, wondering if it was worth it. The more than 30-meter-high construction was not finished yet, but that was not necessary. The numerous workers who worked under the supervision of the great architect Chaak had time. Their ruler, the mighty Siyaj Khan K’awiil II, King of Yax Mutal and descendant of Yax Nuun Ayiin, was not only alive but continued to enjoy good health. For Chitam, that was good news on many levels: It meant that his own coronation was still quite far in the future, and it meant that he continued to live, despite his court duties, a relatively carefree life. As the eldest son of the king, he enjoyed a number of privileges, including the fact that no young woman in Mutal could avoid his advances, a circumstance that the now 25-year-old prince used extensively, wife or not. As long as he fulfilled his other duties, he was subject to no further restrictions from his father, who was always busy with other tasks. With that, Chitam enjoyed a special privilege. Usually, adultery was not a matter that his people accepted lightly. But the heir to the throne was not only the next king, he was also a man with a sunny mind, always friendly, generous, witty and lacking the arrogance of many noblemen who consistently thought they were someone better.

      Of course, Chitam was someone better.

      He didn’t think he had to rub it in everyone’s face. And the beautiful daughter of a peasant was also much more inclined to approach his overtures with a certain passion, if he didn’t behave like an asshole but presented himself as a nice, good-looking, charming and powerful man who would be in charge in a few years.

      One just had to put one’s qualities to good use.

      K’an Chitam sighed and looked at the artisans around him, who pounded the stele stones with great care and fervor. Although his father, the king, was a direct descendant of that ruler whom the conquerors of distant Teotihuacán had appointed, he was now anxious to break away from the memory of this military campaign and its consequences, and to establish a truly local dynasty. Although there were still vague references to the origin and legitimacy of their rule in the stelae commissioned by Siyaj, it was also clear that the campaign had been more than thirty years ago, and no soldier from Teotihuacán had ever returned to Yax Mutal’s soil. It was therefore time to remember what was right in front of them and still very tangible. It was necessary to show the people that Siyaj and his son Chitam were rulers in their own right, chosen by the gods, and thus their mouthpiece and connection to the mortal world.

      Chitam found this request of his revered father highly commendable, as he prepared the needed stability and respect for his son’s rule. But just this morning, after a night of drinking, in which the Prince, together with his friends, had consumed vast amounts of holy chi in a very unholy way, the hammering of the artisans was almost unbearable. But since his father had told him to supervise the progress of the work himself, he had to indulge in his duty. The fact that he had drunk chi with his companions, less to gain spiritual closeness to the gods but simply to have a good time, displeased the priests at court as much as it did his father. To prove too much rebelliousness didn’t pay off today. In addition, this was a good opportunity to escape Lady Tzutz, his wife, who also had little sympathy for his nocturnal activities.

      Chitam knew its limits – though not in terms of alcohol consumption. It was also so damn hard to get really drunk when chi had so little power. He had to pour the stuff in liters. So it was at least helpful that the sometimes sour taste of the beverage became less obvious with increased intoxication – or he simply did perceive it that way.

      The horrible feeling in his mouth this morning, however, could Chitam interpret only as punishment by the gods. The great nausea, which was additionally