by John Dalmas
Inside the carriage, the atmosphere was like a block of ice. No one spoke; one scarcely looked at another. The driver drove into the palace grounds and let them out at the main entrance. Brokols took Juliassa's hands and turned her to face him.
"Namirrna," he said, "it is best for you, and certainly for the amirr, if we do not see one another again. At least until this"—he gestured as if to indicate the theater crowd—"until this situation is over."
"No!" she cried, and stamped her foot. "I will not be dictated to by a crowd of ignorant fools!"
For a moment she glared at him, then abruptly her anger was gone. "I'm sorry, Elver," she said quietly, and putting her arms around the startled Brokols, kissed him on the mouth, ignoring her staring chaperone and the bemused Venreeno. Then she stepped back from him.
"You are wiser than I," she said, then added, "this time anyway." She grinned, taking him further by surprise. "And we will not attend another public function for now. In a little while this 'situation' will be over. Father told mother and me a little of what you're doing; it's why he agreed to let me see you today. And I can help you in your work! You'll see! I've often worked with Aunt Zeenia; it's been a condition of my staying with her. I've even helped pull a calf from a gleebor in difficult labor!"
He was overwhelmed by this girl, this not much more than child, it seemed to him. They talked for a minute or two more, then she had the carriage take him and Reeno home.
Thirty-Six
Brokols had warned the amirr of the Dard's coming, and was spending the day in the Fortress, to be close to the wharf. He read a book on ceramics while he waited. Meanwhile, Hrummean defense forces were on alert. On the headland, the watchtower keepers kept a constant eye northward.
They ran up the signal flags just as the sun was crossing the meridian. A trumpet pealed from the Fortress's gate tower: the Dard had been spotted, presumably at the edge of visibility to the north. Which meant he had an hour or more. Yet Brokols found it difficult to turn back to his book. Most of an hour later, another flag was run up. The trumpet spoke again. Soft-booted feet, many of them, sounded on the stone stairs from the courtyard to the top of the wall. Brokols placed a bookmark, closed his book, and went onto the wall himself.
The mangonels were manned, blocks of stone piled ready beside them. Soldiers, and baskets of heavy, sharp iron bolts, were ready at the arbalests. Bowmen, longbows still unstrung but quivers full, stood about. A few men had gone to the parapet to look up the firth, until an officer ordered them back. They were not to show themselves. The Almites would, of course, have telescopes—the Hrummeans did—and it wouldn't do to show the ship their readiness.
Presumably—almost surely—there'd be no need to fight. But it seemed to Brokols that if it came to it, the Hrummeans might well surprise the Almites—his own people!—and cause them heavy initial casualties before Stedmer brought his cannon into action. Then, of course, it would be a different story.
The pintle guns wouldn't be the problem, or the major problem. They were quick and could be aimed in any direction without turning the ship, but their rounds weighed a mere four pounds. More dangerous, if more ponderous, were the waist guns, four in each side, fired from gunports below deck. They'd be somewhat sheltered from the primitive machines on the Fortress wall, and immune to archery. Their explosive shells weighed more than thirty pounds. If it came to a fight, only the Hrummean marines, waiting at their oars now in nearby boathouses, seemed to have any prospect at all of silencing the cannon, and they'd have to storm the Dard in the face of rifle fire.
Brokols kept reminding himself how unlikely it was that it would come to that.
She rounded the headland beneath a smudge of smoke. Brokols stood watching at the parapet, dressed in his Almaeic finery. Apparently the serpents weren't fleeing this time; he was sure he saw one of them blow a spout of steamy breath, half a mile out from the Fortress, and another near the south shore. They could breathe with no more than their snouts breaking the surface.
In minutes the Dard was halfway up the firth. It was time to join the guard detail, he and Reeno, to go to the wharf and meet Argant. They started down. Presumably Argant would come ashore with no more than the master-at-arms and perhaps one other man. If an armed party landed, the guard detail was to meet them on the dock and insist that Argant come ashore alone. I've changed from a peril to a resource here, Brokols thought, and found the irony amusing. Slightly.
Allbarin's insistence that Reeno accompany him had seemed odd to Brokols. "He's the amirr's representative," the privy counselor had said. It hadn't seemed a very compelling reason to Brokols, but he saw no reason to object. And Reeno went nowhere without shortsword at his waist. Undoubtedly he could use it well. When questioned, he'd said his usual function was amirrial security, but Brokols wondered. In conversation once, he'd shown a surprising knowledge of the Gorrbian military, and it seemed likelier he had something to do with intelligence.
They left the Fortress through a pedestrian gate, followed by a decade of the guard, and walked down onto the wharf. This time there was no crowd; it was a business day, and only a couple of dozen bystanders stood by in little groups. The Dard was still some minutes short of anchoring.
Brokols' nervousness took the form of neither tremor nor knotted stomach. Instead, time and space seemed to alter. His attention focused totally on the approaching ship; he was spelled by it, emotionless, feeling as if everything was predetermined, with himself a spectator. She'd slowed, lost the foam on her bow wave. Soon after, she stopped, this time perhaps only three hundred yards offshore. He saw her bow anchor splash. The captain's gig was swung over the side on its davits, and suddenly Brokols' knees felt watery, as if they'd collapse to dump him on the wharfs timbered deck.
The gig began to pull toward shore, and from the height of the wharf at a little past ebb tide, there seemed to be four aboard her besides her oarsmen. Argant stood in the bow, looking shoreward, and Brokols was sure the man's eyes were fixed on him. A terrible thought occurred to him then: Reeno would turn him over to them, let them take him away! He didn't believe it, not even briefly, but the idea washed over him like a cold and numbing wave, leaving sweat behind.
Then an open-beaked head rose out of the water on a muscular, snake-like neck thicker than Brokols' thigh. It struck, and Brokols could hear the scream from where he stood, a very brief scream. For just an instant the beak held a man by the waist, arms and legs waving as he was lifted from the bow. Then serpent and man disappeared beneath the waves.
And it was Argant who was gone.
The gig began to veer. The oarsmen on the portside still rowed, but on the starboard side, the side toward the serpent, the forward oar flailed the air in seeming terror and the midship oar raised to stay out of its way, while the stern oarsman still stroked. Brokols heard the bosun bellow angrily, no doubt cursing them, then all the oars began to stroke again. The gig turned about, and with the oars once more in a semblance of order, started back to the Dard.
Brokols' fear was gone, replaced by fascination. When the gig reached the ship's side, most of her men climbed back aboard. The hooks on the davit blocks were set and she was hoisted from the water. And it seemed to Brokols that with Argant gone, there was nothing the ship could do except leave.
* * *
Midshipman Werlingus sat at the rattling wireless, pencil moving rapidly on his tablet. Kryger stood behind his shoulder, watching the rows of letters form.
* * *
SHIP AT ANCHOR OFF THEEDALIT WHARF STOP ARGANT SENT IN GIG WITH MAA AND TWO MARINES STOP LARGE SERPENT SNATCHED ARGANT FROM GIG WITH BEAK TOOK HIM UNDER STOP GIG RETURNED SHIP STOP REQUEST PERMISSION TO SHELL FORTRESS STOP END STEDMER
* * *
The midshipman reached to hand Kryger the tablet but Kryger waved it off, had already read it. He'd accepted the information without difficulty, despite how bizarre it was. What he could hardly believe was Stedmer's reaction. The man was insane!
"Send this," Kryger said.
"Fire no rounds at fortress or anything else. Stop. Repeat. Fire no rounds at fortress or at anything else. Stop. Raise anchor and leave for Almeon. Stop. End communication. Mission Commander General Lord Vendel Kryger."
The midshipman's middle finger tapped the key, producing a rapid irregular pattern of clicks. When he was done, he looked back over his shoulder questioningly. "That's all," Kryger said. The young man had started to get up when once again the receiver began its tattoo. Werlingus paused, uncertain.
"Ignore it," Kryger said.
They left, the midshipman looking back worriedly over his shoulder.
* * *
Brokols watched the Dard leave, steam down the firth and out of sight, trailed by a streamer of black smoke which thinned in the breeze and gradually disappeared. The guards had returned into the Fortress when the ship was well underway, and only Reeno still stood with him.
"Well," Brokols said thoughtfully, then turned. Instead of going into the Fortress, he started up the street. "I want to message Kryger," he told Reeno. "Stedmer probably messaged him what happened. Perhaps I can add a little confusion to it."
* * *
Kryger had almost not answered the signal; he'd assumed it was Stedmer again. Now he sat looking at the message Werlingus had written down for him.
* * *
STEDMERS FOOLISHNESS IN ENTERING HARBOR HAS RESULTED IN ANTI ALMEON SLOGANS SHOUTED IN THE STREETS STOP HE HAS TAKEN HRUMMEAN HOSTILITY OFF GORRBUL AND PUT IT BACK ON ALMEON STOP RECOMMEND IMPERIAL REPRIMAND FOR STEDMER STOP END BROKOLS AMBASSADOR
* * *
Interesting, Kryger thought. He didn't trust Brokols though, and didn't take his advice. It wasn't wise to stir the water when things were proceeding so unpredictably. Besides, something was going on with the ambassador to Hrumma, and whatever it was, it didn't feel like patriotism. He wasn't sure what it felt like.
Thirty-Seven
One of the bystander clusters on the wharf had been Mellvis Rantrelli with several employees. Within minutes of the Dard's departure, he'd put his people in rikkshas to visit certain places and people in the city, tell the story and call for a rally in the square immediately after business hours.
The turnout was far the best yet: There were at least three thousand there, he estimated. There was also more emotion than ever. A sea serpent, a Messenger from Hrum, had spoken through its action. There were random shouts for Brokols' deportation, his imprisonment. And scattered cheers.
Rantrelli waited till the inflow of people had nearly stopped, then climbed the platform and faced them, raising his arms. When the crowd had quieted, he spoke.
"People of Hrumma!" he shouted. "Hrum has spoken to us through his messenger, and we have heard him!"
There was loud cheering. He let it run its course, then raised his arms again. "And you are right! The foreign ambassador is an enemy, of Hrumma and of Hrum, and should be deported!" He waved his arms to forestall an incipient cheer. "But more serious—more serious—the amirr has endangered the country by not imprisoning him as soon as he was exposed for the enemy that he is!"
From the crowd a large voice bellowed, "Down with the amirr! A new amirr! Down with the amirr! A new amirr!" The second time through, it was joined by other voices, until most of the crowd was shouting. "Down with the amirr! A new amirr! Down with the amirr! A new amirr!"
Rantrelli watched with a feeling of satisfaction. The situation was ripening. Within a day the whole city would be in agreement, and every traveller would spread the story of it. Within a week he would send his people through all of Hrumma to call for moots. Within five weeks there'd be a new amirr, himself perhaps.
Wrapped in his thoughts, he didn't see someone mounting the platform to one side, didn't notice until the chant thinned and died. Then he became aware of the robed man standing with arms raised. The crowd was waiting, surly but listening.
"People of Hrumma!" Allbarin called. "I am glad to see and hear your concern for the safety of our country. It is well justified.
"For the Emperor of Almeon, its king over kings, desires to rule on this side of the ocean as well. And he has a plan of conquest! He intends that Djez Gorrbul attack us, send its army to invade. And while the Gorrbian army is engaged here, fighting its bloody way southward into Hrumma, an Almaeic fleet will land a powerful army at Haipoor l'Djezzer."
A murmur flowed through the crowd, and he stopped for a moment until it quieted, waiting.
"The amirr reluctantly sent an envoy to Haipoor, to warn Gamaliiu. The reply was as feared: Two days ago our ship arrived back with sacks containing the heads of the envoy and his party. After scanning the heads, I do not believe they were even received by Gamaliiu, or that he so much as witnessed their execution. And if they told anyone their message, it never reached Gamaliiu; otherwise he'd not have sent our people back as he did.
"So we can expect war, and with the large army that Gorrbul can field, it will be a fierce test of the people of Hrumma.
"The Trumpet of Hrum was right in his admonition: The battle is ours alone. We must fight to the limits of our strength and courage, expecting no help. If we do this—if Hrum is pleased enough with us—he will help us. But do not rely on intervention by Hrum. Rely only on ourselves. For only in that way can we earn his help.
"As for the Ambassador from Almeon . . ." Allbarin stopped then, drawing their attention from what he'd just said, back to himself. "As for the Ambassador from Almeon, he has seen our land and been touched by the sages. He has helped us with his knowledge. He continues to help, and has strengthened us."
Rantrelli listened, unsure of what to do. He'd lost the crowd, and groped now for ideas.
"Tomorrow we send couriers throughout the country," Allbarin was saying, "with instructions to the district defense commanders. We do not expect the invasion to come till late summer or early fall, but it is time to prepare our . . ."
Allbarin stopped. The crowd had been motionless; now there was movement in the back as people gave way to someone. It was Panni Vempravvo, and as they melted aside for him, a murmur spread through the crowd. "The Lamp of Hrum! The Lamp of Hrum!" The tall sage reached the platform and climbed its stone steps. Both Allbarin and Rantrelli stepped back, giving him the stage.
Panni smiled, a wide warm smile.
"Where is the Trumpet of Hrum?" he asked. He didn't shout, but everyone heard him. "What has become of the Trumpet of Hrum? Have any of you seen him lately?" He turned to Rantrelli. "Have you seen him, merchant?"
Rantrelli wagged his head, his jowls.
"I will tell you what has happened to him. He has Awakened! The other night he meditated till dawn with Tassi Vermaatio and saw Hrum. And Knew! Today he is for from Theedalit, on a mission for the amirr.
"Until now, Vessto Cadriio has had mainly knowledge, knowledge such as is given to those rare adepts who are also seers. His flashes of Wisdom were only flashes. Now he lives in Wisdom. It flows through him. No longer will Vessto Cadriio wear a long face unless he chooses to create it in Play.
"So rejoice that matters are beginning so well. And heed the words of the Trumpet of Hrum, and of Allbarin Venjianni. If you play fully the role of warriors or the role of workers, for Hrumma, Hrum may decide that the people of Hrumma are truly his foster children!"
He bowed deeply to them then, and the crowd began to cheer, less than wildly to be sure, but after a minute or so Rantrelli watched them melting away into the street, and the sound of their excited voices was like a flood through a rapids. He looked around. Allbarin had left the platform; he saw his white-robed back going toward a Fortress gate. Panni, however, still stood there, looking at him.
"Have you meditated lately?" the sage asked conversationally.
Rantrelli shook his head. "I was never any good at it. I gave it up years ago."
Panni nodded. "When one feels no true desire to meditate, one can only pretend. When one desires to meditate, that is the time to meditate. If you ever desire to, you are welcome to do so with me. Whether you bring your
body to my cave or we come together only in the spirit."
Riantrelli nodded, not heartened by the words or their friendly intent.
"Do you feel you've been defeated here this evening?"
Again Rantrelli nodded.
"It is all right to feel that way. But it is also all right to feel that you have had a victory here—that you created all this to bring you to some point, or to bring others to some point. It is all right to believe that you have followed beautifully and exactly an act which Hrum-In-Thee created in your script of life."
Rantrelli spoke then while avoiding the sage's eyes, his voice more plaintive than complaining. "It has never been real to me that we live a script. That our lives are pre-written for us and we simply go through the motions. If that is true, what purpose is there in life?"
