Wigg again raised an eyebrow. “Unless you know more about this than the Ones, and you can imagine a better way to do the same thing,” he added drily.
Tristan let go a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He still couldn’t believe that he and his fellow Conclave members were sitting around a table and talking about such a bizarre thing. As the notion settled in, he looked back at Wigg.
“How would we proceed?” he asked.
“First let me show you something else,” Faegan said. The wizard closed his eyes. A few more subtle matter bits freed themselves from the jar to land atop the lamp. Soon the shrunken lamp glowed again. Then it started to grow. On reaching its original size, it stopped. The lamp was again itself in every respect. Even its restored wick was still alight.
Faegan sat back in his chair. “We had to know whether the process could be reversed. As you have just seen, that is the case. But major hurdles remain.”
“What hurdles?” Shailiha asked.
“Many, I’m afraid,” Aeolus answered. “First, our supply of subtle matter is finite and we have no way to produce more. We do not yet know whether there is enough to do the job. We cannot use more than one-fourth of it to shrink the four ships.”
“Why?” Tristan asked.
“Because an equal amount will be needed to return the ships to their original size atop the Azure Sea,” Aeolus answered. “If we find Shashida and return, more will be needed to shrink them again to take them from the Caves and yet more to return them to their normal size—unless we decide to moor them on the Azure Sea and leave them there. Without enough subtle matter, the ships will never return home. Before we make our first attempt we must calculate how much subtle matter is needed to perform each transformation. We simply can’t afford to waste any.”
“There are other concerns as well,” Jessamay said. “The ships must be free of all crew members before the process starts, because we cannot know what effect the subtle matter might have on living things. Conversely, the ships must be fully loaded and as totally prepared as possible for a voyage of undetermined length. We cannot know how far our journey might take us or what we will face on the way. We will be literally sailing into the unknown. Moreover, we are assuming that the ships’ cargoes will shrink inside them. If not, the cargoes will be crushed or the ships’ hulls damaged. It is obvious that we must understand all these things before we dare to take the ships into the Caves.”
“But damage to the ships or their outright loss might not be as catastrophic as it first sounds,” Faegan said. “As you know, Wigg finally found the ships’ long-lost plans. If need be, another fleet might be built. It might take years, but it could be done. Because the cost and manpower needed would be enormous, if the four Black Ships that currently serve us can be safeguarded, we must make every attempt to do so. We will therefore try to supply and transform one ship first, rather than all at once.”
“And despite these obstacles you believe that the basic theory is sound?” Tristan asked.
“Yes,” Wigg answered. “What works for an object like that lamp should work for any object, regardless of its size or weight. It seems that the only limiting factor will be our finite supply of subtle matter.”
“How will you compute the amount needed?” Tristan asked. “It seems impossible.”
“It won’t be as difficult as you think,” Aeolus answered. “From the original plans we already know how much a Black Ship weighs unloaded. The tricky part will be estimating the cargoes.” He turned to look at Traax.
“That’s where you and your warriors come in,” he said. “You will fill one of the ships to the rafters with supplies and arms. As you do, weigh and list each item that is taken aboard and compile a total sum. We will then add that number to the empty weight of the ship to arrive at a total.”
“And then?” Tristan asked.
“The treatise states how much subtle matter is needed to miniaturize one pound of given material,” Faegan answered. “From there we will formulate our calculations. We need enough subtle matter to perform sixteen such transformations, or four times per vessel. If we have enough, after Jessamay brings the fleet home and the ships are resting comfortably in their new cradles, we will empty the ships of their crews, load them, and try our first transformation. If it works, identical cargoes will be loaded onto the other ships and we will then miniaturize them as well.”
Tyranny gave Faegan another skeptical look. She never liked having “her” ships tampered with, to say nothing of this new madness that the mystics were proposing. Overwhelmed by what she was hearing, she tousled her urchinlike hair.
“To what degree will you shrink the ships?” she demanded. Then she scowled and shook her head—she still couldn’t believe that she was asking such a thing.
“That is of critical concern,” Faegan answered. “The smaller the object is to become, the more subtle matter is needed. To put it simply, we will shrink the ships at least to a size that fits through the opening to the Caves. As each ship shrinks, so too should its cradle. Each ship and cradle will be packed into a crate for safekeeping and carried to the Azure Sea by Minion warriors. They should be able to handle the loads, because as each ship shrinks, its weight becomes commensurate with its decreased size. If the warriors cannot easily carry them, we can help them with the craft.”
Tristan reached for his cup and poured some more tea. After a time he shook his head, thinking.
Can such a thing work? he wondered. If such learned mystics as Faegan, Wigg, Aeolus, and Jessamay believe so, then it must be possible. After all, the oil lamp shrank before my eyes. But a simple oil lamp and a massive Black Ship are very different things. After taking another sip of tea he placed the cup back atop its saucer. I’ll believe it when I see it, he thought.
“Assuming for the moment that we are able to miniaturize the ships, some crucial decisions must be made,” Wigg said. Reaching out, he took Abbey by the hand. The look on the First Wizard’s face had again become somber.
“Only certain Conclave members should make the voyage,” he added, “because some must remain behind to deal with the Viper Lord and his servants. Deciding who goes will not be easy. For some it will mean staying behind to wonder whether their loved ones will ever return. For others it will mean sailing off into the unknown, perhaps to their deaths. Who goes and who stays will be of prime importance, not only to reach Shashida but to protect Eutracia as well. The goals are equally important. In any event, one thing is certain.”
“What is that?” Shailiha asked.
“Regardless of what the other Conclave members do, Tristan must lead the voyage. And you must remain here, Princess,” Wigg answered.
“Why?” Tristan asked.
Faegan leaned forward. Like Wigg, his expression had turned gravely serious.
“There are several reasons,” he said. “First, we know nothing about the Azure Sea or about what dangers it might hold. There is a great chance that whoever goes on this voyage will not survive it. If you and your sister die, the world will lose both the Chosen Ones. We cannot allow that to happen.”
“Moreover, you are the Jin’Sai,” Wigg added. “The Tome clearly states that it will be you who must first try to fulfill your and Shailiha’s mutual destinies. The Envoys of Crysenium stated that it should be you who first returns to the other side of the world, not your sister. We believe that the late Envoys’ wishes should be respected. Regardless of who else goes, you should lead the voyage and Shailiha should remain here.”
As usual, Wigg’s logic was irrefutable. Hoping that his sister hadn’t been hurt by the news, Tristan looked over and took one of her hands into his. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but Wigg is right. Will it disappoint you to stay behind?”
Before Shailiha could answer, Faegan spoke up. “Do not worry, Princess,” he said. “Your mission will have equal importance with your brother’s. You must command the Conclave in its war against the Viper Lord. We mystics fear that the struggle will be far larger a
nd deadlier than you might suppose. Failee’s ancient servant will not be easily defeated. Unless we win, Eutracia could perish, leaving Tristan and his group no one to come home to.”
Understanding, Shailiha gave her brother’s hand a squeeze. “It seems that we each have our work cut out for us,” she said. “Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” Tristan answered.
The princess put on her best look of mock ferocity. “Just come home in one piece,” she ordered. “I’ve gotten rather used to having you around.”
Tristan smiled at her. Just as he was about to respond, an urgent pounding came on the meeting room door. “Enter!” Tristan shouted.
The door blew open to show Ox standing there. His chest was heaving and his face showed deep concern. Crossing the threshold, he hurried into the room.
Tristan stood from his chair. “What is it?” he demanded.
“Pardon, but one Night Witch patrol find man-snakes and their leader,” the warrior said. “Sigrid only one to survive. She hurt but Duvessa say she will be all right. All other Night Witches impaled. Sigrid say Tanglewood nearly all destroyed by fire and most people there dead.” As the massive warrior did his best to tell the tragic tale, Tristan could see the hatred building in his eyes.
“Ox want to kill all man-snakes,” he said, his voice lowering to nearly a whisper. “Will Jin’Sai come and lead us?”
Tristan looked around the meeting table, then into his sister’s eyes. I will start this fight, he thought. But if I sail for Shashida, Shailiha must finish it. As if she were reading her brother’s mind, the princess nodded. He grimly nodded back.
The war against Failee’s Viper Lord is beginning, Tristan realized. May the Afterlife protect us.
CHAPTER XVIII
IT IS HOT AGAIN TODAY, VESPASIAN THOUGHT, AS HE STARED out over the massive, bloodthirsty crowd. It was barely midday and already the huge red canopies had been stretched over the arena, shielding the spectators from the sun. After taking a sip of wine, the emperor again looked down at the carnage.
So many skeens, centurions, and wild animals had already been killed that one couldn’t tell whether the sandy coliseum floor was bathed in blood or simply tinted by the sunlight filtering down through the red canopies. Scattered limbs, bodies, and organs lay partly submerged in the sand like bizarre islands in a sea of blood. Shattered chariots and smashed carriages lay about as though they had been tossed there by giants. Dead and dying horses, wild beasts, and weapons of all types could be seen by the hundreds.
And yet the first act has not concluded, Vespasian thought. The games had been going on for four hours, but even now the first group of hard-fighting skeens continued to resist.
The emperor turned to look at Persephone. Sensing his gaze, she returned his glance and smiled. She looked splendid in a yellow silk gown and delicate gold jewelry. Vespasian reached out to grasp her hand. Despite the ongoing spectacle, for a moment her easy smile made it seem as if the insane world inside the coliseum didn’t exist.
She is so beautiful, he thought. And I love her beyond words. Surely she is the best part of me. After taking another sip of wine, Vespasian returned his attention to the games.
This was the seventh day of what would soon become nearly a fortnight of death and mayhem taking place on the coliseum floor. Thousands of skeens and centurions and a host of wild animals had already perished for the amusement of the crowd. Every day seemed to bring with it some higher form of savage cruelty. Surprisingly, the unprecedented games had produced another effect besides delighting the mob. Because he had personally ordered these games, Vespasian’s already great popularity had risen even higher. Moreover, his newly proclaimed campaign against Shashida and his announcement of the successful auspicium had also added to his charisma.
Graffiti had sprung up throughout Ellistium providing adoring testament to the emperor’s bravery, his vision, his amazing ability to use the craft. Heralds had taken to writing their own scripts that proclaimed Vespasian’s magnificence, and they were brazenly reading them aloud from their citywide towers. Young men—each one suddenly eager to become a part of their emperor’s new campaign—were joining the legions in record numbers. For the first time in decades the mood sweeping over Ellistium was wildly joyful. From the most august krithian all the way down to the lowliest phrygian tradesman, each believed that his august emperor could do no wrong.
Vespasian looked around his viewing box. As usual, the Pon Q’tar clerics were in attendance, as were the maidens of the Priory of Virtue. But Lucius and the other Tribunes were absent, readying their mighty legions for the new campaign. Those forces of the Imperial Order that were afield had been sent new directives telling them to withdraw from their current struggles and to turn north toward home. Vespasian realized that an order of that magnitude would surely alert the Shashidan Ones that something was brewing, but that couldn’t be helped.
When the forces stationed in the capital were ready, they would move south to join their brothers. There they would regroup and head toward Shashidan territory. While the barges sailed south on the six rivers, the legions would curve around from the west and east, devouring Shashidan towns and armies while approaching the mines in a gigantic pincer movement. One week from now the capital troops would be ready to depart Ellistium. Once they joined their fellows, the combined invasion force would dwarf any in Rustannican history.
Hearing the crowd roar again, Vespasian looked back down at the grisly spectacle. The combatants were reenacting the Rustannican victory at Messalina, a city that had been lost to the Shashidans three centuries ago and then retaken in one of the bloodiest and most protracted battles ever fought in the War of Attrition. Reenacting Rustannican victories was something that the mob especially relished. Although no details about the new campaign would be made public, its impending start was reason enough for the crowd to revel even more joyfully than usual in today’s retelling of a Rustannican military triumph.
Vespasian watched as the Gates of Life swung open. Another ten chariots bearing three tribunes each raced into the arena to go charging toward the Shashidan skeens still alive on the sandy floor. Each chariot held a driver, an archer, and a lance thrower, every man an expert in his field.
Of the one thousand skeens that had been shoved into the arena at the start of the day, only thirty remained standing. Most of them were bloodied and broken, and Vespasian doubted that they would survive this fresh onslaught by the tribune charioteers. Even so, he reminded himself that he could be proved wrong. The surviving skeens were clever and battle-hardened, and like all Vigors worshippers they would fight to the death. The crowd knew this and reveled in it. Chanting and stamping, they watched breathlessly as the ten chariots thundered in.
Unlike other spectacles, battle reenactments were staged affairs that more or less accurately portrayed famous Rustannican military victories. With help from the craft, the entire coliseum floor could be flooded, allowing mock warships to actually fight and sail atop the waves. Reenacted sea battles were especially popular, and sometimes the small ocean entrapped within the arena walls was filled with sharks and other man-eating creatures, adding a brief but grisly flavor of unpredictability.
Although their outcomes were a certainty, these reenacted battles were not entirely without a twisted brand of fairness. The Games Master was always careful to set equal numbers of centurions and skeens against each other. No craft use was allowed by the centurions, because all Shashidan skeens had been stripped of their power to use magic. The skeens were well armed and given various forms of terrain that they could use as cover. Beasts were often conjured from the mosaics adorning the arena walls to threaten and kill centurions and skeens alike, adding another unpredictable facet to the spectacle. The skeens were even granted food and water so that their strength would not falter and anger the crowd.
Because the battle to retake Messalina had been fought in rugged terrain, a miniature mountain had been constructed of wood, painted gray, and
placed in the center of the arena floor. Measuring nearly fifty meters across and nearly as high, during the previous night it had been brought piece by piece into the arena, where it was painstakingly rebuilt. Complete with rocks and foliage, from a distance the small mountain looked amazingly genuine. Wild man-eating animals that had been starved nearly to death roamed the entire area, threatening skeens and centurions alike.
Despite such concessions made in the name of authenticity, the result was always a Rustannican victory, lest the usually drunken crowd stage a riot. And so ever more centurions—usually volunteers who were paid handsomely for the privilege of showing off their various skills before an adoring public—were continually sent in until the last of the skeens and the wild beasts were annihilated. If the skeens were proficient, killing them might take an entire day. Despite their contrived outcomes, the finales always resulted in jubilant crowds. Whenever a land or a sea battle was reenacted, the best seats often went for double the normal price, and the bet takers, wine merchants, and prostitutes were even busier than usual.
Vespasian watched one chariot speed straight toward a group of skeens who had not been quick enough to take refuge on the mountain. The specially crafted chariot was a beautiful thing—too beautiful, Vespasian thought, to serve such an ugly purpose.
The chariot was painted dark blue and adorned with gold filigree. Two magnificent black stallions sped it across the sand. The axle shafts running through each wheel hub had been extended, reaching a good two meters sideways from either side of the cart. The wildly spinning axles were also adorned with gold, and along their sides lay sharpened steel blades that spun madly with the revolutions of the chariot’s wheels. As the driver whipped the team the archer drew back his bow and the lance thrower hoisted his shining spear over one shoulder, preparing to strike.
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