The Mandate of Heaven by Mike Smith

receiving many more rewards from him.  Not once he’s finished cleaning up your mess.”
    “What do you want?” the question came out in a strangled tone of voice.
    “A better offer.  I’ll transcribe a copy of what Lady Jessica wrote; you take it back to your master and let him decide.  We’ll wait here for his response.  I’ve got thirty-nine rooms, so you can make yourselves comfortable while you wait.”
    “You’re mad.”
    “Once in a lifetime offer,” father smirked.  “Take it, or kill me.  Either way I can’t lose.”
    “Write the damn letter.”
    *****
    I watched, transfixed, as father stumbled back behind his desk, slumping heavily into his chair, sliding a fresh sheet of paper in front of him.  As he put pen to paper I wondered what he was going to write.  However, barely halfway through the first word, he had to stop, his hand was trembling so badly. Eventually he reached across the desk and drained what little he had left in his wine glass.  After this he resumed writing, the room deathly silent, nothing but the scratching of his pen and the occasional popping from the fire. He stopped writing once again and this time shook the pen, as it seemed to have run dry.
    “By the High-Lords, somebody get him a pen, before I stab him with it,” Javier ranted angrily.
    “I’ve got it,” father drawled, raising his hand to halt their advance.  Sliding open a desk draw he withdrew a new pen, raising it high for all to see, demonstrating that the pen was indeed mightier than the sword—or gun.  A few more words and he abruptly stopped, looking up, as if suddenly recalling the half dozen of them, arrayed around the desk, guns all pointing directly at him, fingers resting on triggers.
    “Excuse my manners, can I get anybody a drink, while you wait?”
    The roar of fury from Javier was enough to shake the bookshelves.  “The next time you put down that pen, you’d better have finished, otherwise I will kill you myself.”  Raising his own heavy pistol, his finger depressing the trigger slightly.
    “Fine, whatever,” father shrugged, resuming his writing.  “I was just trying to be a courteous host.  You know, for so long I’ve lived in fear of you finding me, as I eventually knew that you would—”
    “You’re right to fear my master, as his reach is boundless and as you will soon find out, utterly merciless.”
    “—but the thing is, that after living with fear for so long, you start to just take it for granted and I hardly feared your Lord’s retribution.  There are far worse things in life than death, I should certainly know.”  With that my father put his pen down and pushed the letter forward a couple of inches, clearly demonstrating that he had finished.
    Javier took a step forward to retrieve it, but was stopped from doing so by the palm of my father’s hand, coming down, to rest atop the letter.
    Leaning forward, my father looked up at the disfigured man leaning across from him.  “I didn't kill her you know,” he stated in a firm voice.  “Your man did that and would have done the same to me, had I not fired first.”
    My breath caught in my throat, as I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but instinctively knew that it was the truth.   Somehow I knew that these words were really intended for me.
    “He was our insurance policy,” Javier shrugged indifferently.  “While we could have dispatched her at any time, it would have been messy.  My Lord wanted no loose strings attached.  You kill the girl, the heroic guard slays the lone, crazed assassin.  All nice and neat, it’s a timeless classic.”
    My father lifted his hand from the letter, allowing Javier to retrieve it, turning back towards the large decanter of wine resting on the side of his desk.  Removing the stopper, he prepared to pour the contents into his empty glass.  “I never cared about my life,” my father carried on regardless, interrupting Javier whose eyes had drifted down to the