Henriad (History Plays, Book 5)

1: the brightest heaven of invention

Harry

The sun is barley rising when I roll out of bed and to my knees to prayer. My whispered words carrying barely across the room yet I trust in them. I rise slowly, checking the time. I slept but three hours. Good enough. My Globe prep uniforms hangs ready, but I ignore it for the present, instead slipping into my riding clothes.
I collect Dodger from the kitchens and escape the now silent house. Summer is nearly upon us and the fields are all in bloom. It's Midnight's turn so I fetch a bridle for the old horse and soon we are off. The animals are loath to miss their morning rides, as I am.  I explain to them that I'll be out of town next week, but Joan has sworn to me she'll brush them.
It's far too warm for skating and to be fair I have a busy schedule. I spend as much time as I dare walking among the pines, finding sticks to throw for the dog. There's work to be done. Always work to be done.
The ride home goes quicker because I let Midnight break into a canter as he likes. Then, once I've settled him, I slip back in the slowly waking house to change for my morning meeting.  Not school. It's not a secret that I'm completing my senior year of high school, but Globe Prep's awkward uniform does not entirely inspire confidence. I instead put on a black turtle neck, black jeans, and a thick belt, though I do wear the same black boots I'll wear to school later.
I stop at my dresser. It's no use mourning the dead. It doesn't make them less gone. It never has. They go. They leave me here. And for whatever reason I live on. However.
"I really wish you were here to laugh at me about this," I say, laying my fingers gently on Ned's picture.
"Not you," I look at my father's image, which has sat on my dresser with my mother's, for the three years since he passed, "You'd call me a fucking idiot. I already know that."
"But I swear I did still need you," I say, fingers on the edge of the cool glass frame of Ned's photo. Him and I in our uniforms, smiling, me holding the camera with my longer arms, a few months after the accident, me hiding my scarred face in his soft black hair. Fifteen months, three days, eleven hours, eighteen minutes, and twelve seconds, since I lost my best friend. His mother called me, sobbing nine o'clock at night. Brain aneurism. Nothing anybody could do or have predicted. He collapsed one evening not a few hours after I dropped him off at home. Doctors could do nothing, God took him from us in the breath of a moment. God and I have long discussed why he'd need my Ned more than me.
"Smile down at me?" I entreat, then kiss the picture, then steady myself with a breath. They are all waiting for me on the other side. It's up to me to continue ruling the world on this one.
I put on my glasses, and put a hand through my hair. Good enough.
I skip breakfast in favor of my meeting. Thomas can handle everyone's homework.
When I get to my office (not my private office, the one I meet people in, formerly my father's office) Canterbury and Ely are already waiting like I instructed them to be. I don't like waiting on people, quite the other way around.
I cross to my desk but do not sit. My father's old trick was to sit and make them stand as a show of his dominance. However, I cannot get over the simple pleasure of looking down at everyone I talk to.
"Well?" I ask, tipping my head.
"They have agreed to your offer," Ely says, looking nervous (good).
"And he would yield the entire great lakes territory to my men?" I confirm.
"If you produce the sum before the end of the month sir----" Canterbury says, a little condescendingly, "Even if you liquidated all of  your assets—"
"I can have the money," I say, coolly, "It's up to you to ensure he stays to his bargain can you manage that?"
"Sir, if I may, how on earth could you possibly raise fifty million dollars in the span of a week and a half?"
"It is not for you to doubt what I can, or cannot do," I say.
They nod a bit, rightfully put in their place.
"What was Dauphin's answer, when you informed him of my offer?"  I ask.
They exchange glances.
"Doubt?" I ask.
"Something of that kind, sir, he made a joke."
"Was it funny?" I ask, dryly.
"He said if it didn't interfere with your tennis lessons."
I smile humorlessly, "Then let us show him we're men of our word. I'll trust you to see yourselves out. I have my household to attend to."
So, I should probably explain all that. In a hypothetical legal sort of way. I run a rather profitable import/export empire that spans most of the west coast. A fellow who for the sake of your anonymity in this matter we're going to refer to as Dauphin, is one of the players in a competing empire, which my great grandfather once mostly controlled. Anyway, things have gotten a bit hot for him at the moment as his employers are allowing him personally to take the fall for various legal missteps.
He needs the afore mentioned sum of money, clean, in order to avoid extended confrontations with various government agencies, and in return, he's able to give me the contacts and support that I need in order to seize control of a large amount of territory. Naturally, I want to do it, and if I were my father he would be tied to a chair with needles under his finger nails happily telling me all I need to know. But my father's dying words to me were to do things the way I'd do them, not the way he would, and I'll live a lot simpler.
Ergo, I need fifty million dollars. Now, to be clear, I do have much more than that in assets, but they aren't liquid. Brief explanation of liquidity of assets. Liquid means I can spend it how I like right now. The money I have is tied up in various stocks, bonds, off shore holdings, properties, and things of that nature.
Why not liquidate some of your assets then, Harry? You'll get it all back surely. Yes, I will, but the thing is, when I liquidate assets, then I make a profit, if you sell stocks, sell a house, sell a painting, you make a profit that becomes reportable income I am then taxed on it. More than that, people tend to take notice when you make millions of dollars just randomly, then mysteriously coincidentally your import-export business doubles in size and a fellow the FBI were honing in on gets a one way ticket to a mansion in the Caymen islands. Yes, the feds make their mistakes, but they're not stupid.
Where are we? Yes, I need fifty million dollars, in a subtle manner, that I haven't at the moment got.  Now, I've got liquid cash. A lot of it in fact, it pays to, especially when you do things like this and you have six younger siblings to support, I have got, let's just admit, a ridiculous amount of money that I can readily get my hands on. I don't tend to bring up a lot because I try to stay modest but just so you're aware we're something like absurdly wealthy. I can touch one or two million with relative ease.
But how to make even say, five million, the balance in my emergency scheme fund #5, into fifty million in the span of a week and a half? If only there were already semi-legal, off shore betting pool going on, over the hockey games of ridiculously wealthy prep school children, whose parents who have more money than sense enjoy betting on their exploits because you started the tradition to begin with three years ago solely because you and your best friend who was a math wizard were slightly intoxicated and thought it would be funny at the time? If that were going on, and if you happened to be on one of the more how shall we say, rag tag, teams, who had, I don't know, 45-1 odds of winning a seven game play off against the best team in the league whose players are on the Olympic team? Well. All you'd have to do is win, then, isn't it?
"You got your skates, Jon?" I ask, as I walk into the kitchen where my siblings are already having breakfast.
"We're not skating," Jon, with his mouthful..
"We fucking are—we're in the playoffs," I say.
"Coach Bill said the season was over, and that he wouldn't be disgraced by us, but mostly you, again," Thomas, so tired and not even like, wanting to  know why I care suddenly.
"Who is in charge here? Coach Bill or me? Clearly me, skates," I say, snapping my fingers as I go to the table. "Oh, Lox you're an angel Sara," I address our cook.
"He won't eat," she points at Skander who has peanut butter on his fingers.
"Course you won't—can I have a hug little man? Come here," I pick him up.
"I want to go skating," he whispers, grinning.
"We're talking about at school; you can watch if Joan will bring you," I say, bouncing him. How did Joan react to the fact that our father had a bastard he artfully avoided telling her about prior to his death? One that was not even born when he first started going out with her? Whom he was well aware of but refused to acknowledge or have the courtesy to tell her about? I wouldn't know. I wrote her a note and left it in her room. I would have told her had she been leaving her room, but she was too busy crying and such over his death and some of us had an empire to run so I thought she should know why a random baby was around.
"Yes! We're going to the playoffs," Pippa is really supportive of this. She climbs onto my back, sealing her arms around my neck.
"You're not even dressed for school," Thomas says, accusingly , "You're gonna be late."
"Have we ever been late?" I ask.
"Six times," Edmund says, without looking up from his breakfast.
"Are we really going to the playoffs even if Coach Bill says we're not?" Rey asks.
"Can you avoid getting thrown off the ice for the entire seven games?" I ask.
"Why do you care so much about this?" Thomas asks. I ignore him.
"Probably not," Rey mumbles. So while our dad was alive he didn't let Rey participate in any sports or anything because he was "too  violent" and "punched enough people without sticks being put in his hands" and "likely to go to prison or get murdered as it is".  He let him be in debate team for a bit but that ended like you'd expect. But I felt bad for him and so now he participates in sports. The reason Coach Bill said we aren't going is because two of our team quit because Rey was 'unnecessarily violent' and 'very annoying' and 'needed to quit arguing with them constantly about everything'. I'm trying with him.
"Well, you're gonna do your best," I say.
"Why seven games?" Blanche asks.
"I make more money if we play all seven," I say, my mouthful.
"I fucking knew it!! I knew you had a fucking angle! You promised me you disbanded that stupid betting pool," Thomas growls.
"I lied it's therapeutic Ned helped me set it up it's sentimental now I like it I shan't and I get to do what I want because I'm oldest what I say goes it stays we're going to all be rich men because of me you're welcome," I say, all in one breath, as Skander and I eat off the same bagel.
"We're already rich," Jon says.
"We can be richer? What's wrong with you people? Where's your ambition?" I ask.
"We're at the top of the world," Thomas says.
"So we fly to the stars."
"This, this is why I shouldn't listen to you talk; I start to agree with you even when it's a bad idea," Thomas says, hands over his ears.
"I think it's a great idea," Pippa says.
"Thank you, darling. You and your sister are gonna help me here,  you're gonna help Rey practice because you're gonna piss him off royally and he's going to just cuss you out and not punch you okay?" I ask.
"We can do that."
"We can totally do that."
"They do not have to do that," Rey says.
"Are you still in ISS?" I know he is.
"He is," Jon says.
"Fine, but it's more fun; the point of hockey is to get in fights!"
"Yeah, bro, but not with your own team," Jon says, ruffling his brother's hair.
Rey sighs heavily.
"I don't know why you're burying your head in your hands Thomas, this is going to be fun," I say.
"I don't know why you think that something that could be the death of both of us is going to be fun."
"I've only almost died while playing hockey once and that was an outlier—"
"I'm talking about whatever scheme associated, but go on, justify this—"
"If there's no danger there's no glory. Wouldn't you rather live as a legend than die as a secret?" I ask.
"I don't know actually what that means."
"Don't dwell on it. Or do, later, come on, I've got to get changed all of you to your respective cars, Thomas—,"
"Don't even try; it it's my day to drive—"
"Your day to drive— I'll be downstairs in five minutes," I say, handing Skander to Blanche.
"The stairs will take you five minutes!"
"It'll take longer with you arguing!"
All right. Now's as good a time as  any to fill you in a bit on the things you need to know about hockey moving forward. This isn't everything there is to know about hockey, but it ought to do the trick so we can go on with our tale.
Hockey is played in a series of playoffs, with the final set being best four our of seven. Now, up till the final set, it's a tiered face offs, professional play offs are all best four out of seven, but for our purposes as a school league, only the last is best four out of seven. That's why I said we're going to seven games, obviously the betting changes based off of each game and the odds change each time. I've bet that we win game 7 so we're doing that. This league is all private prep schools (read, rich) and so we are playing other schools all over the country. Typically you play within your region but we're special so, moving on.
Hockey games are played in three twenty minute periods, after which point if you're in a tie you go into overtime, which has special rules we won't get into here. Each team is allowed six players on the ice at each time including the goalie. So, one goal tender, usually two defensemen, two frontlines men, one center (the positions that are non-goal tender are called forwards). This all gets rather technical but suffice to say defensemen typically just work with the goalie to defend the goal, while the frontlines men and center all work to score.
These players make up a line or lines, and lines are usually static, that is the players on a line usually all play together. Typically, your forward three are a line, and the the defense are their own line. Coaches can change lines, there is no hard and fast rule, at any point.   Lines relieve each other.
In general, you will have three or four major lines, and those cycle out throughout the game at the coach's and captain's discretion. That said, if a player is injured or breaks a stick or whatever, they can change out with another player without changing the whole line. There are nuances to all of this, but this is the basics.
There are usually twenty people to a team, NHL has their own regulations, but leagues like ours are a bit looser because the more kids who want to play, the more money for the school, etc. Fifteen to twenty five is the average numbers for our league. Because we are fancy private schools, we have co-ed teams due to class size, my great grandparents sueing the leagues so that their daughters could play, my grandfather re-sueing the league so his nieces could play, and women's rights and such.
Usually, you have two goalies per team. In real world, professional games, one is the 'starting' goalie who plays the whole game, the other is the back up who comes in only if the starting goalie is injured or bleeding goals (that is letting a lot of goals in) or what have you. In our world, of a school league, we usually have two goalies who switch out every period so it's eventually even and they both get equal ice time. Some teams the goalies take turns playing defense and goalie.
So the remaining eighteen players are divided up into lines, that the coach will then deploy effective at will. There's loads of strategy to it obviously, what with who goes when and who plays with whom, but again this is the basics so that you can enjoy our narrative.
Depending on the coach's discretion, players usually only play about fifteen to twenty minutes out of the overall sixty minutes of game play. That sounds like not a lot, but consider that because we're spending the whole time speed skating, in some armor, with a stick, and fighting, players burn somewhere around 2,000 calories each game. That's a lot, and we're doing that in like twenty minutes. Suffice to say, it's exhausting at best. Defensemen usually clock more ice time than your centers and frontline's men, but that's not a rule, they just generally change out a bit less.
How coaches run their teams is up to them, and there's no rule about how many centers you have to have versus defensemen. In general, defensemen hang back, they're usually big and tough, they help defend the goal. Frontlines men go back and forth a bit, they can defend but they are generally offensive, they work the puck down the ice to score. Centers are usually the big scorers, they are the ones that are the best with stick work and they're solid enough to get close to the goal to score.
I play center, Rey plays defense, Thomas is a frontlines man, and Jon is our goal tender. I should by all accounts be defense if only because of my size. However, let's back up.
I spent a ridiculous amount of time in my youth on the frozen over backyard pond with the league's as yet undefeated all time high scoring player. Yeah, Richard was absurdly good at hockey, namely scoring, and he taught me the physics and mathematics of it after being contracted by my father to make me go to sleep. I'm not actually technically talented at it, I've just got the advantage of being coached by someone who could have been an NHL draft pick who taught me to practice scoring as a way to relax.  I still do it and I've perfected myself as a matter of form to where I'm really not shabby at it myself.
Rey is defense, because while he's short (he's five five) he has never met a person he wouldn't fight. Size means nothing to him. He'll punch anyone and is intimidated by nothing. It's great. I really love him so much. Like I said, our father was against him doing sports, but after he passed, Thomas and I figured it would be okay. Joan reluctantly agreed even though we didn't want her opinion and it was settled.
Jon is a goal tender because when I was practicing all those shots, guess who wanted to block me and loved it better than anything when he succeeded? Jon, yes, who Richard would practice on as well just for fun. The boy has had pucks flying at him since age four which was when Thomas and I figured we could reliably get him out there without hurting him. We would sneak out around midnight, the three of us, trip on down to the pond. Soon enough we were bringing Rey with us. We'll still spend winter evenings like that, the girls need to learn these things. And in a couple more years Skander is going to be bundled up in goalie pads and everyone of us will shoot pucks at him he's gonna love it it's going to be so good for him mentally I think.
Thomas is frontline because while he's not great at scoring he's great at setting up a goal and he's a solidly fast skater despite being five foot two. His legs are like, so short, I don't know how he moves them that fast but you know whatever. He's a steady, reliable player who doesn't start fights but he's sturdy enough to make a good offense. He's played since he could walk and because he doesn't argue with people for fun (me and Jon and Rey), our dad would teach him sometimes. That was a fun bonding thing only he and Blanche had with our dad because they aren't "annoying" or "needlessly violent". He said all that like we didn't fucking get it from him. Anyway.
Scoring in hockey is pretty simple. Whoever gets the most goals wins, there are ways to foul and all of that, penalty shots, the like. We'll get to all of that as we come to it as needed, that's about everything you need to know for now for us to proceed and have a good time. Again, that's all very basic there are nuances to all of it---don't strictly matter though not just yet anyway. For now, let's go on with the story.