And with the colored fog ... smells! Great smells like the small ones coming from the magic Room.
Running through the colored smoke, running off the dock to join them, came the Mage!
And Platinia was still afraid. Long after the lights had stopped shooting up; after the lights that burned into her head had stopped blazing like tiny lamps behind her eyes. Even after the colored, evil smelling fog had thinned and a silent John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had led them back through the deserted city, all its windows shuttered and chained against the terror!
All the way back inside the three, fortified rings of palace walls -- to safety -- Platinia had stayed afraid.
Power!
Even being with the Mage, she had understood nothing of his power!
Though she had known that the Mage had Sorcery, that he was dangerous, that he could hurt her, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin used his crystal's power so little it was easy to forget how mighty he really was! Now, she realized the awful force commanded by this, the greatest of the Mages!
Long, long after Platinia was in the small bed that the Mage had put in the room beside his room, she was shaking. Surely, with all that magic, the Mage knew what she had done.
At first, she did not think so.
But with his great Wizardry, he had to know. Yet ... why had he not tortured her?
Only because he was planning some greater pain?
Platinia was afraid to think of a greater pain than the priests knew how to do!
With all her heart, Platinia wished she had known more about killing. But how could she know? She had been locked in the temple of Fulgur all her life. How could she know how hard it would be to drive the Mage-knife deep? So that it struck into the Mage's heart.
More horrifying still was the thought that, if she could not kill him then, after she had seen that someone steal the Mage's protective crystal, how was she to make him dead now that this night magic showed he had his crystal back?
By deflecting Melcor's magic to the loose ceiling stones of the tower room, she had killed that hurtful Mage. But John-Lyon-Pfnaravin was a greater Sorcerer. Everyone said that.
And it was true.
His magic protected him from the Malachite cage, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin too wily to get caught in traps. Knowing all, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had sent the man, Robin, to be caged, the Mage coming himself to the tower room when all had gone.
Now, the Mage had shown his sorcery-of-the-blazing sky!
Was this the time he would hurt her for betraying him? For trying to kill him as he lay unprotected by his magic crystal?
She did not know.
Just that he would hurt her soon.
And she knew another thing. Though she did not really want to, she must find another way to kill the Mage.
How?
Where?
She did not know. She knew only that she must kill the Mage or suffer the terrible revenge that lurked behind John-Lyon-Pfnaravin's smiling eyes!
-21-
Standing at the end of the mole where the magic boat was berthed, Coluth looked out through tendrils of condensing fog, toward the harbor mouth. (Like the Mage frequently paused to look up at the midday sky.)
Near down-light, the Malachite ships beyond the harbor were being rowed off the blockade line, the Malachites headed into the mist, bound for their nighttime tie-up docks on the mainland.
Shortly after up-light, the enemy cruisers would be back.
At such times, Coluth regretted losing the military advantage he had when quartered in the Claws -- where a land escape was always possible. Assuming the Mage had the power to force his men to retreat into Cinnabar, the band of flyers.
Conquering the chill along his spine, Coluth forced his mind back to ... the problem.
Stil-de-grain's remaining forces were now bottled up on Xanthin Island.
Perhaps it was as the Mage said. That this new, double-ship tied to the pier's end would allow the Mage to escape this island snare.
When they'd first regained the island -- well before the expected arrival of the Malachite Navy -- the Mage had ordered the mining of the harbor so that the Malachites would be prevented from landing their soldiers to storm the capital. (As Coluth had sunk his beloved Roamer in an earlier engagement with the enemy.) The island safe from direct attack, the war had come down to the lingering stalemate of a siege, each navy denying harbor access to the other.
Shading his colorless eyes with one, brown, calloused hand, seeing the ghost of the last Malachite cruiser row out of sight behind the rise of land guarding the harbor entrance, Coluth sat on a coil of rope, enfolding his upthrust knees with his powerful, seaman's arms.
In the dying of the golden light of Stil-de-grain, Coluth contemplated, once more, the strange new, twin-hulled ship the Mage had commanded to be built. A boat which, even without a crew, was uniquely stable as it floated in thick, sea fog at the pier's end.
Coluth could remember the first hint of such a ship in the words of John-Lyon-Pfnaravin. It was after a meeting in the war room many weeks ago. Dismissing the others, the Mage had beckoned to Coluth and to Golden and to the girl to sit at the Mage-end of the table.
All seated, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin said, "Coluth, it's time you learned to sail."
Sail??
What Coluth had learned since was that it was the evil wind that made what the Mage called "sailing," possible. (The Mage, a man of power, did not fear the wind -- as others did -- even knowing that it blew by virtue of the dark band's magic.) "It's all in making the sail movable," John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had continued, motioning for a sheet of paper that Golden had quickly provided -- paper, pen, and ink pot from a nearby wall table. "Set the sail and rudder properly and you can make the wind blow you in any direction." Dipping his pen in the ink pot, sketching quickly, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had made an arrow to indicate the direction of the wind, after that, drawing the crude outline of a boat to illustrate his meaning.
Seated to either side, Coluth and Golden had both leaned forward in an attempt to decipher the Mage's drawing.
Was the Mage actually talking about a ship powered by ... wind? Instead of by oar power and by the force of the whirls at sea?
"Magic," Coluth had replied, not knowing another word to describe a ship moved by the will of the wind.
"Sort of," the Mage said, smiling, the window light in that high, palace room flashing from his green eyes as all light did. "And not only with the wind."
The Mage scribbled again, making multiple drawing of the boat being steered back and forth. "A sailing ship can tack into the wind. For the same reason that the wings of a plane, slicing through the air, keep the plane up. It has to do with the curvature of the wing. Same thing with the sail."
After saying that, the Mage frowned. "Forget what I said about planes. We're not ready for that ... yet." At some fleeting thought of amusement, the Mage laughed merrily.
John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had then put down the pen to lean forward to place his elbows on the table, resting his chin in the turned-up palms of both hands. "What I mean to say is that, with a bellied out, movable sail, you can travel at angles into the wind. With the wind coming steadily from the black band, we will have to tack out of the harbor. Once on the open sea, however, the sailing prowess of the boat I have in mind should allow us to outdistance the Malachite fleet."
Tack??
But Coluth had learned. First, what a catamaran was: two, long, thin ships kept side by side by a cross hatching of wood timbers and flat planking nailed deck to deck.
After the shipwrights had built the hulls of this ship in dry dock, after fastening them together, the Mage had commanded that twin, denuded tree trunks be attached to the middle of the hull bottoms, the "trees" then "growing" up through the center decks, the trunk-tops rising high above -- like cargo cranes. After that, the Mage ordered a triangular piece of heavy cloth to be fastened about each tree trunk in such a way that one point of the triangle could be raised to the top of each "tree."
"Masts" were what the Mage called
the trunks.
"Sail" was the name of the pieces of thick fabric.
Rings of iron attached these sails to the "mast," the rings evenly spaced along the vertical cloth edge, the rings penetrating the reinforced edge of the weighty cloth, then encircling the mast, the material raised to the top of the mast by a rope stretched over a pulley wheel attached to the mast top. The bottom edge of the large, fabric triangle was stiffened with a round, hardwood pole called a "boom," a rope attached to the outer end of the boom. The arrangement of the rings and pole and rope meant that, with the sail up, the bottom of the sail could move back and forth across the deck of the boat. (The other, parallel boat, had the same sail parts.) With one sailor guiding this strange catamaran with twin rudders, with other sailors controlling the boom ropes through pulleys, the sails could be managed.
After the magic boat was built as the Mage wished -- with many adjustments -- the Mage trained Coluth and two other seamen (silent Philelph and old Orig) to "sail" in the harbor, the sails using the evil wind to push and pull the ship over the water. It was here in the bay that they had learned to "run before the wind" and to "tack" into the wind. Though they had made mistakes -- the boom sometimes sweeping the decks to knock a careless seaman into the water -- they had learned.
All quite strange this "sailing" and, somehow ... wonderful! For his entire life, Coluth had traveled on the sea by rowing and steering from one, counter-rotating whirl of water on the sea's face to the next, in this way zig-zagging to the ship's destination. But to use the wind ......??
This wind-Sorcery was a kind of magic that defied description. Thinking, Coluth ran his fingers through his faded hair.
Magic -- but with a commonness about it.
A Sorcery that, if you sailed correctly, always worked, even without the Mage in attendance.
In the harbor, the boat was ... fast! On the open sea, the Mage said, the boat would be faster still!
It was in this magic boat that the Mage would, first outrun the Malachite warships that guarded the harbor, then sail to the black band where he would defeat the evil Mage-King, Auro.
For now, Coluth sailed in the harbor with the sailors he had chosen: Coluth to give the orders, Philelph and Shiagint the Handsome to control the sails. Orig, too small and perhaps too old to restrain a sail's force, manned the rudder.
When the Mage had completed his other magical devices, Coluth and his men would be ready!
* * * * *
Though he had not accompanied the Mage to the harbor that night, Leet had been the Mage's right hand in constructing the sky-magic. Standing near the long, wide, work table at the back of the magic Room, dressed in the pale gold uniform of a Stil-de-grain Army Head, Leet grimaced. "Right hand" of the Mage? He could be no one's "right hand."
Since joining Stil-de-grain, Leet had attended John-Lyon-Pfnaravin -- now also Mage of Stil-de-grain -- at war council meetings as well as in other activities that the Mage pursued.
Recently, it had been Leet's task to help the Mage in the Mage's magic room, nothing to be done until carpenters had built ceiling-to-floor shelves on three walls and a great work table at the back.
After that, the aged, long-bearded alchemist, Tschu, had brought jars of granules and of solutions, some decanters the Mage stored on the newly built shelves, others he lined up on the back of the table.
The jars, when finally opened, held powders of yellow, white, and black. (Though some granules the Mage used later were of red and blue and gold).
The Mage had a large, wood, mortar and pestle put on the table, the pestle for pulverizing colored earths to fine powder, mixtures of substances ground together after being wetted with alcohol.
When dry, the Mage would put small dribbles of the mixed, gray powder on a smooth, rock slab in the table's center. After that (though attempting to hide it from Leet) the Mage would extract a small cylinder from somewhere in his robe. Hiding the object in his hand, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin would wave the tube at the prepared powders, causing what the Mage called "explosions!" Flarings that made loud hissing noises accompanied by light, heat, and by a noxious fog the Mage called "smoke." Muttering to himself after each explosion, the Mage would start again to mix more powders.
When the Mage was satisfied with his many powdered mixtures, Leet had helped him fill open-topped jars with these preparations, the ewers packed into a wooden box. John-Lyon-Pfnaravin then buried the end of a powder-impregnated cord in each flask, the cords trailing from the jars at different lengths, all finally twisted together to make a larger rope. This, the Mage called the "fuse."
When all was ready, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had said that Leet should stay in the palace, watching the down-light sky from a harbor-facing window. "I don't want to risk any more of my people than I have to," the Mage had explained.
Leet was left behind, of course, because he was old. Old and crippled.
Leet did see the Mage's magic from a high, palace window facing the harbor, however, the Mage using the powder mixtures to turn the night to colored fire!
Though Leet had thought the mixing task was finished with the fire-coloring of the sky, the Mage, with Leet's continued help, had mixed even more dusts. This time, a great, gray pile of finely ground granules.
Meanwhile, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had been working with leather-aproned blacksmiths who, following the Mage's instructions, had forged a hollow, thick iron cask.
First ordering the inside of the container to be polished smooth, the Mage had craftsmen mount the barrel on a wheeled platform, the iron drum slanted up at a steep angle. Using ropes to haul the whole thing up the stairs, ten men had dragged the device to the magic Room, the Mage himself inspecting the smooth cask before ordering a small hole to be drilled through the topside of the iron drum, near the back.
At the same time, the Mage had also caused to be crafted a number of hollow, iron balls, the balls carefully made to fit into the iron cask, each ball with a small fuse hole in it. After that, the Mage made more "fuse" cord.
"This will eventually go into the fuse hole," the Mage said, in one of the rare moments that he talked while working. "For now, I'm going to put in a metal screw. With a cover fastened over the barrel, the cannon will be made watertight for the voyage. When I'm within striking distance of the black Mage, I'll twist out the back screw, slip in the fuse, light it, and goodbye Mage-King!"
After this puzzling explanation, Leet had done his one-handed best to help the Mage funnel the gray powder through fuse holes in each of the round, iron balls -- a torturously slow process. Screws then sealed each hole in each metal ball.
Leet did not understand precisely what the Mage was doing, of course, nor had Leet accompanied the Mage on the Mage's trip to a remote part of the island to "practice with the cannon." But Leet was happy to attend John-Lyon-Pfnaravin in any capacity. Old and crippled as Leet was, it was an honor to serve the double Mage, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin!
This down-light, Leet had come to the empty magic room in hopes of finding John-Lyon-Pfnaravin there, to ask what else Leet might do now that the making of the "cannon" was finished. It was Leet's hope that his service would have proved so valuable that the Mage would take Leet to the dark band where an old solider could die honorably, fighting evil. At Leet's age and state of health, though, he knew that being allowed to accompany the Mage into a place of danger was more than he had a right to hope!
* * * * *
Alternating his standard stretching exercises with pacing his small room -- narrow bed along the window wall, bureau by the door, washroom to the left -- wishing he could slip past the door guards and be about his business of searching the palace, Golden remembered the first time he had seen John-Lyon. (This was before Golden had discovered that John-Lyon was the Mage, Pfnaravin.) It was in the dungeon in this very palace. Yarro's dungeon.
Since their escape from that foul hole, Golden had other opportunities to see the Mage's power. He had witnessed John-Lyon-Pfnaravin dominate the mob in Bice. He had seen the Mage have rods p
laced on the roof's of Xanthin houses to save the houses from the evil Auro's magic sky bolts.
More recently, Golden had witnessed the sky-magic of the colored lights that the Mage had used to demonstrate his power.
Truly, it would be correct to say that Golden, rightful King of Malachite, had known the Mage longer than all others. (Except for the girl, Platinia, the girl having some incomprehensible fascination for the Mage.) Yet Golden had never known the Mage's mind.
Recently, Golden had been helping John-Lyon-Pfnaravin with a special project.
Pigs.
Yes, pigs.
At the time, Golden knew the bitter disappointment of ill use!
It had been a length of time since the Mage had said, "I've got to go to the dark band and take on this evil Mage-King directly. That being the case, I'd better find a way to protect myself from his lightning." Golden, for his part, had said nothing. Had not even asked a question about what John-Lyon-Pfnaravin might mean. Golden had seen others try to converse with the Mage when the Mage's talk was gibberish. To do this only made the Mage angry. "And it seems to me," the Mage continued, musing more to himself than to Golden, as was the Mage's custom, "that if being in a steel-bodied automobile gives a person perfect protection from lightning, I ought to be able to fashion some kind of metal car ...."
Without finishing that thought (whatever it might mean) the Mage had stopped suddenly. "In fact, I've never read anything about lightning hitting knights in armor. Some important medieval battles were fought during thunderstorms, too. As superstitious as medieval men were, if lightning had struck some soldier dead, this 'act of God' would surely have been recorded."
It was that strange talk from the Mage that had been the start of what Golden hoped would be an important task the Mage would assign him. Others close to the Mage did vital labors. Coluth had been involved in the planning of a magic ship, a misshapen, bisected boat with tall poles of cloth stuck into it, a boat that, even without oars, moved mysteriously over the water of Xanthin Bay. With his own eyes, Golden had seen the twin-boat move -- unaided by either currents or by oars!
Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series Page 22
