Nods and muttered exchanges conveyed to Trassan that he was convincing them.
They passed into a passage lined with pipes. “These provide a heating system for the vessel, carrying hot water from the engines all over the ship for the benefit of men and Tyn. Without them, we might quickly freeze.” He laughed gaily, as if the conditions of the Sotherwinter were a minor consideration.
“And can you wash, goodfellow?” asked a lady. A niece, he thought, of the Earl of Rocastorn.
“Indeed!” said Trassan. He smiled widely for her, as she was quite arresting. “Imagine being cooped up aboard a vessel like this with none of the finer things! Hot water we cannot draw directly from these pipes, because of glimmer contamination. But these pipes run through tanks, warming them for our convenience.”
“How ingenious!” said the woman.
“Mere common sense, goodlady,” Trassan said modestly.
They came to the end of the corridor. It grew hotter. Trassan stopped them before a door, and spoke in hushed tones. “Here we are goodfolk, the engine room. The heart of the might of the Prince Alfra.”
Two engineers in spotless overalls spun a wheel-lock on the door, Trassan stepped within, and beckoned the visitors after him. “Mind your heads, the lintel is low. And I urge you, goodfolk, do not touch anything.”
They stepped onto a mezzanine overlooking the engine room. Grilled iron made up the floor. A catwalk led on from the centre of the half-floor to a door on the far side. Offset from the catwalk was a spiral stair that led down to the main floor. Beneath were two of the three engines. They stood on four sturdy legs directly over driveshafts mounted laterally to the keel. A third engine was beneath the catwalk mounted athwart the keel. Each had an individual boiler set beside it. The glimmerrod assemblies that powered them had been hoisted out of the boilers, but were hidden from the view of the visitors under heavy black tarpaulins. In the gangways between the engines stood two lines of sailors, proud as soldiers on parade: a few were Tyn, but in the main they were men, and mostly Ishmalani men at that. Their curled beards and four-cornered hats made them eminently recognisable as such. Trassan had deliberately selected the more open followers of the One. The Ishmalani were the best seamen in the world, and he wanted it known he had many in his crew. His chief engineer Hannever led them.
“The engines for the paddle wheels,” he said, pointing to the two either side of the keel, “and the third for the screw. The Prince Alfra trials new techniques for water screws. Indeed, it is my intention that, ultimately, ships will be powered entirely by propeller. As it is, the Prince Alfra can be propelled solely by water screw, however I adjudged that paddle wheels would afford us an extra agility. The Prince Alfra can turn on a three thaler piece! The engines for all three are of a revolutionary new design of my own devising.”
Vand, quiet until this point, cleared his throat pointedly and stared at Trassan. Trassan ignored him. “Steam is fed from the boilers via these pipe assemblies directly into the piston head here. These are gimbal-mounted to allow for the driving of the shaft directly beneath. This rocking motion acts as a simple governor for the injection of steam. See these smaller pipes here?” He pointed to thin pipes of soft copper bent around the piston blocks. “Another innovation. These squirt small amounts of cool water into the chamber once the flow of steam is cut off. This causing a rapid condensation of the vapour. The ensuing vacuum draws the piston in, giving us an engine where the pistons are not merely pushed, but pulled. A two-way action that greatly increases power output. This is an entirely novel design.”
He pointed out other features of the engines. He did not mention Vand once. Let him glare, thought Trassan. This is my ship. My engines. He wants the appearance of a protégé stepping out, let him have the actuality.
“With the great weight of these engines in the centre of the vessel and low below the waterline, we have a ship of unprecedented stability and seaworthiness.”
“Excepting, I imagine, when confronted with the tidal swell of a Major or Great Tide.” The man who interrupted was Georg Landsman.
“There are few ships that are proof against the Great Tides,” said Trassan.
“Floatstone is,” said Landsman.
“Floatstone can be, with an experienced crew,” corrected Trassan. “But floatstone is slow.”
“Then why is Persin utilising it? I shall answer for you, goodfellow: because it is tried and tested!”
“Tried and tested has failed to convey anyone to the shores of the Sotherwinter before,” said Trassan. “Floatstone is vulnerable to worse perils than the water. This ship is fast, it is armoured, it is powerful, it will not be slowed by ice, trapped by lack of wind, run out of fuel, or be overthrown by the leviathans and ghouls of the deep, goodfolk.” He nodded. His men tugged at chains. The tarpaulins fell to the floor. A dull blue glow suffused the space as the rod assemblies were revealed.
The glimmer rod assemblies drew a host of appreciative gasps. Each were made up of a heavy block of iron and silver two yards by two yards. Multiple rods of refined glimmer were mounted, downward facing, into the iron, isolated from it by sleeves of pure silver. Trassan’s men bundled away the cloths as he explained the cores’ function.
“Each engine has its own glimmer core,” he said. “Sixteen rods to a core. These are held in place with silver.”
“Not iron?” asked a young man.
“No,” said Trassan with a smile. “Direct contact with iron would cause both glimmer and iron to react violently.”
“Herri Maun, from All the Hundred,” a journalist identified himself. “Is it true that your engines work off this very principle?”
“It is. Another feature of my devising,” he said proudly. “This reaction of iron and glimmer has long been regarded as dangerous. I see it as the power source of the future! Rather than a rod of refined glimmer, activated by magisterial rune stamp, heating the water, each rod is an alloy. They are imbued with a carefully calculated amount of iron plated in silver iodide. Once engaged the stacks are immersed in water. Ordinarily, words must be spoken by a practised magister to release the power inherent to the glimmer. It is this process that powers most locomotives, river boats, charabancs, indeed, the many lesser devices that you, goodladies and goodfellows, have about your homes. However, in my iron-glimmer engine, the decay of the silver allows gradual, controlled exposure of the glimmer to the iron, therefore generating a great excess of heat, far greater than that generated by purely magical means. This is an alchemical reaction, goodfolk, mediated by the new sciences. No human interaction is required. One could sail this vessel all the way to the grand port of Stamkar in Ocerzerkiya and back on one load of these rods. They need not be changed on long voyages, eliminating one of the principal hazards associated with current marine engines. Nor does one require a magister. The production of energy is a natural consequence of the material combination; it requires no will to set it in motion. As the energy output far exceeds existing engines, one can also build larger vessels, such as the Prince Alfra upon which you stand. Large vessels will sail more safely in the sea, carry greater cargoes and at greater speeds. This ship will revolutionise oceanic transport, goodfolk. You witness the future at first hand!”
More appreciative noises rewarded him.
“What you are in effect saying, Goodfellow Kressind, is that you are utilising the same principles, to a lesser or greater degree, as those employed in the operation of glimmer munitions,” said Landsman.
“Why yes, yes I am,” said Trassan, playing as if the idea had just struck him. “I was in fact inspired by the operation of the cannons at Growling Point.”
“So you will admit that what powers your boat, goodfellow, is little more than a large bomb!”
Mutters of worry came from the crowd, gasps of a far less welcome kind.
Calm, thought Trassan, go with his words. Do not deny. “It is, you are correct. But an explosion, my goodfellow, is merely a plenitude of energy, spent wastefully. Here we ha
rness it to our own ends.”
Trassan lifted his hand.
The engineers donned smoked glass goggles and set to working the glimmer rod assemblies. Chains lowered the glimmer stacks into all three engines simultaneously; more theatrics that had taken a great deal of time to rehearse. Men swarmed over the top of the rod plates, bolting them down all around with spanners the length of their arms.
“For the purposes of this demonstration, we will activate only one engine,” said Trassan. “As of the moment the screw is not mounted upon the shaft, so it is that we shall witness in action. Proceed Goodman Hannever,” he called.
“Aye aye sir!”
Wheels were spun. Water gurgled in pipes as reservoirs fore and aft of the engine room decanted hundreds of gallons of water into the boilers. An engineer watched through the observation window. “Boilers full!”
“There, all engines are primed. But we will open the slats only on engine two. If you would, Goodman Ollens!”
“Aye sir!” Another wheel was spun. Blue glimmer light showed through the small porthole. There was a tremendous hissing from the engine.
“Reaction commencing!” shouted the observer.
“As you see, pressure builds rapidly once contact with the water initiates the reaction,” said Trassan. “A useable pressure is reached far more swiftly than in a comparable coal engine, if such a thing as a comparable engine to this can be said to exist.”
Landsman narrowed his eyes.
“Pressure at seventy percent!”
“Narrow the slats, if you would. Restrict the flow of water to the rods. Open steam valves,” ordered Trassan.
Three Tyn in protective gear opened taps on the pipes leading to the engine. There was a deep, resonant chuff. Then another, and another. The pistons began to work, their heads rocking back and forth in their housings in smooth mechanical motion.
“This engine is somewhat quieter than earlier models, another result of the improvements I have enacted.”
Arkadian Vand stepped forward. He held up his hands.
“As we can see my erstwhile pupil has done a fine job,” he said. “I think perhaps we should see the engine brought up to full pressure, do you not think Goodfellow Trassan?”
“I have already promised the goodfolk that they will not be subjected to the full power of the Prince Alfra for their own safety.”
“And they will not! One engine is all that runs. Bring it up to full pressure so that they might have the benefit of a proper demonstration. Or do you have no faith in your own designs?” His eyes glinted with anger. “You have done this before.”
“Naturally,” said Trassan uncertainly. “Fully tested.” He gave Vand a questioning look. “But for all our safety we will take them only to three-quarters pressure.”
“Take them to full pressure, Goodfellow Kressind,” said Vand levelly. He was leaning forward, his full weight on his cane, his hand gripping the monstrous head tightly. His eyes were intent on the engines. “As your principal backer I demand a full demonstration of your technology. Show us the potential of your design.”
The eyes of the crowd were on them both.
“If you insist. Goodman Ollens, take us to full pressure.”
Ollens hesitated.
“Do it now, Goodman Ollens.”
“Aye sir.”
He threw the lever. The blue glow intensified. The noise rose. The pistons pounded faster and faster. The driveshaft became an oily blur.
Trassan held his breath. Nothing happened. He smiled. It was working.
A whistle proved him wrong. He grabbed the railing at the warning.
“That will be sufficient, Goodman Ollens, bring her down.”
The engineers turned valves, shutting off the steam to the engine. The pistons slowed.
“Pressure’s still rising!” Hannever shouted. He glanced worriedly at a large brass gauge.
“Close the slats.”
“Slats are closed,” said Hannever.
Trassan turned to face the crowd.
“Goodfolk, there appears to be a small problem with our boiler. If I might ask you to return to the deck where you will be furnished with further refreshments.”
“Trassan! It’s still going up!” shouted Ollens.
Trassan ushered out the guests. Landsman appeared very pleased. Vand curled his lip. “Best attend to your engine, Goodfellow Trassan,” he said.
The goodfolk of Karsa effected a hasty exit, Trassan dashed down to the boiler side. The pressure was climbing. The whistle wailed deafeningly.
“The core is heating the water through the slats! That’s impossible!” Hannever bellowed. A fierce heat radiated from the boiler.
“Not if the iron balance is off in one or more of the rods,” said Trassan.
“What’s going to happen?” shouted Ollens.
“If it’s one rod, it’ll burn itself out quickly,” said Hannever. He checked the engine nervously.
“If it’s more?”
“Dump the water,” said Trassan. “Open the taps to the reservoirs, leave it open. Flood the chamber with cold water. It might help.”
“How? We’re not at sea now! We’ll scald every bastard out in the yard!” shouted Ollens. He grabbed a lever, cried out and leapt back.
“We’ve no choice!” said Hannever. “Open the valves to the reservoirs then, keep the pressure down!”
There was a clunk. A bolt flew from a pipe join where the valve to the engine was situated.
“Get off there!” Trassan shouted to the Tyn around it. They needed little prompting, falling to the floor and running out of the engine room as quick as they could.
“It’s not use, the pressure is still building!” yelled Hannever. Iron groaned. Something made a loud bang as it gave.
“Get out! Get out!” yelled Trassan. “Everyone out now! It is going to rupture!”
The whistle rose higher and higher, until the building pressure forced it off its mounting. It clashed into the roof, came crashing down spinning on the floor. All around men were abandoning their stations.
“Damn fool’s pride is going to get us all killed,” said Ollens. “Fucking Vand!”
“Get out!” yelled Trassan.
He and his men were scrambling for the doors when, with a terrible boom, the boiler skin split. Superheated steam rushed into the chamber. Men and Tyn screamed. Rivets spanged off metalwork like bullets. At least one man fell, shot through.
Trassan made it through the door as the boiler exploded.
A scalding shockwave sent him down, arms flailing. He banged his head, opening his scalp. Blood pulsed from the wound, hot and thick. He lay on the floor for a few moments, stunned, ears ringing. Groggily he got up and stood on feet that felt like another man’s. The hissing subsided. The side of his face was red raw. He was one of the lucky ones. Moans of pain emanated from the engine room.
“Get help!” he shouted. “Get the physics!” The deck clanged as men rushed away. Others crept to the doorway to peer at the devastation within.
Trassan stepped through into a steaming hell. Wreaths of vapour curled around everything. From this searing fog came the groans of the wounded. His feet plashed in an inch of scalding liquid, a slurry of blood, water and blanched flesh gurgled down the bilge drains.
The housing of the boiler had cracked, a great three-foot long rupture ran over the curve of the tank. Pipes had been flung loose. Some had shot out with the force of cannon shot, one denting the inner plating of the hull to the depth of two feet, tearing out the rivets around its perimeter. The whole thing was wrecked, and there was damage to one other engine. Carnage was all around. There were four slumped shapes in the fog, collections of rag and boiled meat that had once been men.
The slatted box surrounding the core was buckled. Through the gaps he saw that two of the sixteen rods were blackened sticks, wizened as charcoal. A trickle of water ran from the reservoir, hissing where it touched the core. He reached for the wheel to close it, then snatched his ha
nd back. He plucked a pair of steaming, soaking gloves hanging from the engine and donned them. They sizzled on the metal as he turned the valve shut.
Something grabbed his shoulder.
“Help me.” A hoarse whisper. Trassan turned, and looked into Hannever’s face.
The man was dying. His flesh had been flash-cooked by the eruption. His skin hung off in flaccid rags, revealing muscle that was the white pink of perfectly done meat. His eyes had been poached white. Where his fingers touched Trassan, it left smears of fat. The skin broke at the contact, cooked flesh parting to showed gleaming white bone.
Hannever stumbled. Trassan caught him. Inside his clothes, a chunk of meat slithered off in Trassan’s hand.
Trassan lowered Hannever to the floor. “Stay with me, Hannever. Stay with me, help is coming!”
But Hannever was dead. The rich scent of boiled meat coated the back of his throat. He held up his gloved hands glistening with the juices of the dead man. His stomach spasmed. He vomited into the water lingering on the deck. His head spun with shock.
“What have I done?” he said. Ollens’ words came back to him. Vand’s pride. But it wasn’t Vand’s pride that had caused the disaster. Not entirely.
It had been his.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Rel and the Godling
“I FAIL to see,” shouted Rel, his voice muffled by the wire basket of his sparring mask, “how me fighting four opponents at once is fair!” He kicked out with one foot, pivoted on the other and twisted his hips. His boot landed squarely in the chest of Hankel Froond, a Suverend from Zhinsky’s command. The man folded over, the wind knocked from him.
Zhinsky stood at the edge of the training floor munching on an apple. Every so often he would shake his boots to dislodge the sand sprayed onto them by the sparring soldiers.
“You know why, little merchant boy! It is because there are three hundred and fifty-seven men of the Kingdoms here in the fort, and it could take five times that many. When you can beat five men easily, then I am knowing that the Glass Fort is well defended. This makes I, Zhalak Zhinsky, happy, and it make Colonel Estabanado happy. Sad for all, not so many men as good a fighter as my little merchant boy, so you need to be fighting...” He cocked his head to one side and calculated. “At least nine men, and beating them. Keep fighting!”
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