The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Sixty-Seven

DELTA TEAM LEADER –26:36

Wash stared at the chicken-scratch scrawl that covered three pages of flexi and sighed. He had spent two hours working on the problem, tackling it from every conceivable angle. His best shot involved evacuating the cockpit and doing an EVA, re-configuring the maneuvering thrusters to use every last ounce of fuel, then blasting towards the Sun Tzu with everything he had. By his calculations – checked four times to ensure he didn’t make a mistake – he could coast over to the proper airlock in a little under two days. Of course, he didn’t have the atmo to hold out that long. Not to mention that the radiation from his damaged reactor would cook him like one of Zoe’s less successful attempts at pot roast. And then there was the issue of having no means of maneuvering into the socket once he was in range. Other than that, it was a workable plan. He let the flexi float away and he stared out the cockpit window for a while. The Black always put him in a meditative state, and sometimes his mind would cough up the answer to a problem when he wasn’t paying attention, so he didn’t exactly consider it wasted time. He stared out at the bulk of the Sun Tzu over his wingtip and wondered why he had ever thought this sort of thing would be fun. Oh yeah, he answered. Because it had been. His first and last combat sortie had been the highlight of a career spent pushing assorted junk through the sky. The thrill, the exhilaration, the pure joy in the flight had been like a pure drug coursing through his central nervous system, lighting up his brain like a nova. He had been good. He had been damn good. And it would all have been worthwhile if he hadn’t screwed himself there at the end. Chalk it up under “lessons learned” and get on with the unpleasant business of dying. He stared at the ancient war ship, then turned and looked out the other side to stare at the Relentless. It still showed no signs of life. He was really starting to hate them, now. The frigate was a pretty ship, in a predatory sort of way, even with Wash’s tag on the side. It was symmetrical and svelte, and it was less than a mile away. He could almost touch it. Indeed, he had considered doing an EVA to try to reach one of their airlocks, assuming it would open, but there were just so many good reasons why he shouldn’t that he had hung up that answer. Best case scenario, they locked him in the brig. Worst case, they threw him back out the airlock without the courtesy of a helmet. Bounty hunters were just like that. He considered a valiant final act, firing his missiles at their engine section – not enough to destroy the ship, but perhaps enough to keep them from running away. Then he remembered that he really wanted them to run away. So much for that plan. Besides, without engine power of his own, the recoil from launching the missiles would blow him way, way off course. As the idle fantasy entertained him, that part of his brain that never quit thinking about his dire situation did its job. It coughed up a solution. Kind of. Sort of. In a way. “Oh, jen duh sh tyen tsai!” he said to himself as the full implications of his subconscious’ plan unfurled itself for his inspection. “Oh, I’m brilliant. Or suicidal,” he conceded. “What would Zoë do, I wonder?” He mulled it for another ten minutes, picking it apart and putting it back together, trying to appreciate every one of the many, many things that could go wrong and kill him instantly. It was easily the dumbest damnfool idea he had ever gotten. Hell, it was the dumbest idea he’d ever heard of. When he had decided that it was feasible – if not wise – he madly went through the calculations again, changing all the variables. The issue was propellant. The reactor core could no longer produce it, nor was there an engine through which it could go. But it wasn’t the only propellant at his disposal. When he checked the calculation the fourth and final time, he smiled a self-indulgent little smile and clapped his hands together gleefully. There was definitely a small, outside chance that he wouldn’t die. Considering his situation, that pretty much assure his course of action. With a whistle he started tearing into the ordinance console and got to work, knowing full well that this was the longest of longshots, most likely a futile endeavor. But it beat staring out the window.

*

*

* GAMMA TEAM REMNANT -24:30

Johnny waited for the man to finish vomiting before he handed him his canteen. He was confused, it seemed, and alarmed, but the gesture helped establish Johnny as someone who wasn’t, at present, a threat. When he had drunk his fill, Johnny moved on to the next one, urging small, careful sips. He had to gingerly step around multiple piles of puke, which was unpleasant, and his canteen ran out by the fifth man. But the first he had helped were feeling well enough to assist their comrades. There were twelve in all, in this first batch. Twelve well-built naked Yuanese men who looked at the young man with suspicion and worry. No doubt he looked a sight, in combat armor, a baseball bat strapped to his back and a cap turned backwards on his head. But when he was reasonably certain the first twelve were well on their way towards recovery, he called them all together in a group. “Who is the ranking officer here?” he asked, confidently. One of the shorter men looked around, then raised his hand. “I am Lieutenant Wu,” he said, with a bow. “Who are you?” “Thank you, Lieutenant. Your unit?” “First Imperial Guard Reserve,” the man snapped back impatiently. “Now, in the Emperor’s name, identify yourself!” “My name is Chin Yi,” Johnny started softly. “And I have awakened you because I need your assistance.” “You dress like a pirate,” one of the younger men pointed out. “A not very stylish pirate,” he added, and they all laughed. “Thank you for your assessment, Private,: Johnny replied gently. “I’m a Corporal, actually,” the man returned indignantly. “Actually, you were a Corporal,” the young gangster shot back. “Now you are a Private. Does my dress offend you? So terribly sorry. But I am not here to impress you with my attire. Or, I should say, I’m not here to impress you with anything but my hat,” he finished, turning it around so that the embroidered crest of his knighthood was well-displayed. There was a gasp and a murmur from the men almost instantly, followed by much bowing. “I am Lei Chin Yi,” Johnny began, confidence infusing every word he spoke. “Prince Lei Chin Yi, actually. And I am calling on the Imperial Guard to do my bidding, as the House of Lei, to whom you have made a sacred oath, has need of you. If any of you has an issue with that, best you climb back into your tube and go back into hibernation, because that’s the only place you’ll be safe from my ire.” The men looked stunned. Johnny was pleased with that. He was also terrified. “I don’t recall a Chin Yi in the Imperial Household,” Lieutenant Wu said suspiciously. “That’s because your intel is about a hundred and twenty years out of date. You’ve been away for a long time, gentlemen, and many things have changed. One thing that has remained constant, however, is the determination of the House of Lei. You either accept my claim and I accept your service, or you reject it, violate your oath, and stand guilty of treason. I’ll give you a moment to decide,” he added, coolly. Act with confidence, Master Lei had told him over and over again in his abbreviated officer’s training. Soldiers live to follow orders, but they are instantly suspicious of hesitancy. It matters little if you are certain of the course of action; it matters much that you appear absolutely committed to it. It was a lot like dealing with new arrivals back on Epiphany, actually, those poor souls who had been transported to work for the Company. Many of them formed mutual-protection arrangements against other groups of thugs in transit. They were loathe to let down their guard to listen to the advantages of an alliance with the Yellow Ribbon. But you spoke confidently, with authority, and they were most likely to treat you with deference. Of course a few of them took themselves seriously enough to think that they could challenge him. Usually a call to his men and a hard thumping would be enough to cure that kind of arrogance. But here, he had no men. He had no one but himself. One mis-step, one slip, and these soldiers wouldn’t follow him into a public toilet, much less battle. Sure, he was armed and they were not, but even threatening them at this point would betray a lack of certainty on his part. No, he needed to act just the way the role demanded: as the arrogant son of the Imperial House who was calling upon their service because it was his by right. Anything less would court disaster. Lieutenant Wu was the first to answer. “You said . . . a hundred and twenty . . . years?” “Yes, Lieutenant. Over a century. You can cry about it later, and I promise to buy the beer to toast your long-lost comrades. But here and now I have need of the Imperial Guard. Are you with me . . . or will you slink back to your coffins and await eternity there?” Wu swallowed. “Sir . . . Your Highness . . . forgive me . . . the hibernation, it can cause . . . mental lapses. But we have to be certain – I’m sure you understand.” Johnny nodded. “I do. And I can stand here and sing the regimental songs of every Imperial unit in the Army to prove myself, but I really don’t have time. Shan Yu is loose from his own prison, along with the White Tigers, and he holds friends of mine captive. So please forgive my gorram brisk manner if I decline to do so because it’s a waste of my ruttin’ time!” “Sir! You are definitely a Lei, Sir!” Wu grinned. “Tigers? They . . . they are loose? And Shan Yu?” “Every horrible nightmare is loose on this ship,” Johnny warned. “And I am alone. I will go fight him alone, if I must, but I’d rather have a few platoons of the Guard behind me, if you don’t mind. Now, tell me: are you with me?” “Yes, Your Highness!” the men said in unison. There was a murmur afterwards about the White Tigers and their evil Master. The men of this unit had been chosen, it seemed, because they had each suffered a loss at the hands of the Tyrant. To say they were suddenly eager for battle was an understatement. “Command us, Lord!” Wu said, proudly. “Half of you dress yourselves and gird for battle. The other half, continue waking your comrades. When you have awakened twice your number, pass along your duties and prepare yourselves. I want three hundred Guardsmen suited up and ready to march before another hour passes. Understand?” “Yes, Your Highness!” the men called again in unison. Then they broke and went to their respective tasks. Save one. “My . . . my apologies, Your Highness,” the private who had insulted him said, bowing low before him. “I did not—” “Clear your head, Corporal, I’d be as like to do the same, were our positions reversed. Go prepare yourself. Put your uniform on once again. And don’t worry about the stripes – if you aren’t dead in the next ten hours, you may keep them.” “Thank you, Your Highness!” the man said, continuing to bow until he backed into his capsule and stumbled. He turned and opened the compartment that held his dress and his weapons and began hurriedly putting them on. Johnny stood and surveyed them as they dressed, smiling softly. Inside, he was about to pee his pants, he was so nervous. But he was a good liar, and this was a good lie, so he remained composed – exactly as he supposed a real Prince might. Just to add a little extra reinforcement, he began singing their regimental song, which the men quickly picked up. By the second chorus they were all singing, and it kept up until the last of the men he required was awakened. It was a little over the top, but a lie like this deserved the very best.

*

*

*

HAMMERSTRIKE TEAM TWO –25:04

“So just who the hell are these johnnies?” Julian asked, viewing a capture taken by a remote controlled recon unit no bigger than a deck of cards. In the screen were the strutting figures of the White Tiger guards, looking very professional in their long white and blue coats, carrying their rifles and other weapons with the kind of precision and confidence one found in an elite corps. Julian glanced up to his own men, who were slouched, slumped, and huddled in irregular masses around the room they had chosen as a temporary rest stop. They were a disheveled mess, and despite Singh’s pretensions of them being a “crack mercenary unit” they were only mildly better trained than the odds-and-ends that had made up the other group. Indeed, he had seen hill-bandits with better discipline. “Those are White Tigers, Sir,” Rel said, making a parody out of his pose of attention. “Imperials, I guess, but not like . . . they ain’t like the other ones, the ones we chased here. Them’s old-time Imperials. Frozen, like. Hibernation. Didn’t know they could do that,” he admitted. “Hibernation, you say?” Julian was intrigued – and frightened. He had expected a lot of old combat equipment to be stashed on this ancient hulk of a ship, and he’d been right. He had not expected there to be any actual personnel on board. The Tigers were known to him by historical reputation, of course. Personal guard of some nutter in Yuanese history. Went underground after the Lei Restoration, it was said, became a Tong before they got wiped out in some forgotten gang war. But these men were not gangsters. They were professional soldiers, and damn good at their trade, from what he could tell. “Yessir. Don’t rightly know how they done it, but there’s . . . a bunch of them. At least fifty-odd, from what I seen. And good shots, too. Real professionals. They took what was left of our guards like they was in kindergarten.” “After most of you had fallen to a seventeen year old girl,” Julian growled. “Beggin’ your pardon, Sir, and meanin’ no disrespect, but I’d reserve your judgment on our performance until you had your ass handed to you by River Tam your ownself. She’s . . . she’s incredible. Ain’t no better word for it. Everywhere at once, and nowhere. Couldn’t land a single gorram blow on her sweet body, nosir.” The tone of admiration in the boy’s voice was apparent, but Julian let it slide. For all his countrified mannerisms, Fexive was actually being quite valuable as an intel source. If he had a crush on the target, well, it wasn’t exactly protocol, but he didn’t see the harm. “And these Tigers took River down?” “Took five or ten to do it, with stunners,” Fexive admitted. “I see. And where are our men being held?” Julian asked, pulling out a rough sketch map on a flexi that he had copied off of a convenient “you are here” sign. “Near as I can tell, there’s a storage compartment down thataways an’ to the left, big ‘un too. Four guards outside, and two squads o’ three patrolling both ways, here an’ here. That’s where they’s keepin’ ‘em. Further down is a big bay the Tigers are bivouacked in. An’ their officers are in one o’ these rooms on the left. You can probably get a creepy-crawly over to that section if you’re careful.” “Good call,” agreed Julian, who immediately told off two of his best men (he winced at the thought) to do so. He had packed a wide range of such espionage supplies, not knowing exactly what he’d be running into, and among them was a spiderish looking drone smaller than his palm that could climb walls and run across ceilings. Twenty minutes later the men reported back, and his viewer was able to pick up the activity in the halls Fexive suggested. Just as the boy had said, there was a lot of patrol traffic on that corridor. “Jesus!” Julian said, wiping his brow. “They’ve about got us outnumbered just with their patrols! You said there was about fifty?” “Probably more,” conceded the boy. “There’s at least fifty.” “Well, I can see right now that a frontal assault isn’t going to work,” Julian said with a sigh. “But we have to do something. I just wish I knew what that was.” He stopped his speculation when the far door opened and two more Tigers appeared, guns slung, bearing a man in a filthy, torn shirt that had the Hammer Group logo on it. The man’s face was misshapen and the picture was poor, but they came close enough to the bug for him to recognize the unconscious victim. “Oh, God, they got Goetz!” Julian swore. “He was a zit of a human being, but gorram they messed him up!” “Goetz?” one of the men asked across the room. “The guy with the big mouth?” “Well, I don’t think that will bother you any more,” explained Julian sarcastically. “Looks like they cut out his tongue and busted out his teeth.” “They what?” the man replied, turning pale. “These aren’t the Imperial rebels we’ve been chasing,” Julian explained, loud enough for everyone to hear. “They’re old-time elite troopers from the Yuanese Imperial Army. The White Tigers were vicious, and it doesn’t look like a century in a freezer improved their disposition.” “Jesus!” one of the other men said as he watched the unfortunate prisoner being tossed back into the holding cell. “Jesus ain’t got nothin’ to do with that,” Fexive explained, shaking his head in horror. “Captain Martel, what the hell do we do about that?” the man – Fields, if he remembered correctly – asked pointedly. “We’re gonna wait, and rest, and bide our time,” Julian said with a heavy sigh. “Then we go in and shoot every white-coated sonuvabitch in the room. Goetz was an asshole, but he was our asshole, gorram it, and this makes this more personal. But we don’t go rushing in willy nilly. We sit back and collect intel until we know when to act and how. Then we move. Not before.” “They look pretty mean, Boss—Captain,” Fields said. Fields had been a convict-slave, transported from Hera when his criminal gang was busted up, and he sometimes slipped into that mode. He was a thug, but a talented thug. “They do. We won’t take them all on at once, though. We can try to bleed off just enough strength to get through to our men, if we put our heads together.” “An’ River. She’s in there, too,” Fexsive added. “And she’s the payout, she and that devious brother of hers,” Julian said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Those Tigers must be one of the other reasons they’re here. Probably thought to wake them up, use them as his own private army. But they’re soldiers, not criminals, and they rebelled. Took her hostage. Makes sense.” “Maybe we should send for Captain Singh?” Fields asked doubtfully. “Couple extra guns might could do us in good stead.” “Take too long for him to get here,” Julian disagreed. “If they spend our men like they did Goetz, there won’t be too many left by the time he got here. No, lets study the issue for a bit and see what we can manage to do with what we have here. Maybe take a prisoner of our own, get a better handle on the situation. I— hey, they’ve got someone else. Pan left. Pan left! There! It’s one of them.” The guards re-emerged from the makeshift cell with another prisoner, a Sinic man in black combat dress, bearing the Imperial war crest. He looked resigned to his fate, and more than a little frightened. But he walked with his chin up, proudly. “Poor bastard,” Julian muttered. “Goetz didn’t know go se, but this boy might.” “Think we can contact his people, maybe get some reinforcements? Common cause, and all that.” “I’m in favor of buggin’ out,” one of the men called out. “No reinforcements, no support. Those guys look tough.” “Don’t be an idiot,” Sinclair snapped back. “We don’t cooperate with criminals and rebels. We capture them. And we don’t bug out just because we don’t have the luxury of reinforcements. No, we make do with what we have.” He gave a glaring stare to every man in the room. "Now, let’s put together a couple of plans and see what kind of damage we can do to them. Couple of y’all were Browncoats, I expect you know how to effectively fight a superior force. Then we go in and make the pick-up, get back out, and then we bug out. But not while those men are in enemy hands. Those are your comrades in there. They’re counting on you. You saw what they did to Goetz. Every one of them is in mortal danger. And you could have been in their place by the smallest twist of fate. So let’s figure out how to crack this egg and quit bitching and moaning about the unfairness of the ‘verse.” That cowed them. They came together almost eagerly then, making suggestions for lethal distractions and deadly ambushes. Once they were given free reign, some of the former Browncoats did have some novel suggestions. Julian grinned quietly as he heard them, and suddenly he didn’t resent his men’s lack of military polish so much. In their element, they were quite adept, he realized. But they could have been a pack of half-trained chimpanzees and he would still have planned to go in. The horrible look on Goetz’s face was burned into his mind. He couldn’t let that happen to any more of his men. If he did, he’d be no better than Dr. Simon Tam.

*

*

*

AD HOC SEARCH & RESCUE TEAM -25:20

“Wake up, Doctor. You’re drooling.” Zoë’s voice was polite, amused, almost patronizing. But it had enough of an edge to it to bring him to full wakefulness and even don a sheepish grin. He had figured that the lurch of the mule would keep him awake after Zoe volunteered to spell him at driving. He had underestimated how profoundly weary he was. “Um, are we there yet?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “You ain’t the best help in the look-out department,” Zoe gently accused. “Hard to keep your eyes pealed when they’re wrapped up like that.” “Sorry. I felt like I haven’t slept in days.” “You haven’t. Either have I.” “I don’t know how you do it,” Simon admitted. “Drugs. Stims,” she explained. “I been taking them for . . . I don’t know, I pop one every time I feel like laying down and dying of exhaustion.” “I suppose I should have another dose. I’m wary of them – some colleagues in Capital City became quite fond of them in residency.” “I hate ‘em, myself. But I’m even less fond of getting’ shot up, even if I got one of the best trauma surgeons in several cubic parsecs in my kit. Don’t worry it, Doc. I learned a long time ago that you gotta do what you gotta do to keep yourself going.” “And I have to do a pill, or I’ll be useless,” he said, popping a half-empty bottle of them open and chasing it with water from his canteen “More useless, that is. Hmm, I thought there were more of these than this. Are you sure we aren’t going around in circles? I could have sworn I saw that door just a moment ago.” “Trust me, Doc, we’re on the trail,” Zoe insisted. “Blood is dandy for that purpose. Makes things much easier. And we have to be gaining on him, too. The drops are too close together – he ain’t movin’ that quick. We should be coming up on him sometime real soon,” she said, hopefully. “I hope so,” Simon said, yawning widely. “Because I’m beginning to be vexed with the old coot. Don’t misunderstand me, I think he’s a kind old gentleman, and a credit to his vocation. But leaving my care like that just . . . well, it pisses me off a bit,” he admitted. “Why Doctor!” Zoe said, feigning shock, “I believe you just used a vulgarity!” “The situation called for it. I’ve never had much use for clergy – we were raised Church of Osiris, about as bland a denomination as you could ask for – and then there was that Catholic crowd in the Black-Out zones, and the Han-su Temple monks, always hitting us up for donations for one charity or another. Mother and Father encouraged us to attend for social reasons and give generously from a sense of noblesse oblige. But River was too smart to be taken in by religion, and I was too busy learning how to play God to learn how to speak to Him. Shepherd Book is about the closest thing I’ve met to a real holy man. And I can’t help but think that that kind of foolishness is responsible for his . . . early discharge.” “God makes a man do strange things,” Zoe cautiously agreed. “I think it would be more accurate to say that religion makes a man do strange things,” Simon corrected. “It’s difficult for me to pin this kind of behavior on God.” “You don’t believe in God, Doctor?” “Not as such, no. Oh, I’m sure that something or other ‘created’ the ‘verse, but . . . so what? What matters is that we are here, and what and how we do things. I’m not sold on the fluffy afterlife, or on the threat of reincarnation. I’ve got more important things to do.” He stopped and realized something. “Um, I hope I’m not offending you, Zoe . . .” “Not at all,” she replied, smoothly. “Seen all manner o’ preachers – lot more common on the Rim than in the Core, leastways men like Book. People take their religion serious on the frontier. When you watch your kids die o’ starvation, or your crops that you depend on get smashed by hail, or some new disease wipe out half your town, or Reavers hittin’ every remote village on your world, well, you have a mighty intimate relationship with the Almighty. Me? I hold them as would cleave to scripture in respect, if they’re sincere about it. Seen a good preacher have a powerful effect on a situation. Seen plenty more what slunk away to save their own skin the moment things went bad. “But I believe in God, no doubt. Seen too much, done too much to not believe. Not exactly sure what our relationship is like, but . . .” “I see your point,” Simon said. “I’m still thinking about killing Book, the moment he’s well, for depriving me of sleep and eventually sanity.” “Best you do it while he’s sleepin’,” Zoe cautioned. “Book, he ain’t no ordinary preacher. You may have noticed that.” “I may have,” agreed Simon. “He almost told me, once, what he used to do. We were on a shuttle, and drinking, if I recall. But something came up. Still, while my association with the violent professions is admittedly limited, even I can see that he’s been well trained in the martial disciplines.” Simon blinked, tiredly. “That doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about it, though.”

*

Book listened to the rattletrap mule pass by his location, slow enough for him to catch a snatch of conversation or two. He startled when he realized that the two young folk were discussing him, then grinned. He had never really meant to be such an enigma, but part of him couldn’t help but be pleased at the attention. He had become aware of his pursuers some time ago, and once he realized that they were following a blood trail he had laid an elaborate double-back to throw them off his trail. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go back with them – by God, he hurt, and a few days of rest and medication sounded mighty appealing. But he had work to do yet before he could lay the burden of pain down for a moment. And it was God’s work, not to be denied. Most ministers spoke of being ‘called’ or ‘moved’ by God when they spoke of their motivations. He wasn’t denying their veracity, but there was a difference in deciding which pastoral position to choose and fulfilling holy destiny. It was not a fate he looked forward to, but it was as clear to him as the Way was to Master Lei. He had been put in a place and position and had been given a mission, and despite his wounds, and his pain – Lord Almighty, how he hurt! – and despite the drugs that were keeping him on his feet (lifted from Simon’s medikit) he knew with perfect clarity where his path lie. Book took a moment to pop a pill of his own, then closed his eyes and waited for the stimulant to infuse his brain. It was a heady, electric feeling. He gazed off into the darkness of the corridor beyond, his heart resigned to the necessity of blazing a new path to where he needed to be – Zoe and Simon would be searching along the one route he knew for certain led to his destination. The sight of the corridor was gloomy, lit by intermittent emergency lights only half of which worked. In his fatigued- and highly-medicated state of mind, the corridor beckoned like the first gate to Hell. It was dark, and worse yet, he would be carrying his own darkness with him. But that was why you had recourse to prayer. “ ‘Lighten our Darkness, Lord, we pray, and in Thy mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night,’” he recited under his breath. It was an ancient prayer, by Augustine of Hippo, in the early, dark period of the Church. It was no less apt here. When the sounds of the mule were long gone Book pushed himself to his feet and began lurching down that dim corridor, not even the comfort of a walking stick to help keep him on his battered feet. He could have grumbled at that – if God was sending him on His errands, part of him reasoned, the least He could do would be to provide some assistance – but Book also knew that to be meaningful, what he had to do would have to be done on his own. He had a meeting to keep, and he would keep it if it killed him. It wasn’t his script, but he had to act his part even if he had no say in what the part was. He had surrendered utterly to the moment, knowing that God had sanctified his suffering as recompenses for making him an instrument of His divine will. His surrender was part of his atonement. No, this had to be done by him alone, on his own two feet, injured though they were. God had asked him to suffer, perhaps even die, and Book was happy to be able to fulfill that role in His plan, as imperfect as he was. It was in His hands, now, not Book’s. As a reminder of that, another prayer came unbidden to his lips, one written by Ignatius Loyola, a wounded soldier turned preacher, Saint, and founder of the Jesuit Order.

Take, Lord, all my liberty My memory, my understanding And my whole will. You have given me all that I have, All that I am, And I surrender all to Your divine will That you dispose of me. Give me only Your love and Your grace, With this I am rich enough And I have no more to ask.