FIVE

Impressive, Adrian thought, pausing in his restless pacing and looking up the slope of the volcano.

The mansion of their father’s guest-friend was down by the docks—the Lowissons liked to keep in touch with the sources of their wealth. Like most buildings in Chalice it was made of stone blocks, like volcanic tufa plastered over and whitewashed or painted, with a flat roof where the inhabitants could sleep during the hot summers . . . or pace while they awaited the word of the King. Other buildings stretched up the steep slope, along roads cobblestoned or paved or deep in mud, narrow and twisting except for the Processional Way that led from the docks to the great blocky temple of Lemare, the Sea Goddess. The buildings lay like the dice of gods themselves, tumbled over the slopes in blocks of brilliant white, emerald green, purple and blue and crimson; they turned blank walls to the streets, centering around a myriad of courtyards large and small. A wall might hide anything; the mansion of a merchant prince, a teeming tenement house, the workshops of artisans. Over some one could see the tips of trees swaying, and within could be beautiful gardens and fountains of carved jade splashing cool water . . . or flapping laundry and shrilling children.

The streets were crowded themselves, with near-naked porters bent double under huge loads, with chains of the Island dwarf velipads under similar burdens, with water sellers and sweetmeat sellers and storytellers, rich merchants in jewels and silk, swaggering crewmen from pirate galleys with curved swords at their sides and horn-backed bows slung over their shoulders, priests with their heads shaven and painted in zigzag stripes . . . Here a wealthy courtesan went by in her litter borne on the shoulders of four brawny slaves, crooning and feeding nuts between her teeth to a gaudy-feathered bird; there a scholar paused to buy a cup of watered wine, while his students gathered behind and broke into arm-waving argument, using the scrolls they carried to gesture—or to rap each other over the head. . . .

Chalice took in three-quarters of the circumference of the ancient volcanic crater that made up its harbor and gave it its name; the knife ridges above made a city wall unnecessary. The great expanse of the caldera was thick with ships, galleys spider-walking to the naval base on the north shore, fishing smacks, the lines of buoys that marked the outlines of fish farms. Above the buildings reared the slopes of other volcanos; the Peak of the Sun God highest of all, topped with eternal snows and trickling a long plume of smoke into azure heavens. The lower slopes were terraced for orchards of pomegranate, mangosteen, orange, fig; the upper bore dense green forest, the source of valuable hardwoods and ship timber.

Adrian turned back to his brother . . . and stopped a moment, shocked. Esmond looks older, he thought. Thirty, at least. There were deep grooves from the corners of his mouth to his nose, and his blue gaze was blank as he waited.

What can you say? he thought. The School of the Grove taught that the love of women was a weakness, disturbing the equilibrium that a wise man constantly sought. He didn’t think that was what Esmond’s grief needed to hear; and he’d obviously loved Nanya with exactly the sort of grand obsessive passion that Bestmun had denounced, the sort that had set a thousand ships to sailing and brought the wrath of the Gods down on the city of Windhaven in the ancient epics. The problem is, he’d say it was worth it, even with the pain, Adrian decided. Thank the gods I’m free of that, at least. It would have been more wholehearted if he’d been able to deny an element of wistful envy . . .

His host saved him the embarassment of speech. "Come," he said, smiling. "The King will hear you, most fortunate of men."

Adrian’s eyes went to the volcano for a moment. The slopes of such mountains bore soil of marvelous richness . . . but anything a man grew there might be destroyed by fire and ash at any moment.

We never said it would be easy, lad, Raj said.

Adrian took a deep breath and bowed in his turn. "The King does us honor," he began.

"The King does us honor," Adrian said again as they sat awkwardly, unused to the cross-legged position.

"The King is finished with ceremony," Casull said, leaning back against the pile of cushions. "I can see men beating their heads on the floor of the throne room any time of the day—men with something interesting to say are much rarer, and I prefer not to have important news bellowed out in open durbar. Even the Confederacy can find the occasional able spy."

The day had turned warm; the King was glad enough of the peacock-feather fans stirring a little air across his face, and the fine mist from the fountain in the courtyard. The palace of the Kings of the Isles was a warren that had grown by accretion over four centuries, every new monarch adding something and few tearing anything down. This chamber was open at both ends, slender pillars with coral capitals giving onto the corridor and a terrace that looked over the outer gardens; the through breeze made it tolerable on these hot rainy-season afternoons. From the raised platform where he sat Casull could see past the Emeralds to the city, and to the black thunderclouds piling up on the eastern horizon.

Luridly appropriate, he thought.

"The . . . grenade, did you call it? The grenade was very impressive. At sea, such weapons could be decisive—at least for the first few times, when the enemy were unused to them, and had none themselves."

He spoke Emerald, the cultured version of Solinga’s gentlefolk, not the patois of the sea. The younger Emerald’s Islander was impressively fluent, but it wouldn’t do to let him think he was dealing with a boor, a mere jumped-up pirate chief. Casull’s mental eyes narrowed as he appraised this Adrian Gellert; outwardly he was very much a young Scholar of the Grove, but there was something else . . . Harder than one might expect, he thought. And more perceptive—he misses nothing.

The brother was more outwardly formidable. A fighting man, Casull judged, and not just an athlete. The reports from the mainland, and from the spies among the barkeeps, whores and gamblers who’d had contact with the mercenary troop the Gellerts had brought with them, said he had the baraka, the gift of inspiring men in battle. Wits besides; and he certainly looked like an incarnation of Wodep, the ancient War God of the mainlanders.

The younger Emerald bowed. "O King, the grenades are the least of what can be done with the new . . . new principle involved in these explosive weapons."

Casull raised his eyebrows. The Emerald word meant underlying cause, and he didn’t quite see how it applied.

"Speak on," he said mildly, quelling a restless stir by his son Tenny. Let the boy learn patience; that’s not the least of a ruler’s virtues.

"If my lord the King would deign to look at these—the first is what is called a cannon, for hurling iron balls and giant grenades; to smash ships, or batter down the walls of a fort . . ."

Two hours later Casull leaned back again. "Interesting indeed," he said. His eyes turned to Esmond. "And you, young sir, what have you to say?"

Esmond smiled, a gesture that did not reach the cold blue eyes. "My brother is the scholar," he said. "What I do is fight. I’ve managed to kill a fair number of Confeds, over the past six months. I intend to kill a good many more." His fist tightened on his knee; the scars and burns across the back showed white against his tanned skin. "For every slight, for every humiliation they’ve inflicted on me and my city, I shall take recompense in blood—and they owe me a debt beyond that. When the last trooper dies in the burning ruins of Vanbert and the Confederacy is a memory, then perhaps I’ll consider the account settled."

Casull nodded thoughtfully; he’d seen hatred before, but none more bitter. Pity, he thought. A man that eaten with hate turned inward on himself; his luck might be strong, but it would run too swiftly, carrying out the current of his life. But I can use him.

He clapped his hands. "Hear the commands of the King!" he said, his tone slightly formal. The wakil leaned forward, pen poised over a sheet of reed-paper.

"It is the command of the King that the noble warrior Esmond Gellert’s-son of Solinga, be taken into the forces of the King, to command the Sea Striker regiment; he shall rank as a Commander of Five Hundred—which is about what they’ll come to, with the men he brought with him. The usual pay and plunder-shares."

Esmond bowed again, and this time his smile was more genuine.

Casull turned his eyes back to the younger man. "You shall have a chance to demonstrate your new weapons," he said. "It is the command of the King that Adrian Gellert be accepted into the Court with the rank of Scholar-Advisor, with the usual pay and perquisites. For the purpose of building his weapons, he may exert the royal perogative of eminent domain, acquiring land, and requiring artisans and merchants to furnish the materials he needs . . . saltpeter, you said? And the metals. He may use a royal estate to be designated hereafter, and royal vessels, within reason. All goods and labor to be paid for at fair market prices, of course."

A King of the Isles was theoretically absolute; in practice there were always enough claimants that a monarch who angered enough of the powerful merchants and ship owners would find that the despotism was tempered by assassination and leavened by coup d’etat. He certainly wasn’t going to risk that for this Emerald’s untried notions. The potential payoff was certainly huge, though.

"Ah . . ." Adrian looked uncertain. "My lord King, this work will require considerable funds," he said. "Even for demonstration purposes. How . . ."

Casull smiled at Enri and Pyhar Lowisson. "Your patrons will, of course—out of patriotic duty as well—loan you the funds at a reasonable rate of interest. No more than fifteen percent, annual, compounded."

The two Islander merchants winced; that was the rate for a bottomry loan, with no premium for risk.

"If the weapons are satisfactory, I will reward you richly; and they shall have the interest doubled from the royal treasury, as well as my favor, of course."

He beamed at the Emeralds and the two Islanders as well. Unspoken went the fact that if the weapons failed to satisfy they would get nothing, and the Lowissons could try as best they could to get satsifaction from their penniless guests.

Casull clapped his hands. "This audience is at an end!"

"By the Dog," the mercenary officer said. "Has the King sent us a pretty boy for a party?"

"The King has sent me here to command," Esmond said. "Name and rank."

The mercenary turned crimson. "I’m Donnuld Grayn, and I command here now that Stenson’s dead, by the Dog!"

Esmond rested his hands on his sword belt and looked the man up and down. By his accent he came from Cable, ancient enemy of the Solingians—not that that mattered much, these days—and by his looks, scars upon scars, he’d been in this profession most of his thirty-odd years. And from the look of his bloodshot eyes . . .

"Are you usually drunk this early?" he said. "Or are you just naturally stupid?"

"Ahhhh," the man said eagerly, his hand falling towards his sword hilt. "I’ll see your liver and lights for that, you mincing Solingian basta—"

The growl broke into a yelp as Esmond’s thumb and forefinger closed on his nose and gave it a powerful, exactly calculated twist. As he’d expected, the mercenary forgot all about his steel and lashed out with a knobby fist.

Esmond’s own hand slapped it aside, and his right sank its knuckles into his opponent’s gut with the savage precision of the palaestra. As the man doubled over, the Solingian stepped to one side and slammed another blow with the edge of a palm behind his ear. The mercenary dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut and lay wheezing at the victor’s feet.

The victor looked up; there were a crowd of Strikers looking on, together with some of the camp followers and children that crowded the barracks. Some were smiling, some glaring, most wavering between the two.

"You!" Esmond said. "Name and rank, soldier."

The man stiffened. "Eward, sir—file closer, second company."

"Eward, get Captain Grayn to his quarters—he needs to sleep it off. Trumpeter," he went on, "sound fall in."

That took far too long, and he had to detail some of his own men to push the noncombatants out of the way. When it was finished there were about four hundred men standing on the pounded clay of the parade ground; it was surrounded on three sides by barracks, and on the fourth by a wall. Esmond paced down the ranks of the sweating, bewildered men, pausing now and then.

Not bad, he thought. About half-and-half javelineers and slingers. They all had linen corselets with thin iron plates sewn between the layers of cloth, shortswords, and light open-face bowl helmets. Most of them looked to be in reasonable condition, and King Casull certainly wouldn’t be wasting his silver on deadbeats. From what he’d heard, a lot of them would be men who’d left the Emerald cities for reasons of health, or on their relatives’ urgent advice; but war and the Confederacy had left a lot of broken men in the southern lands.

"All right," he said at last, standing in front of them with his left hand resting on his hilt and the cloak thrown back from his shoulder. "My name is Esmond Gellert."

A slight murmur. He noted it without the pleasure it might have brought him a few months ago. He’d always been proud of the fame he’d won as a competitor in the Pan-Emerald Games—if not for undying fame, why would men go through the rigors of the palaestra? Now it was like his appearance, something he noted with cold objectivity, a tool to be used. And some of them will have heard about the war on the mainland, too.

"You know—or you should, if you’re paying any attention to anything besides booze, dice and pussy—that there’s war coming. Probably with the Confeds." Another low murmur. "I’ve fought them myself, not too long ago; so have these men with me." He indicated his own followers with a toss of his head. "They’re tough, yes, but they’re not ten feet tall, and they bleed as red as any man when you stick ’em. The King wants this unit ready to fight, and by the Gods, it will be—or we’ll all die trying."

He nodded at the last murmur. No use saying anything more; they’d be waiting to see if he was real, or all mouth.

"For starters, we’re going on a little route march. Fall out in campaign order in twenty minutes. Dismissed!"

"Faugh, this stinks," Enri Lowisson said.

"Think of it as the smell of money," Adrian said, chuckling with delight.

The cave was halfway up the side of Gunnung Daberville, the main volcanic peak that loomed over the port of Chalice. From the entrance you could see down past jungle and orchard to the city itself, the bastioned wall, the near-circle of the drowned caldera that made up the harbor, and over miles of sail-speckled water beyond. It was what lay within that interested him, however, down into the depths of the fumarole that twisted like a frozen intestine into the depths of the mountain.

Thirty feet overhead the ceiling of the cavern was not of the same pockmarked gray-green rock as the rest of the cave. It was brown instead, lumpy . . . and it moved as the chitterwings nesting there for the day stirred uneasily at the light and heat of the party’s torches. A soft pattering left gloppy white stains on the floor, adding to a layer that was probably four feet deep at least. That was the source of the rancid, ammonia-harsh stink that had several of the party breathing through pieces of their tunics.

"The stuff we need, the saltpeter, will be concentrated in the lower levels of this," he said, kicking at the hard dried surface of the chitterwing dung that covered the ground. "We’ll dig it out, cart it down lower, then leach out the saltpeter in a system of trays and sluices."

"That will cost," Enri warned.

He looked backward, and Adrian nodded. The way down was near-as-no-matter roadless; if it had been easier, farmers would have come to dig the dung out for fertilizer, as they had with several caves lower down. The chitterwings went out in huge flocks at night, to feed at sea on tiny phosphorescent fish. At dawn they returned, to sleep, and to breed and nest in season—most of the females had tiny young clinging to their belly fur with miniature claws right now.

"It’ll be worth it; there’s more here than we’ll need in a generation." He looked downslope as well, and suddenly a tracery of drawings was overlaid on it.

so, Center said. and so.

Adrian started and came back to himself, conscious of the curious stares Enri and his men were giving him.

"There’s a way to make it easier," he said. "See how this ridge curves away down to the foothills?"

"Building a road?" Enri said. He shook his head. "I don’t think that’s practical."

"No, what we’ll do is build a trackway," Adrian said. The words tumbled over themselves at the series of silent clicks just behind his eyes; suddenly Center’s drawing made sense. In fact the principle . . . Why haven’t we thought of this before? he wondered. It would make so much easier.

The problem was he knew the answer to that. "Thought was not to be sullied with the base, contemptible concerns of men whose lives were warped away from virtue by cramping labor . . ." which, in effect, means anyone who isn’t an absentee landlord; not something that would have come to him before Raj and Center took up residence in the rear of his mind, but it was his own thought.

"We’ll lay down two rails of hard wood, spiked to cross-ties," he said. "Carts will run down it, on flanged wheels. When they’re empty, they can be hauled up easily."

Enri winced. "Oh, that will cost. Sawyers, carpenters, the metal for spikes, all that cordage . . ."

"No, it’ll turn a profit," Adrian said. "What we extract will still leave the sludge good for fertilizer, and think of what that fetches in the gardens around the city."

Enri brightened. "And, of course, the King will pay . . . eventually."

"Interesting!" the blacksmith said.

Well, thank the Gray-Eyed Lady for that! Adrian thought to himself. At least I’m not getting "but such a thing was never done in the days of our fathers" so often here.

The smithy occupied the lower story of a house near the docks, with the quarters of the smith’s two wives, his children, the two apprentices and the three slaves to the rear, on the other side of the courtyard. It held a large circular brick hearth built up to about waist height, the bellows behind that, and a variety of anvils. The front entrance could be closed by a grillwork that was now hauled up, a little like a portcullis; the walls held workbenches, racked tools, vices and clamps, and more anvils of different shapes and sizes. It was ferociously hot—the smith wore only a rag-twist loincloth under his leather apron and gloves, and the slave working the bellows less than that. The smells were of hot oil from the quenching bath, burning charcoal, scorched metal, sweat.

"Interesting, the Lame One curse me if it isn’t," the smith said. "This tube you want, now, it’s to be sixty inches long?"

"Sixty inches long, and an inch and a quarter on the inside. I thought you could twist the bar around an iron mandrel, red-hot, and then hammer-weld it."

"Hmmm."

The smith went over to a workbench and brought back a sword. It was nearly complete except for the fitting of the hilt and guard; a curved weapon with a flared tip, more than a yard long, the type of slashing-scimitar that the Royal bodyguards carried. Adrian whistled admiration as he peered more closely at the metal; it had the rippled pattern work of a blade made from rods of iron and steel twisted together, heated, hammered, doubled back, hammered again . . . and repeated time after time until there were thousands of laminations in the metal.

"Look," the smith said.

He braced the point of the blade against the floor, placed his foot against it, and heaved. Muscle stood out like cable under the wet brown skin of his massive, ropy arms and broad shoulders. The blade bent nearly double . . . and then sprang back with a quivering whine when he released it.

"That’s good steel," Adrian said sincerely; tough and flexible both.

The smith gave him a quizzical look, out of a face that looked as if it had been pounded from rough iron itself, with one of the sledges that stood all around the big room.

"You’re not the common run of fine Emerald gentlemen," he said. "Never a one of them I’ve met who thought how a thing was made."

Adrian smiled. "I have unusual friends," he said. "Can you do what I ask?"

"Oh, certainly: Lame One be my witness. The thing is, friend, it’ll take time. Three weeks to make a good sword blade—not counting grinding, polishing, and fitting; I contract those out. I’m not one for fine work with brass and ivory, anyway . . . say the same for one of these . . . what was the word?"

"Arquebus barrels," Adrian said helpfully.

"One of these tubes, then. And it’ll cost what a good sword blade does, too."

"If I paid you extra, to take on more labor, could you do more?"

A decisive shake of the head. "No, sir. Guild rules." At Adrian’s expression he went on: "But see here, sir, I like gold and silver as much as the next man, and I like to do something new now and then. What I can do is contract out. There are dozens of mastersmiths in the Brotherhood; not many as good as I am, if I do say so myself, but nearly. And there are plenty of journeymen we could hire away from their regular work, and who could do the simpler parts. Say . . . thirty in three weeks, with as much again every week after that. It’ll go faster once we’re used to it."

Adrian sighed. "Well, if that’s all that can be done . . ."

the artisan is not being entirely truthful, Center pointed out. An image of his face sprang up, with pointers indicating temperature variations and the dilation of his pupils. mendacity factor of 27%, ±7. i suspect that he is merely establishing an initial bargaining position.

Oh, Adrian thought. He was the son of a merchant, but most of his life had been spent among the Scholars of the Grove. What should I do?

Well, I wasn’t a trader either, Raj’s mental voice said, amused. But I did do a fair bit of dickering with sutlers. I’d suggest you say that’s not enough to make the project worthwhile. He’ll scream and modify his terms; then point out that he and his friends will be able to sell the muskets elsewhere, too . . .

"What is this, a flowerpot?" the brassfounder said.

"No, it’s a weapon," Adrian replied, biting back the first words that came to mind. "The one the King has commanded me to build," he added.

"May the King live forever!" the artisan said, without taking his eyes off the model Adrian had had carved from soft wood.

The Emerald’s hands trembled slightly as he pulled on it. Not enough sleep, he thought to himself as the model split down the middle.

"This is a—" He paused, frustrated. What’s says "cross-sectional view" in Islander? he thought.

Lad, there’s no word for it. There’s no word for it in your language either, Raj said.

"—what it would look like if it was cut down the middle?" Adrian said. Have I changed so much in a year?

He shook aside the obscure sense of instability that lay like a lump of cold millet porridge below his breastbone for a moment. The reasonable man did not doubt that he himself was, the School of the Grove taught.

The brassfounder was in a bigger way of business than any of the smiths; he was a merchant, as well as the manager of a workshop. Iron was much more common than copper, vastly more common than tin. You had to have long-distance contacts to deal in it. Hence the warehouse attached to his house, and the courtyard with its ruddy tile and fountain, that Islander symbol of status. The man’s turban was of plain cotton, though, and the eyes below it were shrewd and dark.

"Like a tube closed at one end, then," he said, tracing the model. "You know, this trick might be useful for making preliminary models of castings of many types . . . and the metal outside the tube grows much thicker towards the closed end. What’s this, though?"

"It’s a thin hole going from the outside—this depression—into the tube at the breech end. The closed end," he added, at the man’s frown.

"Hmmm. Well, with bronze, it would be simpler to drill that afterwards. And what are these little solid tubes at right angles to the main one for?"

"You’ll find out," Adrian said, smiling slightly.

Good. We don’t want too much getting out too early, and I’d be surprised if some of these people aren’t for sale, Raj said.

Or all of them, Adrian replied.

"Well, you make pumps with close-fitting pistons, don’t you?" he said.

"Of course, honored sir," the metalworker said. "By lapping—you use the piston head to do the last little bit of boring out, covering it with naxium—emery is your Emerald word, I think. That will give you a very close fit."

"Well, then, that’s how we’ll make this engine work," he said, forcing cheerfulness into his voice.

"Yes, but I really don’t think it can be done with iron," the metalworker replied. "Iron is too hard—and too hard to cast, honored sir. By the Sun God, I speak the truth."

Adrian sighed and let his head drop into his hands. My back hurts, he thought; he was never, never going to get used to sitting cross-legged on cushions.

"All right," he said. "We’ll start off by using bronze for the pistons. We want two, to begin with, six inches in bore and four feet long. But the piston rods will have to be made of iron—wrought iron."

"Hmm-auhm," the Islander—his name was Marzel, a plump little man with a snuff-colored turban—said.

He picked up the model Adrian had had made by standing over a toycrafter. It showed a single upright cylinder, with a piston rod coming out of its top. The rod connected to one end of a beam; the beam was pivoted in the middle, and the other end had a second rod that worked a crank, that in turn moved a wheel with paddles.

"I’ve seen wheels like this used to move grindstones," Marzel said. "This is the same thing in reverse, isn’t it?"

Gray-Eyed Lady, thank You, Adrian thought. Finally, someone who understands what I’m talking about!

"Exactly!" he said aloud. "The steam pushes the piston, the piston pushes the beam up and down, the crank turns that into around and around, and the wheel pushes the ship—one on each side."

"Hmmm-auhm," Marzel mused again. "You know, honored sir, one could use this to move a grindstone, too."

A hecatomb of oxen to you, Lady of Wisdom. Aloud: "Yes, it could—think of it as a way of transforming firewood into work, the way a man or a velipad converts food into work."

Marzel laughed aloud. "Ah, you have a divine wit, honored sir!" He returned to the model. "So, let me see if I have grasped this. The steam goes through these valves here, at each end of the cylinder. As the piston moves, it uncovers these two rows of outlets here at the middle of the cylinder, letting the steam escape."

At Adrian’s nod, the artificer turned back to the plans, tracing lines across the reed-paper with a finger and then referring back to the model.

"Honored sir," he said at last, "I love this thing you have designed—so clever, you Emeralds! Yes, I love the thought of making it. But I am not sure that it can be made, in the world of real things. In the . . . how do you Emeralds say it? In the world of Pure Forms, yes, this will work as you say. But it has so many valves, so much piping, so many joints, you see. Holding water in such a thing, for say the fountains and curious metal beasts in the Garden of Curiosities in the King’s Palace, that is difficult. Holding hot steam . . . can fittings be made precisely enough? Even with the finest craftsmen? And these parts will be large."

Adrian nodded in respect for the man’s honesty; and his courage, expressing doubts here in the palace rather than telling the royal favorite whatever he wanted to hear.

"I am certain that if any man can do it, Marzel Therdu, you can," he said. "And I am certain that it can be done." He spread his hands and smiled. "And my head answers for it, if it cannot, not yours."

Marzel rose and made the gesture of respect, bowing with palms pressed together. "Perhaps . . . Perhaps we would be well advised to try first a model of this thing, this . . . hot water mover?"

"Steam engine."

"Steam engine, then. Not a toy model, although that was useful. A working model, enough to drive a small launch, of the type rowed by ten men?"

probability of success of steam ram project has increased to 61% ±7, Center said. as always, stochastic analysis cannot fully compensate for human variability.

Adrian smiled; if that had been a human voice speaking aloud, and not a supernatural machine whispering at the back of his mind, he’d have sworn there was a rasp of exasperation in it—rather the way one of the professors of Political Theory in the Academy had spoken of the Confederacy of Vanbert’s Constitution; it should not work, but it did.

"I think you are right, Marzel," he said. "If you could bring me the costed estimates, in . . ."

"Three days time, honored sir."

"Three days, that would be excellent."

They parted with the usual flowery Islander protestations of mutual esteem; this time they were sincere. As the Islander left, Adrian rose to circle the ship model on the table once more. It showed a craft halfway between a galley and a merchant ship, perhaps five times longer than it was wide. The bow ended in a ram shaped like a cold chisel, and there were neither oars nor sail. Instead two great bladed wheels revolved on either side, and the hull was covered over wholly by a turtlelike deck. Octagons covered that in turn like the scales of some great serpent, marking where the hand-hammered iron plates would go. The upper curve was broken by two smokestacks, one to the left and one to the right; between them was a low circular deckhouse, with slits all around for vision.

Esmond rose from the corner where he had been sitting silently. "Brother," he said gently. "Will this really work?"

"I don’t know," Adrian said. "I think it will. The gunpowder worked . . ."

"Yes." Esmond paused. "I know I haven’t been much help to you . . . much help since Vanbert," he said hesitantly.

Adrian turned and gripped his shoulders. "Oh, no—just saved my life half a dozen times in the retreat, got us all out alive, got us a ship, rushed around like Wodep would if he had enough sense to listen to the Gray-Eyed . . ."

"Brother, I’m worried about you," the taller of the Gellerts said bluntly. "I don’t . . . I’ve known you all my life. Yes, you’re the smarter of us, and yes, you’re a Scholar the Grove could be proud of—but all these, these things you’ve been coming up with since Father died . . ."

"These things are our only chance of revenge on the Confederacy," Adrian said, with a peculiar inward wrench. I cannot tell the truth even to my brother, who is not only the brother of my blood but the brother of my heart, he knew. First, Esmond would simply be horrified that his brother had gone mad. And even if he believed, would he understand? The concepts had been hard enough for Adrian, and he had two disembodied intelligences speaking directly to him.

He thrust aside certain fears that had come to him in the night, now and then. What if I am truly mad? What if these are demons, such as the ancient stories tell of?

Esmond’s face hardened. "You’re right," he said. "I thank the gods that you’ve stumbled on these things." A smile. "Forgive my weakness."

"I’d forgive you far more than a concern for me, Esmond."

The cry was a huge shout, like a battle trumpet. Adrian Gellert shot out of the low soft bed as if he had been yanked out with cords, not fully conscious until he realized he was standing barefoot on cold marble with the dagger he kept under the pillow naked in his hand.

Nothing, he thought. Nothing but the night sounds of Chalice, insects, birds, the soft whisper of water in the fountain that plashed in the courtyard below, a watchman calling out as his iron-tipped staff clacked on paving stones.

Then a woman screamed; that was close, just down the corridor. Adrian was out the door of his bedroom in seconds, feet skidding on the slick stones of the floor. One of the Lowissons’ guards was there not long after him, likewise in nothing but his drawers, looking foolish with his shaved head showing—no time to don the turban—but a curved sword ready in his hand. Adrian ignored him, plunging into his brother’s room. The door rebounded off his shoulder and crashed against the jamb and Adrian’s gaze skittered about. The room was dark—even the nightlight in the lamp by the bed had gone out. Then it grew a bright greenish cast, as Center amplified the light that was reaching his retinas. Even then Adrian’s skin crawled with the revulsion that brought, but there was no time for anything but business now.

Esmond Gellert was sitting up in bed, his muscular chest heaving and sheening with sweat. His eyes were wide and staring, and cloth ripped in the hand that held a pillow. An Islander woman crouched naked against the far wall, sobbing.

"He was asleep!" she cried, looking blindly to the door. "I did my best, I swear!"

Go," Adrian said gently in her language, rising from his crouch and letting the dagger fall along one leg. "Go, now. This is not your fault."

She scuttled out, scooping up clothing as she went. Adrian moved over to the bedside. "Esmond," he said sharply. "Esmond, it’s me. What’s the matter?"

His elder brother shook himself like a dog coming out of a river. "A dream," he muttered softly. "It must have been a dream. My oath, what a dream . . ."

"What dream, Esmond?" Adrian said carefully.

"Nanya," he said. "The fire . . ." His face changed, writhing. "They’ll burn."

"Who will burn?"

"Vanbert. The Confeds. All of them. They’re going to burn, burn."

"Esmond, it’s late. Do you think you can sleep now?"

Esmond shook himself again, and something like humanness returned to his eyes. "What . . . oh, sorry, brother. Bit of a bad dream. Yes, it’s going to be a long day."

"The man will be impaled, otherwise," Casull said. "He is a criminal."

Adrian sighed; it was not something he wanted to do, but on the other hand . . . well, he’d rather be shot than have a sharpened wooden stake up the anus, if he had to choose.

King Casull was present, and his eldest son Tenny—a twenty-year-old version of his father, except that there was a trace of softness around the jaw, of petulance in the set of his mouth. There were a scattering of Islander admirals as well, ships’ captains, mercenary officers, and an interested score or so of Adrian’s own Emerald slingers. Three of them were serving as the arquebus’ crew. Adrian squinted against the bright sunlight; the first target was floating on a barge twenty yards away, tied to a stake and with a Confed infantry shield set up before him. Royal guardsmen kept the crowds well away from this section of the naval dockyards.

"These have two-man crews," Adrian went on. "They load . . . thus."

He nodded to his men. The weapon was clamped into a tripod with a pivot joint. The gunner pushed on the butt, and the weapon spun around. He seized and held the muzzle, while the loader bit open a paper cartridge and rammed it and the eight-ounce lead ball down the long barrel. Then he spun it again, taking a horn from his belt.

"You see, lord King, the small pan on the right side? That is where the fine-ground priming powder goes. Then this hammer with the piece of flint in its jaws goes back . . ."

"Ah, yes," Casull said. "A flint-and-steel—the sort travellers use."

"Yes, lord king. The flint strikes this portion of the L-shaped steel, pushing it back from over the pan—the sparks fall down onto the powder—the powder burns, the flame goes through a small hole into the barrel and ignites the main charge."

He raised his voice a little. "Gentlemen, there will be a loud crack, a little like thunder."

There were alert nods, dark eyes bright with interest. You know, he thought, this Kingdom of the Isles would seem to be a better place to start "progress" than the mainland, he thought. They’re a lot less . . . hidebound, I think you’d say.

no, Center said. There was more than the usual heavy certainty to its communication than usual. this culture is too intellectually amorphous.

Adrian felt a familiar baffled frustration. Raj cut in: Sure, they’ll take and use anything that looks useful. But they’re pure pragmatists. Your Emerald philosophers have gotten themselves into a trap—staring up their own arses and trying to find first causes in words, in language. But at least they think about the structure of things; so do the Confeds, when they think at all—they caught it from you. The Islanders just aren’t interested; to them, everything you’ve shown is just a wonderful new trick, to be thrown into the grab bag.

accurate, if loosely phrased, Center said.

Hmmm, Adrian thought. This time he felt the wonderful tension-before-release mental sensation of almost grasping a concept; it was like sex just before orgasm, only better. But they have a lot of . . . what was that phrase? Social mobility?

correct, Center said. if anything, an excessive amount.

Sure, you can get ahead, here, Raj said. But you can’t stay ahead. Everything here turns on the fall of the dice; the ruler’s favor, a lucky pirate raid. This place is as unstable as water, while the mainland’s set in granite. You can carve granite into a new shape, though; water will just run through your fingers.

Adrian shook himself back to the world of phenomena; the mental conversation had only taken a few seconds, but he was attracting looks. Most of them were tolerantly amused; the Scholars of the Grove had a solid reputation for otherworldly abstraction.

If only they knew, he thought to himself. Aloud: "Fire!"

The gunner carefully squeezed the trigger. There was a chick-shsss as the hammer came down and the priming caught in a little sideways puff of fire and dirty-white smoke. Then: Bdannggg as the arquebus fired; the cloud of smoke from the main charge was enough to hide the target from Adrian’s eyes for a second. Esmond gave a silent whistle of relief beside him; the bullet hadn’t missed. Casull’s eyebrows went up as well, and the Islander grandees were laughing and slapping Adrian on the back; eight ounces of high-velocity lead had smashed a hole the size of a fist through the Confed shield, through metal facing and plywood and tough leather, and then removed the entire top of the target’s head in a spatter of pink-gray froth and whitish bone fragments.

Adrian swallowed. "So, you see, my lord King," he said. "Many such arquebusiers could sweep the decks of an enemy ship, beyond the effective range of archers."

"But not beyond the range of catapults and ballistae," Casull said. "Still, a dreadful weapon, yes. These . . . arquebuses? Arquebuses, yes—they can fire faster than catapults, and we can put more of them on a ship. The Confed marines have always been our problem, the Sun God roast their balls; we’re better seamen, but as often as not they swarm aboard and take the ship that rams them."

"Lord King, I’m just getting started," Adrian said with a grin. "Next is a much larger version of the arquebus, for use against ships and fortresses."

The king’s dark eyebrows looked as if they were trying to crawl into his widow’s peak. "Show me!" he commanded.

"This is the weapon," Adrian said, signalling. A half-dozen of his men dragged it over; a bronze tube seven feet long, mounted on a low four-wheeled carriage of glossy hardwood. "I call it a cannon."

The barge teams in the military harbor were busy again; this time they towed out a small and extremely elderly galley. It was listing, and the dockyard workers had stripped it of most of its fittings; they anchored it to a buoy two hundred yards out in the harbor.

Meanwhile Adrian’s men were busy around the gun. Adrian gave Casull a running commentary: "First, as you see, lord King, a linen bag full of the gunpowder is pushed down the hollow—the barrel. A wad of felt goes in next, to hold it in place."

The crew shoved the bag home with a long pole, grunting in unison as they slammed it down. "Now the gunner runs a long steel needle through the touch-hole, to pierce the bag, and fills the touch-hole and this little pan on top of the gun with priming powder—finely ground."

"And here is what the cannon will hurl," he said. The team paused for a second to let the King see what they were doing.

"A bronze ball?" Casull said. "Wouldn’t stone do just as well, and be much cheaper?"

"We will use stone balls to strike fortress walls," Adrian said. Cast iron would have been better still, but the only furnaces capable of making it were in Vanbert, and not many of them. All the ironworks in the Islands were what Center called Catalan forges, turning out wrought iron.

"But this is a shell, lord King," Adrian amplified.

"You mean it’s hollow?"

"My lord sees as clearly as the eye of the Sun God. It is filled with the gunpowder, and this"—he pointed to a wooden plug in the side of the metal ball, with a length of cord through it—"is the fuse. It is a length of cord soaked in saltpeter; when the cannon fires, the main charge lights it. Then in ten seconds, the cord burns through to the charge in the middle."

While they spoke the crew had been fixing the cannon’s tackle to bollards sunk in the stone of the dock, and aiming it with handspikes and main force. The gunner glared down the barrel with its simple notch-and-blade sights, then stepped back and adusted the wedge under the breech of the cannon that controlled its elevation.

"If my lord wishes, he may fire the first shot," Adrian said, bowing. "If it please my lord King, please stand well to one side—the cannon will move backward rapidly when it is fired. And," he went on, raising his voice for the assembled dignitaries, "this time the noise will be much louder."

Casull was grinning like a shark as he brought the length of slowmatch at the end of the long stick down on the little pile of fine powder. It caught with a long sssshshshshs, and an appreciable fraction of a second later . . .

BAMMMMM!

This time some of the Islander magnates took startled steps back, mouthing curses or prayers. The gun leapt back until the breeching ropes brought it up with a twang, belching a cloud of smoke shot through with a knife blade of red fire. The wind had picked up, and the smoke swept to one side in good time to see splinters and chunks of frame pinwheeling up from the target galley. Then three seconds later there was another crack, muffled by the wood the shell was embedded in. A quarter of the light galley’s side exploded outward; when the smoke cleared from that, it was already listing to one side . . . and burning.

Casull gave a whoop and hiked up his robe in one hand, snapping his fingers and hopping through the first steps of a bawdy kodax dance; one could see he’d been a sailor long before he was King. His son stood blinking, red spots on pale cheeks; the buccaneer admirals and mercenary commanders were swearing, spitting, thumping each other on the back.

The King stopped first, pausing to turn and shake a fist to the east. "Now see who goes to the bottom, you turnip-eating peasants!" he shouted.

Then he turned to Adrian, eyes snapping. "What else have you for me, O Worker of Wonders?"

Adrian smiled thinly; the problem with getting the reputation for being a magician was that he had to live up to it, and when they expected him to be infallible . . . Esmond was looking hungrily at the burning galley and a slow, deep smile was spreading over his face.

"There are two other types of shot the cannon can fire, lord King," he said. "Solid stone balls, heavy basalt or granite. Those will pound down the walls of forts, as catapults might, but since they strike much harder from further away, they do it quicker. The other is case-shot. It’s a leather bag full of lead balls, like the arquebus fires, but a hundred of them. Imagine them flung out in a spray, into a dense formation of men—a Confed infantry battalion, or a section of marines about to board."

Casull nodded hungrily. Esmond, from his expression, was imagining precisely that.

"Why didn’t you make these for the Confed nobles you were working for?" the monarch asked.

"First, lord, I didn’t have time. Second, they didn’t take me seriously enough to give me what I needed. These cannon take a lot of bronze, and bronze is expensive—this one twenty-four pounder takes more than two tons of bronze."

Casull grunted as if belly-punched, losing a little of his joy. "That is something to think on," he said. "Not just the money, but the bronze itself—there isn’t all that much around, we’ll have to import . . ." He clapped Adrian on the shoulder again. "Still and all, you’ve done all that you promised and more. And there is still another wonder to lay the world at my feet?"

Hardly ambitious at all, all of a sudden, isn’t he? Raj observed.

Adrian nodded—to both the entities he was communicating with. "Yes, my King. The next is a small taste of what a full-scale steam-propelled ship will be . . ."

He heard a chuff . . . chuff . . . chuff . . . sound. The twelve oar launch he’d converted came into view. Murmurs arose from the Islander chiefs; they understood the sea and ships. He could see them pointing out the rudder and tiller arrangement he’d rigged, debating its merits, and then there were louder murmurs as they realized that the launch was heading directly into the wind at seven knots, throwing back white water from both sides of its prow as well as the wheels that thrashed the harbor surface to foam on either side. Black smoke puffed in balls from the tall smokestack secured like a mast with staywires to fore and aft.

"Think of a full-sized ship, my lord," Adrian said. "Her decks covered over with a timber shell and iron plates, and with an iron-backed ram. No vulnerable oars, impossible to board, free of wind, tide and current . . ."

Casull was a fighting man who’d spent most of a long life waging war at sea, or preparing to.

"Tell me more," he said, breathing hard.