"Could the monks not simply detonate them at a distance with their own black missiles?" Lord Ghorn asked.
"That's exactly what I expect them to do, but the detonations will give you warning of their approach and they'll be restricted, at least for a while, in their movements. We might get lucky and have one of their skyships run into one, but I'm not counting on it."
"How will we get our own skyships through?" Aerlon asked.
"When I sew them, I'll leave a long, narrow tunnel to the north and south. As long as the trainees approach and depart slowly, they'll be safe. At a low speed, even if they stray and bump one, it won't detonate."
Lord Purhlea looked dubious. "My lord king, it seems to me that if the monks can simply stand off and assail your shielding dome until it is completely destroyed, then that is exactly what they will do. They may be fanatics, but they are not mindless. What is to keep them from thereafter continually assaulting our positions until we are reduced to dust?"
By way of answer, Mar walked to another bucket and removed a sphere from it. From outward appearances alone, this one was identical to the previous three. E'hve had already re-cocked his crossbow. When Mar handed him the sphere, he placed it behind the modified firing block and walked out into the rain, facing south. Following instructions that Mar had given earlier, the lookouts on duty along the rail shifted aside out of E'hve's line of sight. With drips falling from the noseguard of his helmet and water glistening on his chainmail, but betraying no signs of discomfort, the legionnaire aimed the crossbow upwards at a slight angle and waited.
"From what I saw in their first attack, the range of the small catapults in their skyships is not great. They had to descend to only a few hundred armlengths to strike at the ground. They'll have to do the same to attack the Monolith."
E'hve fired. Perhaps twice as fast as his earlier bolt, the sphere sailed beyond the jumble of the broken cliff edge below the tower, vanishing quickly into the haze far out above the forest.
"That sphere is infused with an inverse flux. I don't know how exactly to describe it to you, but it's somewhat the opposite of the flux that holds everything to the earth. The modulation that I've applied reduces the grip of the natural flux significantly. When I made spheres heavier for Mhiskva and his raiders, I realized that I could also make them magically lighter. Our tests have shown that the range of one of these fired from a crossbow is close to eight hundred armlengths."
"Even so, it would take a very lucky marksman to strike one of their skyships at the speed they are capable of," Lord Purhlea pointed out.
"The crossbowmen don't have to hit them, just get enough spheres right close in their path. From what I've seen, their skyships can't turn sharply at high speed and won't be able to avoid them. I knocked down one above Mhajhkaei simply by throwing up a cloud of hammers."
"We can be fairly certain that their skyships are like their magical warships and that they cannot create any more," Aerlon contributed. "The ones they have now, however many that is, are all that they will ever have, unless they chance to find more, which I think is an extremely low possibility. The Brotherhood has an ingrained, almost reflexive aversion to allowing any damage whatsoever to their relics. We need only cause injury to one or more with these new spheres and it is unlikely that they will continue to press the attack."
"Could these new missiles also be launched from a larger mechanical engine," Mhiskva asked. "Say a ballista or scorpion?"
Mar nodded. "As long as the sphere was not struck sharply or pierced."
"How about a polybolos?" Berhl wanted to know, his mind obviously racing with ways to use this new magic.
Mar knew the term, having read about the purported devices in a treatise on Imperial war machines by Theokhies. If the scattered historical references were correct, the mechanically loaded and fired ballistae could launch bolts, one after another, continuously. "I thought no one knew how to construct one of those today?"
"I've never seen one, my lord king, or talked to anyone that had built one, but just a few days ago I was talking with the librarian, Lord Chelsfyor. He says that he once read a century old scholarly monograph that describes the relief on the walls of a first century imperial tomb on the western coast of Khaenai. Supposedly, it showed exactly what one looked like. I'm thinking that if I could get one working with his help, it would be perfect for this."
"One of those, or at least a regular ballista, could be mounted on a skyship, could it not?" Lord Ghorn asked.
"No doubt about it, my lord. We could put one forward and one aft, maybe a couple amidships. Why, it might even make sense to stick one out the bottom of the keel to --"
"Not if it would weaken your keel," Khlosb'ihs inserted. "I'd think you'd do better to put two thirty-degrees up along the sides ..."
With enthusiasm for the new concept growing on all sides, Mar realized one unpleasant fact: he was going to have to make a lot more sand spheres.
THIRTY
142nd Year of the Reign of the City
(Tenthday, Waxing, Harvestmoon, 1644 After the Founding of the Empire)
The Monolith
Well after dusk, while Mother Peli waited with unconcealed impatience for her reply, Lady Rhavaelei read the note again.
I have need of your services. Meet me at moonset.
Ghorn.
Rhavaelei flashed her teeth in a quick, predatory grin, then frowned. What did Ghorn want? What was his purpose? The gall of the man! He had treated her insultingly, had had her dragged about like a criminal. She had been confined here in this small, entirely insufficient and deficiently denuded room with neither proper servants nor attendants. The prerogatives of her office and the rights of her station had been entirely abrogated by the armsmen and old biddies that acted as her jailers.
The note read like overture of seduction. But that was ridiculous. Ghorn had not shown interest in her, at least not as a woman, in twenty years. She suspected that he had never forgiven her for encouraging but ultimately spurning his youthful infatuation.
When she had been sixteen and her aunts had still held hopes of negotiating an arranged marriage, she had spent most of a summer and fall on the Rzhem estates in his company.
“Get to know the boy,” her Aunt Zhilla had encouraged. “You could find him suitable, you know!”
Was that it? Did Ghorn still harbor childish romantic feelings for her after all this time?
Rhavaelei shook her head. Though that thought gave a welcome surge to her pride, she knew such could not be the case. Ghorn was too smart to let his manhood lead him about.
In recent years, when Ghorn had returned to the City after almost a decade sailing the trade routes of the Principate, Rhavaelei had quickly dismissed him from her list of potential suitors. Though his family’s estates and influence would have been a welcome addition to Trajhen, Ghorn himself was lackluster and ambitionless. To Rhavaelei’s eyes, he had been unnaturally content to remain in the shadows of his powerful cousins and older brother. If she were to barter herself in a public union, she had been determined to snare someone who would help promote her own aims and endeavors.
What exactly, she wondered with some distaste, did he mean by services? Surely, he did not expect her to perform like a common whore? She was not above an exchange of value for value, but certain polite fictions must be maintained. She was a daughter of the Merchant House of Trajhen, after all!
Still, if a romp in the sheets was all he was after, it would be no surprise to her. Men were still men. Nothing would ever change that.
However, on consideration, this conception sounded decidedly uncharacteristic of the prince. From general gossip and the reports of paid informers, she was certain that the unmarried Ghorn had neither wellborn mistresses nor common concubines. In Mhajhkaei, he had lived simply -- practically as a monk -- in the household of his family, with no apparent inclination to the vices common of his peers. For the most part, he had eschewed the social functions of the nobles and the lavish parties of
the merchants.
Still, it might be to her advantage to approach the meeting as a seduction, she of him if need be. Ghorn might be impervious to the charms of the average woman, but that did not mean that he would be impervious to the well-bred charms of a noblewoman. In this present circumstance, with neither the power nor the money of Trajhen to rely on, she must resort to her own intrinsic resources.
“Tell Lord Ghorn that I will gladly attend him,” she commanded Mother Peli. “Have clean water and towels brought me. And someone to help me bathe that does not have hands like a brick mason.”
Mother Peli shook her head in sharp negation. “Everyone's working about this new town, and making much of a difference. You’ll just have to tend to your self.” The woman's seemly habitual frown deepened. “Now, I'm no fool and I don't have to be told what the Prince-Commander might be wanting with you. What I can’t figure is what you would be wanting with him?”
“Mind your tongue, woman, and fetch my bath,” Rhavaelei rebuked coldly, turning her back. If she did manage to insinuate herself into Ghorn's affections, she resolved, then the first thing to go would be this insufferable crone!
Preferably, off the side of the Monolith!
With her ablutions accomplished, Mother Peli and two grizzled marines ushered her through the slumbering ruins. Most of the refugees had retired and only the numerous sentries and patrols disturbed the night. Lord Ghorn’s chamber, which proved surprising smaller than hers, was situated in a small, blockish enclosure sitting on the edge of the plateau. No armsmen were posted closer to it than twenty paces and it did have at least an illusion of privacy.
The interior was meanly furnished with only rough-hewn furniture. He did not have proper chairs, just stools and a bench, and the only table was barely big enough to seat one. Scandalously, the bed was a mere cot! Lord Ghorn, seated behind his inadequate table -- currently covered with papers and a collection of notebooks of various sorts rather than a cozy supper for two -- dismissed Rhavaelei’s guards, having them close the heavy canvas curtain that served the room as door.
Rhavaelei swept to a stool and settled gracefully. She had pulled her hair back in a simple braid that she felt might be more appealing to Ghorn. With no cheek color or mascara available, she had had to neglect her normal accents, but had decided that a freshly scrubbed face might also be more to the prince’s taste. There had been little that could be done for her only dress -- she had dusted it but had not had time to wash and dry it. She made sure to sit so that she was slightly in profile to the prince. Like her other now vanished gowns, this one had been custom fitted to emphasize assets that were no longer quite as firm.
She made a show of glancing beyond the prince at his pitiful bed. “I doubt the two of us will fit on that cot.”
Ghorn stared at her blankly and then grunted. “It is big enough for me to sleep in and that is all I will be doing in it.”
She made a show of looking about. "Well, the table is too small for us and the floor is dirty, but I suppose we could have a bath afterwards."
The prince's face flushed for just a moment from quick burst of anger, but there might also have been a tinge of embarrassment there.
"We will not be sporting in my bed, on my furniture, or anywhere else this evening, Lady Rhavaelei!" he ground out.
Rhavaelei smiled at the minor victory. She had not expected to discomfit the prince with such a simple ploy. Perhaps he did harbor some slight vestige of desire for her after all these years.
“I see." She sighed extravagantly. "A pity. Whatever have you asked me here for, Ghorn?”
By neglecting his title, she used his name in a strategically familiar and intimate fashion. It was important to establish at the outset that she was his equal in every respect.
“Your family has spies throughout Mhajhkaei and the provinces,” Ghorn stated. “Can you establish contact with those spies?”
Interesting. Rhavaelei pursed her lips. Most of the informants maintained by Trajhen, both civil and commercial, had reported to her directly. Some -- perhaps even a majority -- of those inside the city should still be capable of operating and those outside the city might not as yet be affected in any way by the fall of the capital. It was entirely likely that her network would function almost unimpaired.
“I can with the proper resources. What is it that you wish?”
Ghorn placed his fingertips together, elbows on the table. “Information.”
“Of course. You want my agents to spy on the Phaelle'n.”
“Yes. And report to me through you.”
“And what will you give me in return?”
Ghorn’s brow furrowed. “Mhajhkaei – and incidentally all of your properties and warehouses – is in the hands of the Monks. A loyal citizen of The Greatest City in All the World would not hesitate to provide whatever assistance was required.”
Rhavaelei restrained an impulse to snap. With chilly calm, she informed him, “I know that you have lost the City to the Brotherhood, Ghorn. There is no need to re-state the obvious. And I know full well where my duty lies, but as you have seen fit to exclude me from my proper functions in government, there is very little that I can do.”
Rhavaelei decided that some straightforward haggling was required. She leaned closer to the prince and locked eyes with him.
“You would not have come to me had you other options. Information is a commodity. It cannot always be bought, but it generally can be obtained with proper finesse.”
Ghorn spread his hands and shrugged. It was clear that he had not genuinely expected her to be motivated by patriotic fervor. “Very well. What is your price?”
Her answer was automatic. “My proper place in the new regime.”
“There is no new regime. Prince Davfydd rules Mhajhkaei and the Principate.”
Rhavaelei waved a hand dismissively. “The King will set him aside.”
“The King has no interest in the rule of the City,” Ghorn countered. “The government of Mhajhkaei will remain as it is.”
Rhavaelei took note of another bit of interesting data. “Then I wish to be restored to my proper station as a Senator of the City.”
“Meaning?”
“First, I must be given my liberty immediately. Second, I must be included in the ruling council. I have been told that you hold meetings frequently and neither I nor any other Senators have been present.”
“You are the only Senator that evacuated with us,” Ghorn pointed out.
“All the more reason that I should be present to represent the Senate.”
Rhavaelei watched keenly as Ghorn appeared to consider her demand.
“Neither I nor the King will tolerate schemes or plots,” the prince told her bluntly.
Rhavaelei laughed. “Why, you wound me, my dear! My earnest desire is nothing more and nothing less that to see proper governance restored to our people!”
Ghorn’s frown deepened. “We have a bargain, Lady, but know this – I will hold you to a standard that I set. Not to one that you do.”
Rhavaelei smiled broadly. “You were not always so intense, Ghorn. Remember the hay barn all those years ago? I am sure that we could develop a more pleasant working relationship ... if we tried a little harder.”
Ghorn expression closed tightly, becoming unreadable. He pitched his voice, calling for one of his legionnaires.
“Mother Peli will return you to your quarters.”
THIRTY-ONE
Sixteen days after the demonstration, the expedition was finally ready to depart.
During this time, Mar had been doubly busy, industriously stealing finished goods and supplies needed by the Mhajhkaeirii from Phaelle'n controlled areas, exhaustively completing every standing request for magical assistance, and furiously making the modified sand spheres.
Lord Purhlea, given operational command of the Monolith defense, had requested fifty spheres for each of the two hundred legionnaires of his anti-skyship section. Though Lord Ghorn had yet to schedule another ra
id, Mhiskva had asked for at least another five thousand for his marines. Luckily, Berhl and his smiths had yet to complete a working polybolos or Mar would still be enchanting sand.
Auspiciously, the monks' skyships had yet to make another appearance and Mar had begun to hope that they remained unaware of the location of the Monolith.
Just before noon, Mar stood on the deck of Number Nine, having just accomplished his last necessary chore, the lifting of the main mast (which he had informally requisitioned and ridden back overnight from a shipyard in the eastern Sister City of Mhevyr, a four hundred league round trip) into position. A dozen or so apprentices and shipwrights on the upper deck were working to plumb it by trimming the bracing lines while a dozen more waited below to fix it place.
"I'd have thought you would cut down the mast," he told Khlosb'ihs. "It looks too tall for a ship this size."
"She'll be a sport, no doubt about it," the shipwright told him. "The elements of the design are not entirely new, but I don't think they've been used in this exact way before. I'm going to rig her with both square sails and a fore and aft lateen. The top sails will let her run faster before the wind and the lateens will give her better purchase on a crosswind. Sailing on the air shouldn't be that different from normal wet sailing, but we'll know in a fortnight. That's when we'll have sea ...that is air trials."
"Well, good luck! Is there anything else that you need from me before I go?"
"Nothing that we can't manage with old fashioned labor. You're sailing at noon, I hear, my lord king?"
"That's the plan."
"Any idea when you'll be back?"
"None at all, but I've promised Lord Ghorn that I'll return within a month, successful or not."
"The wife and I will burn incense every thirdday for you, my lord king. Would you happen to know which of the Forty-Nine has authority over magic?"
Mar scratched his head. "Huh. Never thought about it, but I suppose there must be one."
"There's a god for everything, my lord king, sure as the sun comes up in the east."
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