Zeren pondered the question long and hard, letting his gaze wander over the cracks in the ceiling. He looked, Sulun noted, worse than last time. "Nowhere in the south," he finally said. "Nowhere you could reach. Neither could you get safe passage to any of the isles. It's hopeless."
"There must be somewhere!" Sulun insisted. "And no, before you ask, I've not lost hope for the bombard. Given time, I can make it work. If not given time, I ask you, where can I take us to be safe?"
"Us?" Zeren looked at the little gathering clustered in his dining room. "You've never considered going your separate ways?"
"No," said Omis, Sulun, and Vari together.
Vari added, "How would we take care of the children?'
"So it comes to that." Zeren looked at all of them for a long moment. "You may be right, you know. As a family, most especially a family of tradesmen, you could live better than any single man alone—if you could once find a place beyond the reach of the war."
"Where?" Sulun insisted. "Name a place."
Zeren leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. "Behind the lines," he answered. "Could you once get past the army of the Ancar, find a place where they've long since passed, you'd be left alone. Doshi—"
The youth flinched, sat up. "Yes?"
"You know the northlands. Behind the Ancars' lines, what's the land like? What sort of folk live there?'
"Farmers, as I remember." Doshi scratched his arm nervously, unused to being asked for advice. "There were villages, small villas, all over that land before the invaders came. I don't know what's there now."
"I doubt that the Ancar destroyed every village they found," Zeren considered, "or that they found all of them. There's my advice, friends, for whatever good it may do. Go become the blacksmiths and brass smiths of some town behind the Ancars' march—and the further behind, the better. Go up beyond the Gol, if you can, and if you can abide the northern winters. Ah, hell, if Sabis falls, I might even come with you." He poured himself some more wine, seeming in a much better humor.
The others looked at each other, wondering if that was a joke.
Yanados paced back and forth along the worktable, studying the engine model as Sulun assembled it, frowning and muttering to herself until Sulun couldn't ignore her anymore.
"Did you have some complaint?" he asked, setting his tools aside.
"I was thinking . . ." Yanados shuffled from foot to foot. "If such a ship were to meet with pirates, well . . . pirates hire magicians too, you know, to ill-wish their victims."
Sulun shrugged. That made sense, but he couldn't see the relevance.
"Sulun, if a full-sized engine of this sort were ill-wished, what could it do wrong?"
"I don't know," Sulun admitted, peering at his model. "The valves might fail, perhaps. We'll have to make them strong. . . ."
"What else?" Yanados tapped a finger against the tiny boiler tube set over its miniature brazier. "Fire and water, and the fierce pressure-power of steam. Could it . . . explode?"
Sulun dutifully thought about that, thought of the water poured down the funnel, through the trapdoor valve, into the heated brass tube above the brazier, then through the hollowed—and moving—ball-and-socket joint, then into the spinning chamber. What weakness? Where?
The heating tube? Too little water, too little steam, and the -jetted chamber wouldn't spin. Too much water would cool the tube, make too little steam, and again the chamber wouldn't spin. Fill the brazier too scantily and you'd have not enough heat; again, no steam, no spinning. Fill it too full, let the flames or even the coals overlap the tube . . .
"The tube might soften, melt, warp," he admitted, "but that would require so much heat, so much wood—"
"Believe me, if it can be done wrong, some fool sailor will do it. It will not be Natural Philosophers who use this engine at sea."
"True, true . . ." Sulun studied the assembly for a long moment, then abruptly smiled. There was indeed one simple way to keep some fool of a sailor from overloading the brazier. He reached for the metal snips.
"What are you doing with the brazier?" Yanados asked, peeping over his shoulder.
"Making it smaller and shorter," Sulun smiled, plying the heavy shears.
Snip, snip, snip—and the brazier's legs were shortened. Snap, snap, snap—and the bowl of the brazier lost its original rim. Sulun carefully tucked the little model back to its place in the assembly. He scratched some notes on a nearby tablet.
"What would that do?" Yanados asked.
"Small brazier, small fire," Sulun explained. "Load the brazier full as you can, the coals still won't reach the tube and melt it. Hmmm, it wouldn't hurt to make the tube thicker, too. . . ." He scribbled more notes.
"Just be certain no fool can work it wrong," said Yanados, padding toward the door.
Not until after she was gone did Sulun think to wonder how she knew so much about the habits and failings of sailors.
The moon wore away her horns, and nothing improved. Morning reports with Entori grew ever more difficult and unpredictable; his shipping interests did marvelously well on the short Sabis-Mez run, carrying refugees south and food north, but elsewhere on the Inland Sea the trade was dangerous and the old man's temper likewise. Always he exhorted Sulun to hurry with the engine.
At least, Sulun told himself after leaving the master's study in a shower of abuse, the engine model was finished. It worked after a fashion; the tiny valves clearly weren't very efficient, but the rotating platform and gears managed well enough. No sense putting it off; he should begin making the full-sized engine for Entori's ship, as he'd promised.
That meant that Omis would have to put aside work on the bombard to cast and shape the brass fittings for the engine.
"Ah, well," Sulun consoled himself as he entered the courtyard, "It shouldn't take more than a day or two. . . ."
He noticed, as he walked past the end of the morning-report line, that one of the maids was missing.
"Ran away," snorted the housekeeper, when asked. "That lazy slut must have had a better offer from some uphill house. Didn't leave word, either; just out the door and gone."
"Went out shopping yesterday," the porter said, "and never came back."
Sulun left them arguing and went off to see Omis, but the permanent unease in the back of his mind grew another degree thicker. It would be wise, he decided, to start moving as much gear as possible to the river workshop. Starting today.
"The heat's awful," Doshi grumbled, slapping the reins irritably across the lagging mules' rumps. "Only fools go hauling loads about at noon."
"Only fools go out without guards at any other time," Arizun snapped, casting a quick look around the almost empty street. "You haven't seen much of the city since the bad times came, have you?"
"Oh, I know there are more thieves and beggars about, but good gods, there are three of us. And we're armed." Doshi tapped his toes on the hatchet hidden under the carts seat. "And we're not on foot. No need for this."
"Wagoners have been robbed before, and you should keep that closer to hand." Arizun tapped the bulge at his belt under his light cloak. "And three of us wouldn't be enough against a good-sized gang."
"Keep your voices soft," Yanados warned from her perch at the back of the cart. "Don't draw any more attention than we must."
"You've both gone mad with suspicion," Doshi scoffed, in a near whisper. "That or gone silly for the ungodly fun of carrying weapons about. I swear, you're turning barbarous yourselves. Nobody goes armed unless they're looking for trouble—"
"Or expecting it to look for them," Arizun growled. "Keep your eyes on the street, fool."
"Be careful who you call a fool," Doshi muttered, steering the mule team around a corner. "You haven't read half the books—now, what's this mess?"
Several buildings down, the street was half blocked with a tumble of broken furniture and assorted garbage. A man on foot could have passed it, but the mule cart would have considerable trouble.
Arizun saw it, gasped, seized the reins from Doshi, and yanked the mules to a hoof-clattering halt. "Back up!" he hissed. "Back the way we came, fast!"
"What—"
"Damnation!" Yanados yelled, making them both turn and look, as she yanked her hatchet free.
Behind them, perhaps half a dozen ragged bravos—some of them quite young, a few older men—slid out of the doorways to block the street. They carried assorted bludgeons and short knives. They stalked toward the halted cart, smiling grimly, not even bothering to give the traditional stand-and-deliver challenge.
"Back up!" Arizun repeated, shoving the reins at Doshi. Then he scrambled into the back of the cart and fumbled at something under the sacks.
Yanados hissed through her teeth, crouched at the cart's tail, and swung her hatchet in a slow, warning arc. The approaching gang slowed and spread out, still smiling.
Doshi might have argued about backing into a fight, but just then his eye caught motion near the trash pile ahead. Three more club-wielding boys were slinking out of cover, coming toward the mules. Doshi gulped; wasted a precious second fumbling for the hatchet under the seat, and began hauling furiously on the mules' reins. The mules, finally understanding that there was danger ahead, squealed and backed. The toughs ahead moved faster, starting to run.
The six thugs behind the cart stopped where they were, crouched, waiting for the prey to come to them, waited to jump for the tailgate.
Yanados reached out and swung at the nearest, making him hop backward. He recovered and tried to lunge in under her arm, but she caught him backhand on the return stroke. The back of the hatchet head thwacked meanly against his head, dropping him to the ground with a shocked yell and a sudden spurt of bright blood.
The other toughs yelled in outrage, and charged the cart.
Right then, Arizun came up from the cart bed with a short bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. He loaded, snap-aimed, and fired past Yanados, catching one of the boys high in the chest. The boy screeched, dropped his club and knife, stumbled to his knees, and began tugging at the arrow. The others skidded to a stop, unwilling to face arrows. Yanados whooped and swung her hatchet at the nearest, making him dance away.
The thugs ahead of the wagon ran toward the mules, the nearest reaching for the bridles. Doshi, guessing what they meant to do, hauled furiously on the reins, shouting incoherently at the mules. The frightened beasts reared, braying, flailing the air with their hooves, making the attackers scramble out of the way. Doshi used the instant's respite to clutch the reins in one hand and fumble under the seat for the cart-whip with the other.
Arizun aimed and loosed another arrow, this one gouging a path across a half-turned man's ribs and finally lodging itself in his arm. The man howled and jumped away, dropping his knife and club.
The mules dropped back to all fours, and two of the young toughs lunged for their reins. Doshi came up with the whip and lashed out at the nearer, catching him squarely across the face. The thug screamed and stumbled to his knees, pawing at his face, but the other two jumped past him to grab at the mules.
One of the mules reared again, lashing out with its with its hooves and catching one boy with a resounding thump in the belly. The other mule snapped, but missed. The remaining tough grabbed the bridle and hauled the mule's head down, hefted his club, and thwacked the mule about the ears. Doshi snapped out the whip and welted the boy's clubbing arm, making him drop the bludgeon and duck down below the mule's chest, but not shaking him loose. Doshi flailed again with the whip and yelled for help.
Arizun loosed another arrow, puncturing a man's leg. The other two, seeing the odds change drastically, turned and ran. The wounded man limped after them, cursing.
"Back up!" Yanados shouted. "We're clear, Doshi. Back up!"
"I can't!" Doshi yelled, pointing.
Arizun turned around, aimed carefully, and fired. The arrow whizzed past Doshi's ear, through the tangle of reins and harness, and buried itself in the attacker's forearm. The youth screeched and let go of the reins.
Doshi was too frozen to react, but the mules, kicking and braying in outrage, backed up of their own accord. The attacking tough, exposed now, turned and ran.
Arizun, swearing, dropped the bow, clambered back into the seat, grabbed the reins, and pulled the mules further back. A dozen paces and they were at the mouth of the crossing street. Arizun hauled the mules' heads toward the turn, slapped the reins on their rumps, and let them go. The beasts, willing enough, turned and scrambled into the open, empty road.
"No pursuit," Yanados announced from the tail of the cart.
"We'll try again at the second street over," Arizun decided. "It's a good bit wider, no room for traps."
"You had a bow," Doshi squeaked.
"I always do, these days. Lucky thing, eh?"
"You could have shot me!"
"Nonsense, I went right past you. Don't you think I know how to shoot?"
"It's unlawful to carry bows in the public streets!"
"It's unlawful to rob folk, too. Does the law prevent robbers? Hey, pull to the right here; there's our street."
"Is there any blood on me?" Yanados asked, wiping her hatchet clean on some sacking. "And nice shooting, Ari."
Doshi bit his lip and reined the mules toward the turn.
"It might not be that bad everywhere," Sulun considered, remembering his old teacher's endless advice to see a problem from all sides. "This was down toward the river, in a poor section."
"Not that close to the river, not that poor a neighborhood, and in broad light of noon," Yanados glowered, looking up from her long knife and sharpening-stone. "It's that bad, Sulun."
"Very well. We'll have to send out more people with every run to the old workshop. How much do we have there now?"
"Blankets, two changes of clothing, some dried fruit," Vari ticked off on her fingers, her shadow dancing on the yellowed wall behind her. "Sulfur, charcoal, some spare tools (Arizun would know which), some medicinal herbs (not enough), three kitchen knives, four short knives—"
"Not enough," Omis growled. "As soon as I've finished with these cursed brasses, I'll make long knives and arrowheads for the lot of you."
"It might be quicker to go and buy some," Arizun considered. "If enough of us go out together, we should get to the market and back safely."
"We can't spare the money," Sulun pointed out. "We'll just have to make more noon visits to the workshop. You left it closed up tight, I trust?"
"Oh yes," Doshi said, his voice still shaky. "Everything buried, locked, barricaded . . . Do you all intend to carry bows?"
"I can make enough for all of us." Yanados smiled, examining the edge of her knife.
"Was there any sign of tampering about the doors or windows?" Sulun asked.
"A little." Arizun sniffed. "Omis's good iron locks and hinges thwarted them. Hah."
"Well enough. Now supposing we don't have to flee, how much more time before we can get back to work on the bombard?"
"Another tenday, at least," Omis groaned. "All that damned brass, and the gears, and the driving-axle . . . and then the polishing and fitting and assembling . . . Gods, the engine model won't be ready until the end of the month."
Everyone looked at Sulun.
"Gods," he sighed, "What can I tell Zeren?"
Nobody had any suggestions.
"What's that shouting outside?" Ziya piped up, surprising everyone. "Is that robbers?"
Arizun dived for the narrow window, Yanados half a step behind him. "I don't know," he complained. "I can't see a thing from this side. It's toward the front of the house, in the street."
"Go and look then," Sulun ordered them impatiently. "To get on then, Omis, once the engine's complete and we've put it on Entori's damned ship—watch your feet!"
Arizun, Yanados, and Ziya ignored him in their rush for the door. They scurried out into the dim corridor, hugged the wall as they scampered through the darkened courtyard, and clung to the shadows of the main hall as they raced toward the stairs and the front windows. There they pulled up short, seeing two rows of the maids and the porter there ahead of them. Most of the front windows were taken, but the three apprentices managed to wriggle between the maids for a good view.
Shadows leaped in the street, thrown by torches set on top of a huge, box-shaped wagon. Guardsmen stood at the barred rear door of the wagon, and held the heads of the oxen drawing it. Still other guards hurried up the street, driving a knot of complaining men at spearpoint,
As the servants of Entori's darkened house watched, the guardsmen threw open the wagon door and pushed the wailing civilians inside. The door thudded shut, followed by the slam of a heavy bolt. Then came shouts, the clatter of boot heels, and a creaking and rumbling as the wagon rolled off down the shadowed street. The protesting wails of the men locked in the wagon took longest to fade from hearing.
"Why did they take all those men?" Ziya asked of anyone who could answer.
"Press gang," the porter spat. "They're snatching poor folk off the streets to join the army and fight the Ancar."
"We'd best not be seen abroad after dark," Yanados muttered, sliding down from the window. "Still, this might thin out the street robbers."
"Will our walls really keep them out?" Ziya asked.
Nobody answered.
"No sense in delay," Sulun announced, making a last critical inspection of the gear train. "Light the coals and let's pour the water."
"I still don't like the bedding of this axle," Omis muttered, giving the bearings a last squirt of greasenut oil.
"It turns, it turns! Come light the coals."
"All right." Omis poured a few drops of distilled wine spirits on the coals, lit the fumes with flint and steel, and stepped back to watch. The wine spirits burned with a brief blue flame and the coals caught, glowing at the edges first. Omis eyed the copper boiling-tube stretched above the brazier, tapped it to check its heat, then went to the upright funnel at the near end. "Give it another tick of the waterclock, then pour in the water," he decided. "Then, if the valves and tubing can withstand pressure enough to turn the jetwheel, and if the gears don't slip off the paddle wheels' axle, and if the paddle wheels aren't too heavy to turn, this fool thing just might work. Does the old vulture have the paddle wheels constructed yet?"
"Oh, yes." Sulun peered up and down the length of his contraption for the hundredth time, shaking his head over its bizarre shape: the turbine (more like an upright disk than its original globe shape) with its angled escape jets, the copper boiling-tube and brass steam-feed line with their carefully fitted valves and sockets, the short axle with its sturdy gearwheel waiting to engage, the fussy little forest of supports, the bolted-down brazier and the platform they all rested on. It looked utterly eccentric and ridiculous, but he knew it would work. This part of the assembly would, anyway. "He's been nagging me for days about the cost of keeping that expensive gear stored and idle."
"I just hope his carpenters got all the measurements right," Omis worried. "Proper fools we'll look if we get this set on the paddle wheel axle, take it all down to the ship, and the sockets in the deck don't fit."
"Then he can belabor the ship's carpenters, not us. Ah, I think it's warm enough. Pour in the water."
Omis shook his head, lifted the pitcher of water, and poured, carefully, into the upright funnel.
Both men took a few steps back, and waited.
Water gurgled down the funnel, through the first valve, and into the heated copper tube. There was an angry hiss, more gurgling, near-human belches as the steam tried and failed to escape back up the valve, then a faint groan of protest and a puff of steam from the turbine's jets.
Sulun and Omis held their breath and made assorted handsigns for luck. They had made all the parts to triple strength, but still . . .
Slowly, then faster, the turbine moved. It turned, rolled, spun, wreathed in a cloud of dissipating steam like a dimmed sun among roiling clouds. Its attached axle spun with it, and the final gearwheel too.
"It works!" Sulun whooped. "Praise all the gods I ever heard of, it works!"
"And the supports are holding! Look, they're not even shaking! We've done it!"
By the time their combined noise brought the apprentices running in to look, Sulun and Omis were dancing a clumsy version of the Vulgar Hop-Step around a workroom full of warm fog to the tune of the whining, spinning engine. Even Ziya cheered.
"Those sailors will have to cut extra portholes to let out all that steam," Doshi noted, but he was grinning all the same.
"Master, the engine is ready for installation." Sulun did his best to keep his face politely expressionless.
"Excellent." Entori almost smiled, then caught himself. "It took you long enough. Fortunately, the ship is in port at the moment. Do the fitting today, and tell me how well the ship performs. You are excused."
Sulun stifled a sigh, bowed, and went out. There was, he decided, no use expecting any further reaction from the Master.
He supposed he should be grateful for having a whole day to install and test the completed assembly.
"No, no! Great gods, we needed to place the engine first, then the paddle wheels!" Sulun tugged his hair and glared at the sullen ship carpenters. "Now we may have to reset that whole damned axle. Gods! Never mind. Omis, is that platform socket the right size, at least?"
"'Tis. No trouble there." Omis peered once more at the ironbound hole in the second deck, shrugged, and stood up. "Bring up the muscle-boys, and let's get this thing mounted."
Sulun, still pulling nervously at his hair, stood back and let the assorted crew manhandle the engine's platform into place. Omis did all the directing, complete with howls for careful handling, and the platform settled onto its mounting with a satisfying thud. Omis rotated the platform this way and that, glared for a moment at the huge iron axle cutting across the cabin, frowned at the two iron gears set on it, and finally swung the platform around to meet the right-hand gear.
Sulun squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the expected failure. Surely the axle would turn out to be set too high or too low, or the drive gear from the engine wouldn't meet the gear on the axle, or the gear sizes would be wrong, or the perverse things just wouldn't engage. The house wizard was an unreliable drunk, and who could tell what the ship's wizard was up to? He'd have to go back to Entori and report another delay.
"Deese of the Forge," Omis breathed. "The gears meet perfectly."
Sulun opened his eyes and stared. Sure enough, there stood Omis, smiling as if at his own children, studying the juncture of the two neatly meshed gears.
"So the ship can move forward, at least," Doshi commented at his shoulder. "Now, can it stop and move backward too?"
"No reason it shouldn't," said Omis. He gripped two of the handles at the edge of the platform, and pulled. The platform turned smoothly, pulling the drive gear away from the wheel axle, swung in a neat half-circle, and settled against the opposite axle gear with a smug click. "See? Works fine." Omis grinned. "I'll say this much for Entori's other workmen; they can follow instructions to the last number. And his various wizards aren't all bad."
"Gods be praised." Sulun wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Now all we need do is light the coals, pour in the water, and see if this engine will actually drive the ship."
"No trouble there." Omis went to the open hatchway in the deck above and bellowed up through it. "Captain, prepare to cast off. We're about to test the engine."
Groans and curses of dismay echoed down with the sunlight, but Omis ignored them and turned away. "Who has the coals?" he bellowed to all and sundry. "And the bucket?"
Ziya waddled up, toting a dipper and a sloshing bucket nearly as big as she was. Behind her Arizun dragged a huge sack of coals. Yanados followed with the bottle of wine spirits and the flint and steel striker. They filled the brazier, poured on the spirits, lit the coals, and stood by with the water in a neat little ceremony that impressed the watching sailors.
"We're cast off," filtered down through the hatchway. "Are you ready?"
"Wait, wait," said Omis, turning the platform until the gears engaged exactly.
"Wait, wait . . ." said Sulun, watching the copper tube above the brazier. "Now. Pour."
Ziya solemnly lifted the ladle, but couldn't quite reach to the top of the funnel. Omis, smiling, took the ladle from her and poured the water himself.
The engine hissed, gurgled, and belched. The sailors took several respectful steps backward. The captain poked his head down through the open hatchway to watch the proceedings. The first plumes of steam curled out of the jets; the turbine muttered, groaned, began to turn.
Sulun chewed his lip nearly raw and crossed his fingers under the concealment of his sleeves. Had they made the boiling-tube thick enough, the turbine sturdy enough, the valves strong enough?
A faint groan came from the main axle, and a heavier gurgling of water from the unseen paddle wheels outside. Slowly, ponderously, the gear and axle and grumbling paddle wheels began to turn.
Mixed yells came from topside. The captain snatched his head back up through the hatchway. A massive thumping, as of heavy oars, sounded rhythmically through the hull.
The captain stuck his head down through the hatchway once more. "We're moving!" he yelled, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "We're moving!"
Now they could all hear it: the steady thump of the paddles and the sloshing of water moving against the hull. The sailors swapped looks, then cheered. More cheers and yells sounded from topside, along with curses from the steersman and exhortations from the captain. The apprentices hugged each other and danced clumsily around the platform. The rolling turbine shot out steam until the whole engine cabin was fogged and hot. Omis poured another ladleful of water down the funnel and smiled at his sturdily laboring engine much as the gods must have smiled at the new made universe.
Sulun only rubbed his forehead and heaved a profound sigh of relief.
Cheap but colorful banners bearing the name and sigil of Entori's house hung about the dock. A sizable crowd had gathered, and paid criers could be heard to landward summoning still more. Assorted pushcart merchants, taking advantage of the ready audience, peddled their way through the crowd. At the end of the dock, in a small roped-off section, sat chairs and couches for a cluster of Entori's invited guests.
"A good-sized crowd, if not a terribly respectable one," Vari commented from her place by the rail of the ship's top deck. "But as good as our master could manage, I suppose."
"Good enough to spread the word of our success all over the city," Omis considered, idly patting her hair. "Ah, here comes the old vulture now."
Sure enough: preceded by his porter, with his sister Eloti on his arm, followed by all the rest of his household, everyone dressed well for a change, Entori came strutting down the dock. The crowd stepped aside with no urging, murmuring in surprise; it had been many a long day since Entori the Miser had provided public entertainment for anyone. He paused at the end of the dock to make appropriate greetings and trade bits of conversation with the better class crowd assembled there, then gestured theatrically to the rest of his diminished household. The servants dutifully stopped where they were, taking respectful positions out of the guests' line of sight. Entori with a flourish of his heavy cape, escorted his expressionless sister up the gangplank and onto the ship. A handful of sailors dutifully played a short fanfare on the ship's pacing drum and signal trumpet. Entori took his sister to their waiting chairs on the afterdeck and, with another flourish, sat down.
"Not bad, but I've seen better shows," Arizun whispered to the other apprentices. Sulun shushed him.
The ship's captain, doubtless given the task for his loud if unlovely voice, bellowed a short speech to the audience. Sulun heard a dozen references to Master Entori and not one mention of himself or his crew, but only shrugged. It wasn't fame that interested him now. He peered over the railing as best he could, but couldn't see if Zeren was in the crowd.
Entori raised a hand, the sailors responded with another drumroll, and the rest of the crew cast off lines. The steersman took a grip on the tiller as if expecting to wrestle with it. Sulun could hear the gurgling and belching of the engine below; he wished he were close enough to the hatchway to sneak a quick look down into the engine cabin.
A creaking groan came from the paddle wheels, then a slurging of water as the wheels began to move. The crowd on the deck shouted in amazement. Entori for once beamed from ear to ear. It was not a pretty expression.
The wheels turned faster, bringing the paddles up dripping. Water slid under the keel, and the ship shuddered, then slid away from the dock. The steersman, looking martyred, leaned heavily on the sweep. The crowd on the dock howled in shock, wonder, delight; Entori the Miser had at last put on a real show for them, a marvel such as no one had ever seen before, a bit of history to tell their children and neighbors about. They cheered, stamped, applauded, and threw odd items of clothing and food into the air.
"I think our master will be pleased with his reception," said Doshi, wincing a little at the noise.
"Let's hope he's grateful, too," Sulun muttered, keeping a covert eye on Entori. He knew what today's schedule would be: a leisurely sail across the harbor, a brief circle through the calm sea beyond—enough to test the engine's speed and the ship's maneuverability—then back to the dock for a quick examination of the mounts, valves, gears, and bearings before going home to a victory dinner. Somewhere in that period he must catch Entori in a good mood and entice his permission to work fullspeed and fulltime on the Bombard Project.
Meanwhile, seeing that Entori had begun to relax, order wine, and enjoy the voyage, Sulun thought he and Omis should spend some time watching the operation of the engine. He signalled to the blacksmith and made his way unobtrusively down to the engine deck.
The engine's cabin resembled the steamroom at the public baths, making figures indistinct but carrying sound. Two burly sailors were arguing in the fog while Arizun danced around them, ignored by both, insisting that he would dip the water and load the coals, thank you, but they would have to rotate the platform. Another sailor stood by the porthole, dolefully wagging a palm frond fan, trying to drive out some of the steam.
"Who's oiling the gears?" Sulun shouted, cutting off the argument in mid-yell. "And who's watching the axles for vibration? This is supposed to be a test of the engine, and which of you fools is watching the engine?"
The sailors looked guilty. Arizun snickered. Sulun rolled his eyes, flapped his hands in desperation, and got busy with the observations. He made a point of explaining every detail to the sailors at considerable volume, in hope that they'd remember how to do this once the test was over and the ship back to regular work. It occurred to him that he should suggest to the captain that some reliable man be permanently assigned to tend the engine, someone capable of reading the descriptions, understanding the drawings, and making any necessary repairs. He toyed with the idea of a whole guild of ship-engine tenders while he peered at gears, oiled moving parts, and noted water levels.
Soon enough came the captain's bellowed order to reverse course. Sulun pointed imperiously to the two sailors, then to the handles on the platform. "Pull," he commanded. "No, no, you fools! The other way! That's right. Now wait, wait until the axle stops turning. . . . There. Now pull it the rest of the way."
The sailors pulled, the platform turned, the gears engaged with a minimum of protest, and the big axle began turning the other way. Cheers came from above, mixed with wails of complaint from the steersman. The sailors in the engine cabin studied the spinning axle, gears, and the turbine with growing admiration. Arizun smirked as he dumped on more coals. Sulun, noting everyone's sodden clothes and hair, made a quick recommendation for oiling and waxing the decks and bulkheads, and got out of there.
Back on the main deck, he found reason to be grateful for his steambath. The sun was high, the weather burning hot, and everyone but the sailors was wilting visibly. Entori and his sister sat under a hastily erected awning, sipping cups of chilled wine. The others passed around an ewer of lukewarm beer. Sulun strolled quietly to the railing and watched the captain put the ship through its paces: backing straight, backing and turning, ordering full stop and then forward while timing with a small sandglass how long the changes took. The man seemed to familiarize himself quickly with the uses of the engine. Impressed, Sulun waved him a salute. The captain smiled, nodded acknowledgment, and went back to his tests. Best to talk to him later. Meanwhile, observe Entori and pick a good moment to talk to him.
Yanados stood near, eyes flicking over the working sailors but always coming back to the captain. Sulun edged close to her and quietly told her his idea of specialized engine-tending sailors. She nodded agreement, not taking her eyes off the captain.
"I'll talk to the captain, if you like," she offered. "I know the proper words sailors would use, and he'll listen to me. Best if you deal with our master."
Sulun agreed with the tactic, and eased his way toward Entori, studying his target. The man seemed to be in high good humor, actually smiling for a second or two, no doubt thinking of the profits to be made with such a ship as this. No better time than now. Sulun sidled closer.
"I would say the engine is a success, Master," he began.
"Hmm, yes," Entori agreed, barely glancing at Sulun.
Eloti gave them both an expressionless look, said nothing.
"I have another invention in mind," Sulun plunged, "which may be even more profitable. I could proceed using little more than the supplies we already have, and bring you results within another moon or less."
"Another invention?" Entori peered at him, face falling into that habitual look of suspicion. "What is it?"
Sulun took a deep breath. "A new weapon, one that could utterly rout the Ancar, even regain the lands Sabis has lost. The army would certainly pay well for such a thing, as one may guess. With your permission, Master, I will proceed—"
"Not now." Entori dismissed him with a wave of one hand. "The navy will pay well enough for these ship engines—after I've fitted my own ships with them. You will make more such engines."
"Er, these engines can be readily made, Master—by any good smiths in the city, now that we have the designs. You could hire other smiths to make the engines—far more and faster than my little work gang could do—while I work on the weapon. If you will permit—"
"None of that!" Entori snapped. "I'll not have every rude mechanic in the city knowing the secret of these engines, selling the knowledge to every shipper who asks. No, boy, the secret will remain in my house."
"Certainly, Master," Sulun gulped. "In that event, let us hire more workmen to make the engines—make many of them, and quickly—while I proceed with the weapon, likewise in secret. You'll have two fine devices to sell, and nobody else will—"
"What, more mouths to feed? And at such prices?" Entori purpled. "Your lot is expensive enough."
"But it would take us months to build another engine! The time lost—"
"My next ship sails the day after tomorrow, and will not return to port for two good moons. Take your measurements tomorrow and have the engine ready when she returns. Other than that, I see no call for haste—not enough to require hiring more help."
"The household has lost some servants," Eloti put in, surprising both of them. "For replacements, we could hire skilled mechanics from among these northern refugees. They should come cheaply enough, and grateful for a roof over their heads."
Sulun held his breath, giving Eloti a mute look of gratitude, while Entori thought that over.
"Not now," the miser decided. "Not until my next cargo comes in. Prices have been terrible lately, and too many of my debtors have fled south. Meanwhile, Sir Philosopher, go measure the next ship and work with what you have." He waved to a passing servant. "Hey boy, more wine. Ah, servants are all whores, whining and conniving to scrape up more pennies . . . Pour carefully, you dolt!"
Eloti gave Sulun a sad, resigned smile, and turned away.
Sulun bowed briefly and wandered back to the railing. Gods, he thought, but this was unbelievable. Greed aside, how could Entori not see the importance of the Ancar invasion? Press gangs snatched levies outside his door, and the man would not risk a few silvers to make weapons. Unbelievable.
And how would he break the news to the others?
Sulun tried, quietly and gently as possible, during the long, leisurely afternoon's voyage. The day was hot but pleasant and the ship performed splendidly, but Sulun's work gang could take no pleasure in it.
"Gods," Omis groaned, "back to sneaking and penny--pinching. How will I ever finish the bombard like this? How can we disguise the work under the old vulture's very nose? Could we move everything but the forge to the river workshop, think you? It would take several wagonloads, and the streets so unsafe . . ."
"I don't see that we have any other choice," Sulun commiserated. "The tools, and supplies . . . We'll need to go all together, or perhaps if we can get word to Zeren he can arrange to have patrols passing in the right places and times. Ah, but how would we get messages to him? Arizun alone wouldn't be safe . . . gods, I can't think. We need Yanados's wit. Where is she?"
But Yanados was nowhere to be found, either on the top deck or below with the engine. A discreet search of what areas Sulun and Omis could reach turned up no sign of Yanados—nor, Omis noticed first, the captain either. The two craftsmen considered those facts, looked at each other, and quietly went back to their places on deck.
Yanados eventually reappeared, looking every so faintly smug, just as the ship was turning back for the harbor. The others said nothing, only looked at her, and she returned them a cool stare. Omis shook his head and gazed out toward the approaching port, where the low sunlight danced on the sea. The ship's bell rang twice, passing messages to the crew, and its sweet tone was echoed by the harbor bell announcing the time.
Omis jumped as if he'd been stabbed. "Bells," he whispered. "Gods, I'm a fool. Bells!"
Before Sulun could ask what he meant by that, the blacksmith ran over to the ship's bell and peered up its interior. Next he grabbed the startled signalman and threw questions at him. Was this bell made in the city? Who made it? Where was his shop? The sailor told all he knew, made a quick excuse, and fled. Omis shook his head and went stomping back to the rail.
"Bells," he kept muttering, much to Sulun's and Vari's alarm. "Heavy brass, maybe heavy enough. Lower heat, easy to cast, but how? Sand molds? Where can I learn? Brass! Gods, I'm an idiot."
"Shush," Sulun whispered. "I think the old vulture's looking."
"But how thick, to contain the pressure?" Omis mumbled.
Entori glanced his way, frowning.
"Quiet, Omis!" Vari elbowed him. "Wait 'til we get home."
Omis snorted, but shut up. Entori looked away. The ship chuffed back to its dock, belching coal smoke and steam from its aft sideports, to the welcoming cheers of the remaining audience at the waterside.
"We can do it in one trip," Omis insisted as they sneaked the mule cart out the rear gate. "Just go one street over, let me out at the brassworker's, then come get me on the way home. I'll be perfectly safe, I swear!"
"Very well, very well," Sulun capitulated, closing the gate behind them. "Once again, tell me why it must be brass."
"Because I can't get sufficient heat to melt iron, of course!" Omis snorted. "Make iron flow like water? Cast it like brass? Hah, as easily catch the unicorn. Come climb on the cart, and let's make haste."
"But the force of the explosion—"
"Brass can hold it, be she cast thick enough. I tell you—"
"Get up!" Doshi cut their argument short with a slap of reins on the mules' rumps. The laden cart rolled into the street, armed apprentices watching for danger fore and aft.
"Then what shall we do with all that iron we struggled so to get?" Sulun grumbled, struggling for a comfortable position among the bundles.
"Sell it back for better money now that it's been hammered once. Ah, gods, the time wasted! But we should keep some of it for gears and mounts and axles, damn the old vulture. Hmm, also I could hammer some of it into globes to be flung from the bombard. I've long suspected that those canisters were a problem—"
"Crowds ahead!" Arizun warned. "Great gods, I think they're running to a riot. Let's take the next street over."
"Aye, let's," said Yanados, "but I don't think it's a riot. That lot looks more to be running from a press gang."
Doshi had already turned the mules; now he slapped them into a respectably fast trot, hoping that the sounds of the running mob would cover the noise of the cart's wheels.
"It's a god's sign," Omis observed. "This way leads closer to the brassmakers' street."
The street leading to the workshop was mostly empty—only a few streetside peddlers and a parked covered wagon about—and Sulun's party took little time opening the heavy front door. Arizun noted that at least one attempt had been made to force the latch, but Omis's sturdy iron lock had held well. They brought the cart through the narrow archway and on into the back courtyard, where they set about unloading gear. Arizun went off to lock the door again behind them, and Sulun made a point of listing all the portable goods.
"Travelling clothes, dried rations for two days, our books and tools . . . Damn, it's both too little and too much," he announced. "Too little to supply us for long, too much to carry in one cartload."
"A bigger cart?" Doshi suggested.
"Where? How do we buy one?"
"Sell Omis's extra iron," said Yanados.
"Hmm, that reminds me. Do we all have hatchets, long knives, bows, and sufficient arrows?"
"Also fishhooks and lines, pins, thread, and needles," Vari put in. "And medicines."
Sulun shrugged and made more notes on his waxboard.
Arizun came trotting back into the courtyard, looking a bit pale. "Pardon me, friends," he announced, sounding unusually subdued, "but we have a visitor."
Everyone jumped, and turned to look. Arizun bowed low, with as much of a flourish as he could manage.
Through the archway, dressed in a quietly tasteful gown and carrying a small sunshade, strolled Eloti.
"Greetings again, Craftmaster Sulun," she said. "So pleased to find your true workplace at last."
Sulun couldn't think of anything to say, so he bowed low. Eloti smiled politely, and stood waiting.
Ziya broke the awkward silence, toddling forward and making a more elaborate bow. "Good Mistress Eloti," she said, formal as any high-city hostess, "if you would be so kind as to join us for luncheon, we should be delighted to explain everything to your satisfaction."
Eloti raised an eyebrow in respectful surprise.
Sulun, snapped out of his confusion, breathed a quick prayer of thanks to all available gods and snapped orders to the gawking apprentices: fetch table and couches or chairs, get wine and proper food and some good tableware, suitable for a gentlewoman. The others scrambled to obey. Eloti sat down on the nearest bench, fanned herself languidly with a palm-frond fan, and waited to see what would happen. She seemed intrigued, if not downright amused.
The best that Sulun's crowd could produce was a small table (covered with a clean cloak), two chairs (of which Eloti got the better and Sulun the second), some good wine in a plain jug, some coarse but fresh bread, and a bit of cheese, all served in hastily cleaned mortars and mixing bowls. Ziya did the serving, offering the plates and cups in the best high-house style, with all the proper phrases. The other apprentices watched in fascination for a few minutes, then took themselves elsewhere. Ziya poured out the wine, bowed formally again, then excused herself and hurried after the others.
Sulun took the opportunity to marshal his store of facts and arguments, and incidentally raise his estimate of Ziya's intelligence. He wondered how often the child had observed her mother performing just such duties for Shibari's creditors.
"I regret that the surroundings are less than elegant," Sulun began cautiously, "but we find this location to be useful, quiet, and inexpensive."
"I'm pleased to see you practicing good economy with my funds," Eloti replied, sipping the wine. She raised an eyebrow again in approval of the vintage. "I have also noted the common absence of my mule cart. Might I ask just what tools and other goods you have been transporting?"
Accounting time, Sulun realized. It would not be wise to mislead the lady. "Tools for working on our new project in secret," he admitted. "Everything except Omis's forge."
"Also, I've noticed considerable food, clothing, and household items. Were you expecting to withstand a siege here?"
"It's possible," Sulun hedged.
Eloti tapped a fingernail on her mortar cup. "Is that the only reason?"
"No," Sulun admitted. "If this project fails and the city falls, we hope to escape."
"All of you?" Eloti glanced around at the building that concealed the rest of Sulun's crew. "Your friend the blacksmith, his wife and children also?"
"Yes." Sulun couldn't begin to explain that all of them had become a sort of household, a family, in their own right. "We'll leave no one behind."
"Indeed?" Eloti took another sip of wine. "I find your loyalty strange, but commendable." Her eyes narrowed, skewering Sulun over the edge of her cup. "Could your . . . coterie possibly be expanded to include a patron?"
Sulun gulped. "Do you mean that Entori knows—plans to escape with us?"
"Not my brother. I have tried, many times, to discuss departing Sabis with him. He will not hear of it." Eloti set her cup neatly, precisely, back on the table, and clasped her hands under her chin like any merchant about to do business. "So, I wish to employ you and your students to undertake this new weapon project under my auspices. Is that formal enough?"
Sulun let out his breath in a soundless whistle. "Certainly, Goodlady. I'm honored to have you as our . . . secondary patron."
"Then surely you would not mind storing some of my . . . gear in this workshop." Eloti smiled.
"Not at all, Goodlady." Sulun refrained from asking what gear, or how much. "I do beg you to consider, though, how much equipment we may be able to transport in case of, er, emergency."
Eloti leaned back in her chair, the classic motion of a merchant about to dicker extensively. "I would begin with a larger wagon," she said, "still capable of being drawn by two mules."
Sulun grinned. "It must also be capable of carrying two changes of clothing for each of us, plus our books, tools, sufficient food for at least three days, basic household supplies—and, of course, all of us."
"Of course." Eloti smiled, flicking her fan. "Likewise one larger traveling-chest for myself, and enough sailcloth to cover the load."
"Of course." Sulun reached for his waxboard then frowned. "I confess, I've never had to calculate the carrying capacity of mule wagons."
"Leave that to me," said Eloti, not smiling now. "Of course, I must know how far the wagon is expected to travel, over what roads, and into what sort of country."
Sulun gnawed his lip, seeing where this was aimed. He didn't really have an answer; all of them together hadn't decided. Perhaps another conference was in order. "Doshi, Arizun, all of you," he called to the innocent-looking house, "Get out here. We have . . . travel routes to discuss."
In scant seconds the little crowd came out and ranged themselves on the workbenches, all serious-faced, even the children. Sulun guessed that they'd been listening closely through the doors and windows, and needed no explanations.
"If we run," he said bluntly, "where do we go?"
Doshi surprised him by speaking up first. "To the north," he said with surprising decisiveness. "I've copied all the maps—-begging your pardon, Lady—and I know that land. Yes, we'd be hard put to get behind the Ancar lines and I confess I don't know how we'd do that—"
"Zeren might know," Arizun put in. "Going north was his idea first."
"But once past them, we'd be reasonably safe. More, those people up there are poor farmers, not very well educated, and from all accounts the Ancar aren't scholars either. They'd welcome skilled tradesfolk, mechanicals, with our knowledge. We could make ourselves welcome there."
"And how would the Ancar conquerors care for Sabisan refugees in their midst?" Eloti asked.
"We needn't say we come from Sabis," Doshi shrugged.
"We could say we come from Halas," Arizun piped up, in his native element now. "That's the other end of the world, for all the northerners would know. They've never been there, know nothing of its people or customs. We could be as strange as we liked."
"In which case," Eloti pointed out, "they might be afraid to come near us, let alone purchase our wares or work."
"Oh no, that could be an advantage," Arizun insisted, grinning like a monkey. "We could say we were magicians."
"Magicians?" Sulun choked on a mouthful of wine.
"Certainly! Ignorant folk may fear magicians, but they always want their services. I could teach you the basics—"
The others laughed. Eloti smiled widely.
"It's true, it's true!" Arizun insisted. "How do you think I lived, all those years before Sulun apprenticed me? I swear by all the gods I've ever heard of, folk will fee and placate magicians far more than honest philosophers or craftsmen. Folk love mysteries far more than knowledge."
There was a silence for a long moment while everyone thought about that, seeing the grim truth in it.
In that silence they noticed the growing noise outside. From the street came sounds of shouts, trampling feet, noises of smashing wood and pottery, and more—an indescribable growl of no one source, all too well recognized after these long weeks of hard times.
"Oh gods, not another street riot," Sulun groaned, starting to his feet.
"It won't come in here," said Arizun, tugging at his sleeve. "I made sure to lock that door, and it's too thick for them to break down."
"He's right," said Yanados, listening. "If we hear them trying to break in we can go to the upper windows and drop things on them, but there's no danger yet."
"Still, we're stuck here until it passes," Vari worried. "Gods, I hope it doesn't reach to the brassworkers' street."
"Brassworkers' street?" Eloti inquired.
"Omis is there," Sulun explained. "He wants to trade skills with a good brass smith, learn the secrets of large brass casting. It's for our other project."
"Interesting." Eloti fanned herself thoughtfully. "If your project succeeds it may save the city, you've said."
"Yes. But if it fails, we intend to escape with whole skins."
"And," Doshi added, "with enough of our tools and knowledge that we need not live like savages."
"Indeed," Eloti murmured. "Indeed."
Then they heard the familiar iron tramp of guardsmen's booted feet in the street outside, followed by bellowed orders, howls of dismay, sounds of running sandals, and assorted thumpings. "I think the riot is leaving," Eloti observed. "Now should your plan to go north fail, what secondary plans have you?"
Secondary plans? Sulun wondered, looking about him. He hadn't even refined the first one.
But then Yanados spoke up. "The captain of the Yanira will take us on board, no fees and no questions, and let us off at any port we ask."
Everyone turned to look at her. Sulun coughed, then asked, "Why is he inclined to be so amazingly generous?"
Yanados bit her lip for a moment. "I . . . made a quiet arrangement, the day we tested the engine. I gave him the design drawings for the engine and paddle wheels, and . . . I told him we could make more, teach others to make more. Such skills would be very useful in . . . some places."
"I . . . see." Sulun no longer had any doubts about Yanados's family or land or origin. Everyone knew about the pirates of Sakar. Ships with Sulun's engines could rule the seas. Any clever captain could add those facts and come to the obvious conclusion. "Yes, we could escape that way."
"Provided," Eloti said, "that the Yanira happens to be in port at whatever time we have need of her."
More silence as the conspirators considered that.
Their thoughts were interrupted by a polite but firm knocking at the outer door. Everyone looked at each other.
"I'll go," said Doshi. "None of us looks like a stout warrior, but I think I can pretend to it better than most." He was up and away before anyone could think of a better argument.
"In case of either plan being necessary," Eloti resumed, "we'll require a wagon that can transport ourselves and our goods either out of the city or down to the docks in a single load, yet isn't so vast that it would have trouble at the gates or require more than two mules." She tapped her teeth with her fan. "I think such could be provided, say, by quarter moon."
"So quickly?" Sulun marveled.
"My dear Master Sulun, I have not lived all these years in Entori's house without learning something of the carting business."
At that point they all heard the front door slam shut, and the sound of approaching boots. Everyone froze, wondering which guardsman Doshi had let in, and why.
A moment later the mystery was resolved as Doshi came back, grinning from ear to ear, with Zeren a pace behind him. "Look what I found on the doorstep!" he announced.
"Zeren, by all the gods!" "Make room for him!" "Where's another bench?" "Do we have more wine?" Everybody chattered at once.
Zeren, a little bemused by all the attention, dropped onto the nearest bench and took off his helmet. "I'm pleased to see you're all safe," he said. "When we cleared out this street and I saw your door, I thought I should send my boys on ahead and see if you were present, and well."
"We are, we are," Sulun fairly dithered, handing Zeren a filled cup. "We've been making plans to complete the Bombard Project. Omis has some ideas about cast brass—he's at the brassworkers' street right now—the riot hasn't reached there, has it?"
"Oh no, it's just down here, near the river. Such troubles are fewer since we started the press gangs . . . though they're worse when they happen at all." He stared past them at Eloti. "And who's this lady?"
Once more Ziya performed the formalities. "This is Goodlady Eloti, sister of Entori, of Entori House. Our new patroness. Madame, this is—"
"Zeren of the Guard," Zeren cut in, impatient with lengthy courtesies. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off Eloti. "Begging your pardon, Lady, but . . . what are you doing down here?"
"Inspecting my investment." Eloti met his stare with a cool smile. She hadn't missed the welcome the others gave him. "We were also discussing means of departing the city, should the invasion reach this far."
"Oh." Zeren glanced at Sulun, his eyes asking: New ally? To be trusted?
"The lady's been pointing out flaws in our existing plans," Sulun explained, then added recklessly, "She's also offered to provide help with anything reasonable."
"I see." Zeren took a careful mouthful of wine, studying Eloti over his cup. "So. What flaws did you find?"
Sulun, caught between them, got the distinct feeling that he'd been assigned the role of either truce negotiator or matchmaker, and that was something new in his experience.
"First, the ship on which we might escape southward or . . . to the islands . . . might not be in port when we need her. Second, if we try to run north, how would we pass the Ancar lines?"
Zeren thought for a long moment, looking from Sulun to Eloti and back. "You'll need a boat in any case," he said at last. "Whether you have to cross the straits, catch up with your ship, or bypass the Ancar lines, you'll need a boat big enough to carry all of you safely. The river's the best place to bypass the Ancar; they're not sailors. When they crossed the Azesu all those years back, they neither bridged nor sailed it. They hunted up and down the river until they found a passable ford for infantry. Same thing when they crossed the Got a few years later. I doubt that they've changed since. Get a boat, stay on the river as long as you can, and if their arrows can't reach you, you'll be safe."
"How big a boat?" said Eloti, pulling a small waxboard from her sleeves.
Sulun noted that she didn't take her eyes off Zeren either.
By next moon-quarter the wagon arrived. It appeared quietly one day in the stable courtyard, tucked against the wall, half under the stable eaves, looking as if it had always been there. Examining it during lunch, Sulun noted that it was indeed long and wide and sturdy enough to carry all of them, plus their clothes, food, tools, and even Omis's anvil. The flooring was doublebraced, the wheels unusually sturdy, and the whole construction made of good hardwood. A large square of tightly woven, oiled sailcloth was folded up in the footwell below the driver's seat. Sulun reflected that the mistress did indeed know the carting business, and went off to lunch in high good humor.
Back in the working courtyard, he noticed that the stacks of iron ingots were much reduced and their place taken by bags of odd-colored sand. Intrigued, he went looking for Omis, and found him by the rear gate, helping two strangers in workmen's garb muscle in a load of heavy wooden panels. Sulun knew better than to say anything before the men left, but he pounced the minute the gate was shut.
"That?" Omis rubbed his hands gleefully. "That, old friend, is the makings of a sand mold."
"A sand mold?"
"Aye. Our new bombard tube will be cast from good brass, in a mold of wet sand clenched by wooden walls. Heh! Once we've cast her, we can use this trick to make more engine parts for the vulture."
"Hmm. And what shall we use for the casting model? Wax?"
"No, wood." Omis hefted a smoothed round log as big as his leg. "We'll shape this, put it in the casting box, pour the sand around it, wet the sand and pound it nearly solid, then pull out the log to leave its shape in the sand—where we'll pour the brass. Simple, eh? Well, there are some details, but not many. The important thing is, this technique works. I watched the bellmaker do it, from start to finish. I can do it, Sulun. We'll have our new bombard in less than a tenday."
"Er, what did you give him in exchange for the knowledge?"
"The basic design of the steam engine, for which he was sufficiently grateful. So grateful, indeed, that he told me where I might purchase something truly valuable."
"Oh gods, what? And how valuable?"
"A small, portable forge, my friend. I don't intend to be caught without a forge again, not after last time."
"You bought it, of course," Sulun sighed. "How much? And where did you put it?"
"Well, I sold most of the extra iron—the rest went to purchasing the casting sand. Brass casting requires special sand, you know."
"I know. Where is it?"
"Why, right over here in the corner." Omis led the way to a squat metal cylinder half-hidden behind the sandbags. "It's iron, lined with good fireclay. I saw the brass smith using one, and I made certain it could manage small pieces of iron, too. Isn't she pretty?"
"Delightful," Sulun groaned. "How much does it weigh? Can the wagon take it? And how soon can we get it down to the river workshop?"
"Wagon? What wagon?"
"A gift from our patroness. I just found it this morning. Come, and bring your new toy; we may as well learn right now if the wagon can carry it."
"Carry it? Hah." With that, Omis picked up the little forge, straining a bit, and carried it all the way into the stable courtyard. "See?" he puffed, putting it down. "It isn't that heavy."
"Let's see what the wagon says." Sulun dropped the new wagon's tailgate. "Load it," he said.
Surprisingly enough the wagon could and did hold the small forge, with no more than a few creaks of complaint from the floorboards.
"There, you see?" Omis grinned as he wiped sweat off his forehead. "It's light enough to carry, and doesn't take up much room. We'll take it with us when we go."
Sulun started to say that if the bombard could be made quickly enough they wouldn't have to go at all, but then he thought better of it. "Excellent. Leave it in the wagon, then; we'll take it down to the river workshop this very afternoon."
"But I haven't even tested it yet!" Omis howled, offended. "Let me use it for today, at least!"
And nothing would satisfy him but taking the forge out of the wagon, and carrying it all the way back to the courtyard. Further, he wanted to test the sand mold technique by casting the new engine parts therein. Sulun gave up and let him do as he wished. They'd need some finished parts to report to Entori tomorrow morning, anyway.
That evening at dinner the servants' table buzzed with gossip. There had been a big parade down the main avenue—the cook's sister's husband had seen it—of the newly levied troops going out to hold the lines in the north. The scullions were wonderfully optimistic: maybe now there'd be more peace in the city, and prices would fall back to something reasonable. Sulun's crowd said nothing; they knew Zeren's opinion of the levies, their training and armament and skills. He'd had better opinion of the mercenary troops. Still there'd been no further riots, no further advances by the Ancar as far as anyone knew. And there were rumors of further good news.
The Imperial Court, it was said, had received a welcome visitor from the north. Eylas of the presumed lost lands of Medhyras, a former hostage from a noble Medhyran family who had been brought up in the barbarous Ancari court, had escaped his captors and fled south to Sabis, full of information. He knew of the growing rebellion against the invaders in Medhyras and even Pegyras. Given a little time, the Ancar might find themselves with the new Sabisan troops before them and a full-scale rebellion behind them. The Emperor was delighted to hear of this unlooked-for help, and treated the new guest very well. The aristocracy had also been impressed with Prince Eylas's nice manners and appearance, and it seemed that he'd be invited to dine all over high-town soon.
Even Entori seemed to be in a good humor for once, as the servants noted. His comments to his sister, overheard by the serving maids, had revolved around possible improvements of trade now that Prince Eylas had come to town.
"Ridiculous," Yanados muttered into her soup. "Is Entori mad? Nothing's really changed; the Ancar are still there."
"And we still need the bombard," Sulun finished. He wondered what he'd tell Eloti at their brief meeting in the garden courtyard that night. Between reporting on one project to Entori every morning and reporting on the other to Eloti every night he'd soon be running short on sleep.
"Was the wagon satisfactory?" Eloti asked, gazing thoughtfully at the few nightblooming jasmine flowers that remained at this season.
"Excellent, Goodlady. It can carry all our gear—including Omis's new little forge."
"Remarkable." Eloti shook her head. "I suppose the wagon will more than earn its price, even now that escape is no longer necessary."
"Hmm, one would do well not to count the cheeses before the cow is milked." Sulun grinned a little at that phrase, one he'd picked up from Doshi. "Prince Eylas's rebellion is only promised, not guaranteed."
"True. I, of all people, should know how rarely hope ceases flying and actually comes to roost."
Sulun suddenly wondered why Eloti was unmarried. He knew better than to ask. "What do we truly know of this man, anyway? He could be a clever liar, buying his way into the favor of the nobles for his own purposes."
Eloti shrugged. "He seemed knowledgeable enough about the lands near his home. He spoke at some length of the fine cattle of Torrhyn and northern Jarrya, so he's well-traveled at least."
"Well-traveled and well-spoken." Sulun shrugged. "Still not enough to turn the tides of war. I still claim that our bombard offers greater hope."
"I will continue to fund our little enterprise." Eloti smiled faintly. "Will you do the casting here or at the river workshop?"
"At the riverside. It's a cumbersome process, not easily hidden or disguised. Also, if you'll forgive my saying so, Entori House is well-known and ill-loved by too many. I would prefer to do our work in a quieter spot."
"I understand perfectly, but is the river house secure?"
"As safe as stout walls, good locks, and Zeren's watchfulness can make it."
Eloti said nothing for long moments, eyes fixed on the few remaining flowers. "Very good," she murmured at last. "I hope you will not take it amiss if I visit you there on occasion."
"Er, no, certainly not."
"Perhaps I'll come bearing good news. You may go."
"That was all she said," Sulun reported later, in the fitful light of the cubicle's one small lamp. "I can't fathom her intentions, except that she wants us to continue."
"Perhaps she's taken a liking to Zeren," Yanados yawned, shoving a drowsing Arizun off her shoulder.
"Our Zeren?" Sulun laughed. "It's not like you to see romance everywhere. What, are you feeling the pull of mating season already?"
"Hardly. But can you think of a better reason?"
"I could imagine dozens, and have no evidence for any of them."
"What was that she said about Jarrya?" Doshi put in, looking up from his precious maps.
"Eh? Why, nothing—except that this Prince Eylas spoke of it." Sulun shook his head. Yanados getting romantic, Doshi getting homesick, Arizun turning mystical, and Ziya fascinated by fire—they were not doing well in Entori House.
"Well then, what is this prince supposed to have said?" Doshi insisted.
"Uhm, something about the fine cattle raised there and in Torrhyn, I think. Nothing of any import or detail. I'm sorry, Doshi. Now, why that odd look?"
"Cattle?" Doshi's frown deepened. "That isn't cattle country, and never has been. The winters are too harsh to keep cattle out-of-doors, and the buildings are all made of stone. . . ."
"I think we've all been awake too long," Sulun hinted, rubbing his back.
"They have to be stone to withstand the winter storms. One can't build very large barns there, not enough to house large herds of cattle. A few milk cows, perhaps, but they're poor beasts by southern standards. Folk there mostly raise sheep."
"Time to sleep, Doshi. We all need our rest."
Yanados took the hint and stood up, dragging Arizun with her. Doshi reluctantly gathered up his maps, but kept worrying at his thought as he shuffled toward the door.
"I don't think this visiting prince ever saw Jarrya. I think he's merrily lying his way through the court. You'd best tell Zeren that when you see him again."
"I will, Doshi. I promise. Now off to bed."
"I think there's no rebellion in the north at all, and we're just as badly off as before, except worse because now the court won't pay as much attention to the northern defenses, and—"
"Good night, Doshi."
"We'd best continue our plans to leave," Doshi finished as Sulun closed the door on his heels.
Arizun, perched near a window as lookout for possible mobs, was the only one to hear the soft tap at the door. He quietly slipped the bar and locks to let Eloti in. She drifted silently as a leaf through the passageway, although the noise from the workyard would have covered ordinary footsteps. Once again, Arizun wondered how the lady managed to travel so easily and unnoticed through the dangerous streets, apparently alone, dressed well enough to attract the attention of a thousand desperate thieves. As always, he thought it best not to ask her.
Zeren was already there with the others, stripped of his armor, helping to pour sand and water into the standing mold. He glanced up as the other two came in, and for a moment his eyes met Eloti's. He blinked, nodded politely, quickly, and turned his attention back to what he was doing.
"Enough water!" Omis snapped. "We don't want to wash the sand out again. There, there . . ." He inspected the wet, packed sand in the thick wooden box, poked it here and there with his fingers, grunted satisfaction, and turned to study the mold itself.
Nearly buried in wet sand, the mold didn't look very prepossessing: a heavy wooden tube, no bigger than Omis's leg, sliced lengthwise. Wet sand surrounded and filled it to the top. Omis picked up a short log, fit it neatly inside the tube until it touched the sand, and leaned on it. The sand compressed a bit, and the log stayed in place by itself. Omis nodded thoughtfully, picked up several squared short logs, and poked them endwise into the box, on top of the sand.
"Everyone pound together," he announced, picking up a large maul for himself. "Remember to beat them all equally."
Everyone else sighed, picked up assorted hammers, and converged on the box.
"May I ask the purpose of this exercise?" Eloti asked, dropping gracefully onto a bench.
"We have to pound the sand tight," Arizun explained, taking a light mallet for himself. "We pour it, wet it, pack it, then pray it stays in place when we pull out the mold."
"Fascinating."
"Damned hard work."
"All together," Omis warned, raising his maul. "Now." He struck a good solid blow on the round log. The others followed suit, almost in unison, on the logs surrounding the mold. "And now. And now;."
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The hammering fell into a smooth rhythm. Water began oozing from the bottom of the box. Inch by inch, the logs drove deeper as the sand compressed. Watching them, Eloti tapped first her foot and then her fingers in rhythm.
Eventually Omis called a halt, pulled out the logs, and inspected the sand. "Hmm, it should do," he decided. "Pour in more sand."
Everyone put down their hammers, picked up bags and buckets, and carefully poured. When the sand level reached the top of the mold, Omis called for the water. The wetted sand sank hardly at all. Omis poked again, studied the sand for a moment, then took up the logs and hammers once more.
It was, Sulun decided, nearly as hypnotic as the droning prayers in the temples on a great holy day. Pound, pound, pound all together, half a dozen arms swinging as one, and the sodden thudding rhythmic as a temple bell. Pound, pound, pound. If concentration, devotion, and perfection made the best defense against magic, not even the greatest wizard in Sabis could touch them this day. Pound, pound, pound. Now if only his well-worked muscles didn't tire and cramp and pain him enough to break his concentration . . . Pound, pound, pound.
The voice sneaked up on him, interweaving so smoothly with the hammer-rhythm that he didn't notice it as anything separate from himself, not until one corner of his mind noted that he'd never heard the words of the song before.
"Low lie the stars over Toslagen's memory,
High hang the flowers from the trees of her tomb."
And was it strange or not that everyone else swayed and swung with the quiet song? Everyone hammering smoothly, rapt as corybantic dancers: pound, pound, pound . . .
"'Care,' sing the birds in the boughs of the cypresses, 'Care, love and care, win you free of your doom.'" Just those few lines, over and over, keeping the rhythm, drawing the arms, the mallets, to swing and pound, pound, pound endlessly, hold the mind tight on the simple action, no stray thought, no deviation, steady as a perfect engine . . . "Halt!" Omis yelled, shaking his head. "We're down." Everyone dropped their assorted hammers, rubbed their arms, and shook their heads as if coming out of a dream. Indeed, Sulun noticed, the level of the sand was down—and packed as tight as fine clay.
Magic! Sulun turned to look at the one person who could have provided that song, the only one not hammering.
Eloti sat waving her fan gently, that faint smile lingering on her face.
"Goodlady." Sulun bowed to her. "I had no idea you could sing so well."
"A largely useless skill." She shrugged. "Save on rare occasions."
"Magic!" Arizun breathed. "That was a—a protective spell, or I've never seen one."
"You've never seen one, then," Zeren snorted, rubbing his arm. "'Twas a work spell, and a rather good one." He grinned a brief salute at Eloti.
Eloti gave an eloquent shrug, punctuated with her fan. "It merely seemed appropriate," she said. "I assure you, I've never been a wizard's apprentice."
The others laughed approvingly, trying to imagine the quiet lady of Entori House as a scampering apprentice running errands for some crotchety wizard. Impossible, indeed.
"Back to the mold," Omis insisted. "Plug the top of the log; this will be the last layer."
The rest duly took up bags and buckets again, and went back to the careful pouring of sand and water, the last layer that would fill the box to the top.
"Gods grant," Omis muttered, easing the wooden plug into the top of the bombard shape, "we can get the pouring done today."
Sulun nodded agreement, but kept only the minimum of his attention on the mold. His eyes kept straying to Eloti, calmly fanning herself while she watched the proceedings, and his head filled with wild speculation where all the facts slid into place with a click as neat as the closing of a latch.
Eloti had sorcerous talent. His mistress was, in common parlance, a witch.
No wonder Entori House could survive the malice of Entori's clients, and with no better protection than the drunken house wizard. No wonder this house, outrageously vulnerable to the ill-will of the neighbors, at least, hadn't been disturbed by thieves nor plagued with accidents, even in these bad days. No wonder the lady came and went as she chose, unbothered by cutpurses or worse, virtually unseen. No wonder she remained unmarried. Who would have a she-wizard to wife, save for another wizard who wished to breed talented sons—and family-proud Entori would never let his sister marry below what he considered her proper class.
Yet she could read, and knew how and where to listen, and learned readily. Perhaps she had cozened secrets out of the house wizard, leaving him to forget her in his cups. Perhaps she had learned everything from books and observation alone. In secret, in whatever fashion, she had learned—and practiced. Eloti was the true protector of Entori House, and now of Sulun and his unknowing friends.
Accident. Fate. Pound, pound, pound . . .
"Enough," said Omis. "Pull out."
The others drew away their logs and mallets, and stepped back to let Omis inspect the mold. The tight-packed sand covered the wooden form almost completely, leaving only the bare disk of the plug's top visible. Omis nodded and breathed a long sigh.
"All right," he said. "Now we take out the mold form."
Only Sulun noticed that Eloti began humming softly, a different tune this time, in rhythm with the languid beat of her fan.
Omis tugged carefully, delicately, at the plug. After a seconds resistance it pulled free of the wooden tube, free of the sand, displacing hardly a single grain. Omis sighed again in relief, fitted the jaws of narrow tongs around one of the tube halves, and pulled gently, ever so gently. The wooden half-tube slid quietly out of its bedding, leaving the deep, perfect half circular hole in the packed sand behind it. Omis set the piece aside and reached for the last one with the tongs, careful, utterly careful, whispering prayers to assorted relevant gods.
Eloti's humming purred softly in the air like the sound of drowsy bees in sunlight.
The last piece of the mold slid out smoothly, leaving its shape perfectly molded in the packed sand.
"Perfect!" Omis whispered, tiptoeing away from the mold as if too loud a noise would shatter it.
"Perfect . . ." Sulun echoed, daring a sidelong glance at his mistress.
Eloti sat unchanged, calmly fanning herself, a faint smile resting on her otherwise impassive face.
"Begin the melt," said Omis, very quietly. "And no noise."
The others turned to the forge, gently picking up tools and billets of brass.
Sulun guessed he wouldn't be needed for this part; there was something more important to do. He went into the house, -rummaged through the supplies, and came back with some watered wine and light bread. Very quietly, he took them to Eloti.
"Best to refresh yourself, Mistress," he said, noncommittally. "This will be long and tedious work."
Eloti looked at him for a moment, then thanked him formally and took the food.
Sulun hurried back to the group working at the forge and busied himself with odd tasks: tossing in more charcoal as the fire rose, working the bellows when Zeren's arms tired, helping to pitch brass into the heating crucible, wetting down Omis's gloves between pokings and stirrings. Often he glanced at Eloti, noting that she kept her eyes on the undisturbed mold and could be heard softly humming to herself. Despite the heat of the forge, he shivered.
At close to sundown the brass was ready, flowing like milk, glowing like the sinking sun. Omis ran two thick iron bars through the rows of rings on either side of the crucible, took the end of one bar, and they all lifted together. Carefully, carefully, they walked their glowing burden away from the forge and up to the lip of the mold.
"Gently now, gently," Omis fairly chanted, "Set the forward bar, hold it steady, steady . . . Zeren, lift with me. Lift, lift . . ."
Eloti's humming grew ever so slightly louder.
Slowly the crucible tilted, its spout descending over the deep circular hole in the packed sand. The molten brass touched the edge, slipped into the spout, seemed to pause for an instant, then spilled gracefully into the mold. For a moment everyone saw the glowing stream pooling, with scarcely a splash, at the bottom of the long circular hole. Then clouds of steam boiled up to fog the vision, driven up from the wet sand.
"Keep pouring!" Omis snapped. "Don't change position. Close your eyes if it gets too bad. There, there . . ."
Coughing and blinking in the stifling fog, Sulun watched the shining surface of the molten brass rise in the mold. Upward it crept as the crucible slowly emptied, up to the top of the central column of sand and then over it, up to the surface of the sand mold. There it stopped, a gleaming disk in the sand, while the last drops trickled from the almost upended crucible.
"Perfect!" Omis laughed in relief. "Exactly enough. Gods, I was afraid we'd have too much, have to ease this bucket back down and empty it in a drain ditch. All together now, lift that other rod and pull back. Good, good . . ."
Step by step, with only a little less care than on their advance, they pulled the cooling crucible away from the mold and set it down. The ground steamed where it touched. Everyone else stepped back, and Omis pulled the carrying rods free.
"How long till it cools solid?" Zeren asked, wiping his forehead.
"Tomorrow sometime." Omis pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside. "I'd leave it a full day, just to be safe. So, we'll come back the morning after next to break out the mold and start on the smoothing. I suppose we can spend tomorrow working on another ship's engine for the old—er, the Master." He darted an embarrassed smile at Eloti.
"Should we not celebrate our success?" she almost purred. "I believe a small thank-offering to the gods would be in order."
"A good libation should do," Zeren grinned, starting toward the house. "I brought a few jugs of a very decent wine with me."
"If we wish it heated, we could mull it in yonder crucible." Eloti smiled.
Omis roared with delighted laughter. "Gods, yes! How fitting!"
Fitting indeed, Sulun thought, following Zeren into the house to fetch the cups.
The gears, the hated gears . . . Sulun dourly polished another of the little iron monsters, reflecting that he was beginning to hate the very thought of steam engines and ships. Bits and parts of another engine nearly completed, Entori nagging him to hurry, the bombard waiting like a treasure that could be touched only in few, precious, stolen moments: half a moon like this. And the news from the north no better. All Sabis might fall before they managed to finish the bombard. Damn Entori, damn his engines, damn these interminable gears!
Seeing no further burrs or irregularities, Sulun dropped the hated gear in a box with its companions and glanced automatically at the sunlight above the roof. Good gods, nearly dinnertime. The others had gone inside, leaving him here with his wretched little task, and he couldn't blame them. He rubbed his eyes, back, fingers, and stalked off to his minuscule room. Just enough time to wash his hands and face for dinner, no time or reason to change his clothes; let the old vulture see that he'd worked like a galley slave all day. He washed fast, towelled off faster, and stalked toward the dining hall still damp.
It was the silence he noticed first: the servants eating so very quietly, heads down, trying not to be noticed. Scarcely a head lifted as he shuffled into his place on the bench at the servants' table.
But one of the heads raised was Arizun's. "Keep your head down," he whispered fiercely in Sulun's ear. "Look who's visiting Master at the upper table."
Sulun duly hunched over his plate and glanced sidewise at the Master's table—from which, he now noticed, came sounds of unusually lively conversation.
There sat Entori and his sister, as always: Eloti looking politely attentive, Entori for once animated and almost jovial. Facing them, backs to the servants' table, sat two newcomers. Guests, Sulun realized, probably business acquaintances, hardly friends, knowing Entori. Reason enough for the servants not to want attention drawn to themselves. But why was Arizun so agitated? And why was Vari shooting frightened looks at him across the bread dish? In fact, why was everyone in his work gang looking so frightened? He studied the two newcomers more closely.
Both men were fat and well-dressed, though the leftmost was decked with more jewelry and embroidery—clearly the master. He was, at the moment, almost demanding of Entori, "But gods curse it, man, I'm offering you twenty percent of my cargoes for a full year! I'm not asking for the secret of their manufacture, only for the engines themselves. Just two good engines, fit for hundred-tonners, in exchange for twenty per hundred: Where will you find a better bargain?"
Aha, Entori's little show on the docks with the Yanira had borne fruit, and doubtless he was haggling over the price.
Sure enough, Entori replied, "I don't expect a better bargain. It's quite an excellent bargain. It's also quite impossible. The engine is a most complex and delicate bit of work; it takes time to make one, time to mount it properly. That first one took my craftsmen two moons to build, and the second will hardly take less. As soon as my own ships are fitted, of course, I'll be free to discuss fitting others', but you must understand the delay—"
"But then, within two moons you'll have a second ship fitted out. Surely then you could set your men to making one engine—just one—for a single ship of mine. Afterward they could make another for you, then another for me."
"The time involved . . ."
Gods, he's bartering off our services! If Entori yielded, sent the whole pack of them to some other house to make an engine elsewhere, they'd never be able to slip away to the riverside laboratorium and finish the bombard. Sulun found himself praying that Entori's miserliness would endure through dinner.
"It might be possible," he heard Eloti say, "to measure the gentleman's ship, build the engine here, then send it to him when finished."
There was a moments silence as both men considered that, followed by more haggling over time, prices, who would pay for what.
Sulun wilted with relief. Bless Eloti's cleverness, they wouldn't have to leave the house and work for some unknown master.
Yanados, seeing his expression, nudged him with an elbow. "We're not safe yet, Sulun. Look who else is at the table."
Puzzled, Sulun peered around his shoulder at the other guest, who had said nothing audible so far. The man was fat, sleek-looking, in elegantly cut brown robes with subdued but rich embroidery, and when he turned to reach for the bowl of cut fruit, showing his profile—
Oh gods, it's Mygenos!
Sulun ducked his head down fast, praying to every god he could remember that everyone else in his work gang kept their faces averted too. His hands shook as he reached for the sour wine.
"Right," whispered Yanados. "We've all been keeping our heads down, and don't think the other servants haven't noticed. We'll have to explain later."
"Has he recognized—"
"Not yet, I don't think. None of us."
"If he sees Ziya . . ."
"She saw him first, ducked behind Vari. Gods, if only we could get out of here . . ."
Sulun ran a long look down the table. Vari sat with her back to Entori's guest, Ziya and Tamiri huddled beside her. Ziya—thank gods they'd thought to chop her hair all those moons ago—looked very much like a small boy, a very silent and pale little boy. Omis—Deese be blessed, hadn't come to dinner in his working clothes—was hunched down so far that his beard was almost dragging in his soup. Doshi, who normally drank very little, kept his face hidden behind his winecup, though Sulun guessed it was long empty. Arizun, taking no chances, had both his back turned and his face bowed over his plate. Yanados, now that there was no more need to speak with Sulun, cleverly made a play of trying to steal kisses from the scullery maid; the maid, smiling cynically, played along.
Their gambits appeared to work. Mygenos hadn't bothered to look over his shoulder at the servants, or hadn't seen more than drab clothes and bowed backs. Gods, if they could only get out of here, quickly and quietly . . .
But it was the custom in Entori House that the servants didn't leave the room until the Master either ordered them out or left himself. Entori had never bothered to dismiss the servants from dinner, and showed no sign of doing so now. Neither did he seem inclined to depart, clearly enjoying the game at the high table.
The game, and the dinner, dragged on for ages. The food at the servants' table disappeared, the housekeeper frowned, the maids scowled, the porter muttered, the skinny harper/sweeper mumbled weak curses in his cup, and Sulun's gang kept silent and sweated. The house mage finally snapped at one of the maids to bring more wine, and the woman thankfully hopped up from her place to comply. Sulun toyed with the thoughts on sending the children away, one by one, supposedly on errands to the kitchen, possibly carrying empty dishes away.
He froze as he heard Mygenos's voice, raised for the first time that evening.
"Bear in mind, my Lord, the difficulty of supplying magical protection for a device of whose construction we know nothing." The man's voice was more unctuous than ever. Out of all Shibari's doomed house, he'd clearly done the best for himself. "Surely such costs must be considered when estimating the price."
There was another brief silence, then more haggling. Sulun felt sweat crawling down his back, even as he realized that both Mygenos and his new master were clearly hoping to get more than just a ship engine or two; they hoped to learn the design and construction of the device, in hopes of manufacturing their own—and that fact was not lost upon Entori.
"The engines made in this house are competently protected by our own wizard, I assure you," Entori said. "Elizan, come here."
Gods! Sulun squirmed. Don't draw attention to us!
"Damn," muttered the old house wizard, clambering out of his seat. "Didn' even get my drink . . . Coming, Master."
Get Ziya out, somehow. Sulun glanced at the child, seeing her keep her pale face on her empty plate.
The old house wizard doddered up to the high table, executing a clumsy bow to Entori and his guests. Sulun hoped fervently that he didn't breathe too close to Mygenos and let the man know just how drunk he was. Still, Elizan had clearly played this game before.
"My Lords," he intoned, sounding merely stuffy, "despite the infirmities of age, my powers remain undimmed and indefatigable as ever in ages past. Yea, I have guarded Entori House from ill these thirty long years and more, and pray to do so for as many more. Behold, no ill befalls this house, not its goods, not its enterprises, nor any under its roof, as all may see and report. Yea—"
"Arizun," Sulun whispered under the cover of the fusty oration, "tell Vari: Send Ziya out with some empty dishes, tell her to run to her room and hide. Pass it on."
Arizun nodded quick acknowledgment, leaned closer to Doshi, and duly passed the message on.
"Our ships do not fail at sea, save to the malice of pirates, of course, whose attacks cannot be adequately predicted, nor does our house fall prey to robbers and riots of the streets. Our goods do not rot overmuch, nor are they consumed by vermin." Elizan could certainly provide a good speech, given cause. "Our house remains unvisited by plague, fire, earthquake, flood—"
"Yes, yes, all very well," Mygenos interrupted, winning a frown from his new master and a scowl from Entori. "But this is a novelty we speak of, a thing untried and unheard of before now. Can you deal effectively with such novelties, my good colleague?"
Quick as a cat, he set together two wineglasses—fine crystal, Sulun noticed—and carefully balanced a third on top of them. Smiling almost gleefully, he carefully filled the topmost glass to the brim.
"A small test, good colleague, of dealing with novelty." Mygenos pointed to the filled glass. "Let us contest. Do you attempt to keep this glass in place, and I will enchant it to overturn."
"On my tablecloth?" rumbled Entori.
"Waste good wine?" gasped the house wizard.
"Ah, let them proceed," Eloti murmured. "At worst, the laundress will have a bit of work."
"Hmm, well enough," Entori subsided. "Proceed."
His guest exchanged a glance with Mygenos, and smirked.
Vari whispered urgently in Ziya's ear. Ziya nodded once, picked up a handful of empty dishes, and slid noiselessly out of her seat.
Good, Sulun thought. Now, while Myggy's busy. Go!
A bit flustered, Elizan frowned at the balanced glasses. He licked his lips, clasped his hands, stared at the balanced glasses, and visibly concentrated.
Ziya, head down, carrying the pile of dishes, padded softly across the flagstoned floor toward the doorway.
Mygenos leaned back in his chair, stared at the balanced glasses through narrowed eyes, and concentrated.
Sulun, even with his eyes fixed on Ziya's retreating back, felt the slow rise of heat behind him. It was just as he'd always felt it in Shibari's house, when Mygenos was at work. Only an unexplained surge of heat, nothing more, but he'd learned to recognize it as the mark of Mygenos's power. Magery. Wizard work. The force apart from Natural Philosophy and alien to it, the force of gathered will working across the orderly patterns of the Laws of Matter. At that moment he hated it.
And he felt no answering surge from Entori's house wizard.
Gods, what would it mean if that old drunkard lost this duel, if Entori was pushed back on his haggling over the engines? Loss of money, loss of pride—inevitable loss of temper, and where would that outrage go save to spend itself on his servants? No doubt the first fury would drop on poor drunken old Elizan, but the second bolt would land upon Sulun and his colleagues. What form would it take?
What if this kept them from escaping the house, from getting to the riverside laboratorium, from finishing the bombard?
The fate of Sabis, resting on a balanced wineglass!
The wineglass jiggled, softly ringing.
Then, very faintly, he heard the drifting of a quiet song. A familiar song, one heard scant days ago, down by the river. With it came an equally familiar sense of calm, like a memory of bees buzzing sleepily in sunlight.
"Low lie the stars over Toslagen's memory . . ."
The crystal-ringing stopped.
Ziya, unnoticed, padded quietly out the doorway and into the shadowed corridor. Once safe in the shadows she began to run.
At the high table no one moved. Five figures peered, motionless, at the pyramid of wineglasses. The two wizards sweated, frowned, stared, their contesting wills almost palpable in the stillness.
Eloti, unnoticed, sat with her fingers steepled and pressed lightly against her lips, apparently just a rapt observer.
Sulun dared to raise his head and watch, feeling those balanced and battling forces: the beating heat like the wind from Omis's forge, the gently buzzing song that came from no mouth—and nothing noticeable from old Elizan.
Incredible, Sulun marveled. He's her stalking-horse, and no one knows it!
Mygenos clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, and the heat rose. Almost visible, darting tongues of hot power surged again and again at the balanced glass. The glass held, calmly immovable.
The old house wizard swayed on his feet, clearly growing distressed. With or without power, he was making effort—and the effort was draining him. Even to Sulun's eyes it was plain that the old tippler couldn't continue this much longer. In another few ticks of the waterclock he'd collapse, and what then?
Eloti flicked her eyes sideways at the old man, then back to the glass.
Almost casually, the silent song rose higher. It soared to a clear, ringing note—then to a falcon's screech of rage and triumph.
The glass tipped over—
—straight into Mygenos's lap.
The wizard yelped and scrambled out of his chair, leaving the wineglass to fall to the floor. Miraculously, it didn't break. Entori and his guest shouted wordlessly in surprise. Elizan gave a whoof of relief and leaned heavily against the table.
Eloti broke out laughing, an amazing sound, like the ring of unbroken crystal.
The hot cloud of tension around the high table dissipated like smoke before a rising gale. Mygenos cursed generously as he wiped his wine-stained robe, ignoring the furious look his master gave him.
"Ah, yes, I think our protections are adequate," Entori smirked, actually tugging a coin out of his belt purse and handing it to the old house wizard. "Thank you, Elizan. You may go."
"Pray, dismiss the rest of the servants too," Eloti smoothly cut in, raking a brief glance over the faces at the lower table. "Best let them get to their tasks while we discuss business in privacy."
"Oh, aye." Entori clapped his hands peremptorily, scarcely looking at the other servants. "You may go. Now, concerning the date of delivery . . ."
Sulun stood up fast, the others barely a second behind him, and headed for the door as quickly as he could manage without actually running. Vari already had the other children in tow, with Omis hurrying at their heels, and the other servants pattered after them.
Sulun had some idea of running off to their rooms to search for Ziya when the porter clapped a hand to his shoulder.
"Come down to the kitchen," the elderly servant hissed. "Ye simply must tell us who yonder guests are, and what's the trouble with 'em."
Sulun complied, tossing a last desperate glance to Omis and Vari. Yes, somebody had to satisfy the household's curiosity, and it seemed he'd been chosen. At least Ziya was safe, they were all safe from Mygenos's knowing eyes. The kitchen then, and more pilfered wine and interminable gossip. Small sacrifice for their salvation. He padded dutifully down the hall to the kitchen, grateful to see the rest of his little mob hurry off to their rooms.
There was still a fire burning in the kitchen, though no pots hung over it now. There stood the cook, who had managed to escape sitting in at the miserable dinner, handing a small pastry to a girl-child huddled on a stool beside the fire.
Girl? Who? Sulun plodded to the fireside at the porter's urging, barely noticing the cup of cider thrust into his hand, wondering where the girl had come from and who she was. Then the child raised her head and looked at him.
"Sulun?" she squeaked, the ghost of an old smile flickering over her face. "Sulun, you're here?"
It was Memi. Mygenos's daughter. She remembered him.
Oh, gods!
All Sulun could think to do was plaster a sickly smile on his face and press a warning finger to his lips. "Hush, Memi," he whispered, grabbing for words. "Don't tell anyone I'm here. You know how people would laugh, hearing that Shibari's old philosopher now works for Entori the Miser."
"Aha," grinned the porter, guessing at the supposed disgrace. "So that's it, eh? 'Brought low, brought low, let none of me old friends know.' Heh-heh!"
"Aww . . ." Memi's face screwed into a grimace of pity. "I won't tell anyone, I promise."
For however long you can, Sulun groaned inwardly. "Thank you much, Memi. But tell me, how have you fared since you left Shibari's house?"
The child's noncommittal shrug told Sulun all he needed to know. Mygenos's fortunes might have improved, but Memi's life was no better. She might remember her old friend Sulun kindly, but eventually her father's sternness would press her too far: To save herself punishment or win herself some pathetic gain, she would let the secret out.
Eventually Mygenos would know who Entori's engineer was. Between old malice and new rivalry, the wizard wouldn't hesitate to ill-wish Sulun and his work.
And he knew Sulun worked with the firepowder.
Sulun sat down beside the fire, drank the cider, gossiped gently with the pathetically grateful child and with the momentarily kind servants, knowing his time had grown drastically short. Soon enough Mygenos would send for his daughter and depart. Soon enough Memi would reveal the secret. Soon enough Mygenos would set his vengeful little disasters in motion.
It was time to get out.
Four more days before they could get to the riverside workshop again: four days of making turbine parts, supports, molds for the steam valves—and hating every miserable hour of it. Four days of sweating over Memi's discovery, wondering when she'd tell and what Mygenos would do then. Four days of wretched work that felt like idleness without its rest.
Four days of bad news: there were more retreats, more losses in the north. The Ancar were moving steadily down the east side of the Baiz river valley, rolling over the Sabirn lines like a flood. The Imperial House issued no news, but street gossip ran high. Refugees from the upper valley added to it, and none of their news was good. The traffic to Esha increased steadily.
"Perhaps Mygenos's new master will join the panic," Sulun suggested as he helped break down the box of the sand mold. "If he runs south, Myggy just may find it prudent to go with him. After that, he'll have other things to worry about than his old rival from Shibari House."
"Hope high," Omis grunted pulling away the last board. "Ah, that sand was pounded well."
The packed, now dry sand still stood firm as dried clay. Not a grain had moved during the four days of cooling down.
"Break it," said Omis, taking up a heavy sledge.
The rest of the work gang set upon the sand with mallets and chisels, cutting it away from the buried treasure. A familiar rapping on the front door interrupted them.
"Zeren, no doubt," said Eloti, rising gracefully from her seat on the bench. "Go on with the work; I'll let him in."
Ziya was the only one to watch her go, struck by the sight of the mistress of a respectable house going to open doors like a porter. The others kept on hammering, cutting, freeing the cast tube from the mold.
A moment later, Zeren strolled in with Eloti on his arm—just in time to hear Omis's shout of triumph and warning as the last of the sand fell away. They stopped to watch, Zeren unconsciously making a luck sign with his free hand.
The exposed tube didn't look very prepossessing: rough and pebbly, covered with glassy, fused sand, its interior still choked. Nonetheless, Omis cradled it in his arms, beaming, as if it were one of his own children.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "Not a flaw in the casting. Perfect."
"It doesn't look like much," Ziya sniffed, disappointed.
"Well, of course not, boy," Omis laughed. "It still has to be cleaned out, smoothed, polished, and the fuse hole drilled. We'll start that right now. Ah, good morning, Zeren. How is it you always manage to get here when something important's afoot?"
"No mystery," Zeren smiled, graciously lowering Eloti to her seat. "I come by every morning and see if anyone's about. I've told my guards I have a valuable informant here, which isn't a lie. The news is good, then?"
"Good now, better later. Set up the drill, boys."
While the apprentices scampered to comply, Sulun went to fetch food and drink. Zeren and Eloti were chatting when he brought the food out.
"Never mind the fool wizard," Zeren was saying. "He and his master must have better things to occupy them now. The Ancar have been halted above Lutegh."
"Halted?" Sulun crowed, setting out the cups and bowls. "Thank the gods! If they stay put only half a moon, we'll have the bombard tested and ready. . . ." He paused to cross his fingers, hoping that this model, this time, would work.
"Aye, cross your fingers," Zeren smiled sourly. "It isn't our oh-so-invincible troops that have checked them; it's the river. The Dawnstream branch of the Baiz is wide, fast, and deep there, and the Ancar are no sailors. They've only turned east awhile, looking for an easy way across the river. Expect they'll find it soon enough, and then turn south again."
"Surely our troops on the south bank can stop them?"
"Perhaps," Zeren shrugged. "They've had the wit to take every boat and barge from the north bank, burn every bridge, fortify every known ford clean up into the Cerinde West hills—the generals showed that much sense."
"Still," Eloti considered, "the Ancar have taken that hill country, I believe."
"It's crawling with them," Zeren sighed. "If the main horde of the Ancar can't cross any further west, they'll simply go up into the hills, cross where the Dawnstream thins out into its tributary streams, join their Cerinde West cousins, and come marching back down the south bank. A few months, at best." He glanced apologetically at Sulun. "We have less time than I thought, old friend. How long to finish your new bombard?"
"Gods . . ." Sulun tugged his hair, watching the work gang setting the drill bit into the blocked tube's muzzle. "Give us three days, just three uninterrupted days to drill it out, make the powder, test it. . . . How long then, you tell me, to attract enough interest at court that we can have a dozen work gangs, busy night and day, making bombards and powder and shot?"
Zeren shrugged again. "Do I use every contact I have, call in every favor, I could get interested parties to watch you fire the bombard—successfully—at the Sworddance Field within perhaps three days. After that, at best, you might have orders and assistants from the Imperial House itself the next day—or minor interest from the lesser Ministers in half a moon."
"After that . . ." Sulun calculated, allowing for the ignorance of strange craftsmen who wouldn't begin to understand the principles of the bombard. "A dozen workshops could make a dozen bombards, with powder and shot and sufficient knowledge to use them, in perhaps another half moon at best."
"So, if the Ancar can be held off for as long as one moon, Sabis might live." Zeren leaned back to look at the cloudless sky. "There be the gods' dicing floor, right over our heads."
"But we need those three days to finish the bombard, first." Sulun turned to Eloti, wild-eyed with a desperate hope. "Mistress, what if we were to disappear from Entori's house, just for three days, all of us? What would he do then?"
Eloti thought a moment, then shook her head. "He too has favors he can call in," she sighed. "He'd have his clients hunting the city for you, offering rewards far greater than any he's paid you. Too many neighbors know you come here, too many tradesmen, street loiterers, the gods know who else. I . . . couldn't protect you from everyone. Someone would talk."
Sulun groaned and looked back toward the busy group in the courtyard. "Then we still have to steal out here only when we can—perhaps one day in every five."
"Half a moon, then, just to finish this one bombard." Zeren glowered at the innocent-looking sky. "And another moon beyond that, to save our city. If I thought the gods would listen, I would beggar myself making offerings at every temple in Sabis. Gods, give us just that much time."
Out in the courtyard, Omis's drill began to whine through the packed sand in the bombard's muzzle, clearing out the bore.
Eloti, too, looked at the sky, then back at the ground, finally out toward the river. "I had almost forgot. Sulun, while your friends are thus engaged, come with me to the river."
"The river?" Sulun and Zeren gulped together, nonplussed at the change of subject.
"One reaches it through your back gate, not so?" Eloti stood, gathering her skirts and parasol.
"Er, oh, yes." Sulun hastened to lead the way through the courtyard, around the busy crew at the drill, to the back wall and its stout gate. "Uhm, the keys should be . . . Yes, here on the hook. I haven't opened this fool thing in years. Pray the hinges are . . . Yes."
The long-unoiled hinges screeched in protest, momentarily startling the apprentices, though Omis's concentration never wavered. The back gate grumbled open, revealing the thick-weeded bank of the river. The water here was oily and thick with garbage, and the wind off the river blew the stink into their faces.
"Ugh," muttered Sulun, pinching his nose. "It wasn't so bad inside. Let's go back."
"It's endurable." Eloti marched resolutely through the high weeds to the edge of the water. "There," she said, pointing.
Sulun looked, seeing only the wreck of what looked to be a sizable old barge tied up to ancient stakes driven into the mud. "What's there?" he asked.
Eloti smiled that faint, secret smile. "Look closer," she said. "It is not a wreck."
Sulun picked his way closer, hearing Zeren a few paces behind. The thing looked wretched enough, weathered grey hull spotted sickly green with patches of mold, deck covered with scatterings of rotted wood and dead weeds. The tie ropes looked frayed, but were thick enough to hold it steady. Still, he hated to set foot on those loose and undoubtedly rotten boards.
"Pull the top boards and weeds away," Eloti commanded, voice ever so slightly impatient.
Sulun obediently bent down and tugged away the topmost boards, brushed off some of the dead weeds.
Weeds? A lot of them, he noticed now, were artfully bound straw. The rotted boards were light, thin, and dry. No rusted nails threatened his hands. The assorted trash looked . . . fake.
Under it, the deck was clean and sound.
He stepped onto it, suspicion and wonder rising, and looked closer.
The hull and thwarts were solid too, showing little real sign of wear. The seams were caulked tight, no board was warped. The weathered grey color, he saw now, was deliberately toned paint. The mold patches were painted too.
"Camouflage," he whispered, impressed, hearing Zeren whistle in respectful amazement. "No, she's not a wreck at all."
"Below decks you'll find a mast and boom, sails, oars, and an awning," said Eloti. "I would suggest moving some of your provisions on board before we leave today."
Sulun straightened up to stare at her. Zeren, chuckling, replaced the disguising boards and weeds.
"In the event that we fail . . ." Eloti shrugged eloquently. "This can carry all of us, and everything, even the wagon and mules."
"Yes," Sulun agreed, not taking his eyes off his amazing Mistress. "Yes."
Zeren sat down on the deck and looked out over the water. "Win or lose," he muttered, "surer victory or better retreat than I've ever had before."
"That," said Eloti striding nearer to him, "is exactly what I intended."
Zeren laughed shortly. "Ah, Lady, if only some kindly god had given the defense of Sabis to you! To you, and not to those fools up on the hill." He shook his head at the madness and wonder of it.
In the courtyard, Omis stopped the drill and ordered the apprentices to change the drill bit for a heavy wire smoothing brush.