The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  “Hmm … Well, yes—that is a point,” returned Wesley, pacing across the room then turning about. “Marshall Kelly Blake is responsible for the town guns. He has no vote, but if he objects, the idea is dead. The council would never overrule him if he held that our security was threatened.”

  He stood for a moment at the window again. “Clearly, we must meet with the marshall. If he has no objections … Hmm. Well, you see, then it comes down to politics. The curse of our town, I fear.”

  “What do politics have to do with this, sir?” asked Crispin.

  “Good question,” returned the older man. “You are young and would probably think that a reasonable request that did no harm to Steamboat would not be a political matter. But everything the council takes up is a political matter. All the members will weigh the advantages and disadvantages to them and their faction. Old alliances will be remembered, and old scores to settle will not be forgotten.”

  “Let us consider how it might play out. I am councilman for the North Quarter, you see. You have my vote, I assure you. Maitland Clarke represents the East Quarter. Oh, you need to know that my quarter is where the prosperous live—mostly merchants. Maitland’s quarter is lower, and more to the southeast. But his area is made up of stable citizens with their shops and homes. The west is the quarter of the workmen, many of which work outside the walls. Johnny Evans represents them.

  “I think we can count on Maitland’s vote. We are old friends, and Amber is almost a daughter to him. Johnny and I are old allies, and I am sure that if the marshall has no objection, he will cheerfully support us.”

  “Then that does not sound so bad,” remarked Don. “At worst, it sounds like a deadlock, so if the mayor supports us, we would have enough votes.”

  “Umm … well, yes. But the mayor is always a question mark. He is elected by vote of all the town—‘at large’ we call it. And that brings me to the last quarter of the city. Day laborers, street vendors, beggars, and even less savory trades are practiced there. Much of the area is a slum that looks like a rabbit warren. Buddy Burger is their representative, and I must admit that he does so very well. We are old enemies. Anything I propose, he opposes, I’m afraid. Worst of all, nearly half of all voters live in his quarter, and most vote the way he tells them. And that means that the two at-large council members and the mayor must listen to him, whether they want to or not. Also, you need to know that he is an utter scoundrel, and a thief and liar, besides. Because of all that, he often controls a four-vote majority because of fear. And it is not just his council votes that the others fear!”

  “But sir—” began Crispin, just as Don broke in. “What does this mean?” asked Don. “Are you saying that this is hopeless?”

  “No. Not at all,” returned Wesley. “But it does mean a fight. Burger cannot be trusted, and he will oppose this. There are sympathies in his quarter in support of the Prophet. So, there’s the problem of keeping it quiet.”

  “This Burger is on your council?” blurted Crispin. “He sounds like a spy!”

  “Some of his followers certainly are,” agreed Wesley. “So now you see what we are up against. We can’t release the shells to you without council approval. But if we go to the council, we can be sure that the matter will not be kept secret. In other words, everything we tell the council will be known to the Prophet. And the vote will be close. I am willing to take it to the council, but you need to think this over. Is it worth the risk?”

  Don and Crispin looked at each other. Don reflected on Wesley’s words for a long minute or two. Would this cause more problems for the House of Healing and Ariel? Could this even provoke an attack by the Prophet? He had attacked them before. Would the risk be too great? Would the chance of harm be greater than whatever good these shells might be? And did he, or Samuel for that matter, have the right to take such a risk?

  “I see what you mean. It is a difficult question,” returned Don at last. “And Amber’s return may already be known in the South Quarter?”

  “And I understand your point, as well,” spoke Wesley, thoughtfully. “It may well be already known. If so, there is no time to spare. If word gets to the wrong place—the Prophet may try to intercept you.”

  “Or follow us,” added Crispin.

  †

  Don had half suspected that the town guns were a traveler’s tale. A lie, in other words. He recalled that there were a pair of old guns in the keep at Goldstone. They were rusted into uselessness, fit only for display. But these Steamboat guns were different. There were six. Each of the larger three was perhaps ten feet long. Marshall Blake freely allowed Don and Crispin to inspect the guns, and even open the heavy breech on one. The metal was covered with a glowing sheen of oil, and not a speck of rust could be seen. Most of the metal was covered with a green paint, but where the metal was bare it was polished to a glassy shine. The two wheels of each gun had a metal center like a spool, with thick layers of tarred rope wrapped around and around to make a tire.

  “The guns originally had tires made of rubber,” commented Marshall Blake. “You have probably heard of it.”

  “I have heard of it, and even seen some small pieces,” answered Don. “The traders say it comes from far to the south. But these seem to have no rubber now.”

  “No, not at all”, agreed the marshall. “The rubber rotted away. So we replaced it with the tarred rope tires. They work well enough but I would hate to take them on the road, though!”

  “Are these smaller than the Stonegate guns?” asked Crispin.

  “No, these three are the same size. The ancients called them ‘one-five-fives.’ The inside bore is about six inches in diameter. The other three are called ‘one-oh-fives,’ and they are obviously much smaller”

  “How far will they shoot?” wondered Crispin, looking into the breech, with a look of amazement on his face.

  “A long ways,” returned the marshall. “The exact range is a secret.”

  “Are you still sure that the gunpowder will fire?” asked Don, bluntly. He did not expect an answer, but watched the marshall’s face closely.

  The marshall, however, maintained an impassive expression. “I can’t discuss that, either, I am afraid.”

  Don shrugged, then continued. “In any event, Marshall Blake, we think we know of a way to help your town, even if your gunpowder should ever prove to be unreliable.”

  “I did not say so …” ventured the marshall, with a slight hesitation.

  “I know that you said nothing. Just be aware that our request for three of your shells may well help you as much as it helps us.”

  “Donald, if you could give us more detail, we could make a better case,” suggested Wesley, who had been pacing back and forth next to the nearest of the guns.

  “Unfortunately, I do not know any of the details,” returned Don, somewhat hesitantly. “It is not a matter of keeping secrets from you. I have told you all that I know.”

  “You have no real shortage of shells, do you?” asked Crispin.

  “No,” admitted the marshall. “But when these are gone, there will be no more. The art of making them has been lost.”

  “Would three of the smaller shells be enough to meet your needs?” inquired Wesley.

  “I think not, sir,” answered Don. “Perhaps two smaller shells and one of the larger would be enough, though.”

  “Lord Wesley,” said the marshall. “Three shells, as we have been discussing, would not hurt our defenses to any great degree. Whether giving these away would help us, on the other hand, I could not say.”

  “Very well. What else can you say about what you have just heard?” asked Wesley.

  “I cannot see how examining the projectile will help solve problems with the propellant, to be honest.”

  “What do you say to that, Donald?”

  “I see the marshall’s point
.” returned Don. “I do not know exactly what is being planned. Probably it has nothing directly to do with your gunpowder. Though perhaps there is a plan to make new propellant.”

  “So you think the shells will be used to test a new source of powder?” asked Wesley, persistently.

  “I can only say what seems to be reasonable. There are very skilled workmen and students of the ancient sciences in Ariel. Though, as you probably know, none of the cities in that area ever had town guns.”

  “Well, obviously, the shells are needed for some kind of test,” mused Wesley, half to himself.

  “But you do not absolutely need the fuses for the projectiles?” asked Marshall Blake, quietly.

  “As we said,” returned Don, as patiently as he was able. “The letter from Samuel may have been vague, but he told me to explain that the shells must be live, or filled with your standard explosive chemicals. But the fusing devices are not vital, however desirable they might be. Perhaps you would be more comfortable releasing fuse-less shells since they would hardly pose a threat to Steamboat.”

  “What he says is true, Lord Wesley,” put in the marshall.

  “What is true?”

  “His point about the fuses. We would hardly have anything to fear from fuse-less projectiles. I really see no way how they could be used to harm Steamboat, or threaten the Prophet, either, for that matter.”

  “So you would not oppose the release of three shells?” asked Wesley, somewhat formally. He fixed his gaze squarely on the calm, grey eyes of Marshall Blake.

  “No one can say that Bethuel, Ariel, or the House of Healing has ever done us harm. Indeed, the healers have blessed us greatly, over the years. If these men are truly envoys from there, if they truly restored a daughter of Steamboat to us, and if they will truly share their information with us—then I think we should take a small risk and let them have the projectiles.”

  He paused, then added: “But I am concerned that this information might be reported to the Prophet. It would be best if these plans could be held back from the council. But I will leave that to your best judgment, Lord Wesley.”

  As they left the armory, Wesley and the marshall had a private conversation for a few minutes. Then the three walked back up the hill to Wesley’s house. He left them there and asked them to prepare their horses and equipment. He told them to be ready to leave with little or no notice.

  Don saddled the horses and moved his armor and weapons to the stable. Crispin helped for a time, then went for a walk with Amber. They both seemed to be in a cheerful mood, and Amber’s laugh drifted back as they went out of the gate.

  †

  You can’t tell a book by its cover. This saying of the elder days always puzzled Don. What was a book cover? But the essence, that appearances are deceiving, did not apply to Councilman Buddy Burger. He was said to be a thief and an oath-breaker and was perhaps even a spy of the Prophet. And he certainly looked the part. Short, but with bulging shoulders and massive legs, he oozed intimidation. His thick neck thrust forward, and his face and nose came to a point like a rodent. His receding brow and small black eyes gave the look of a predator.

  So it was that his voice was surprising. It had none of the squeak of his rodent face or weasel eyes. Neither had it the bass from his barrel chest. It was a mellow, reasonable, baritone. Don realized that this man did not rely on low cunning alone, but backed it up with a keen mind.

  “Ah, yes, our honored guest,” he said, offering his right hand. “You appear to be a warrior, as befits a representative of Stonegate.”

  Don shook his hand and managed a polite response. Lord Wesley had simply told the council that Donald was of Stonegate and had rescued his daughter from a band of Raiders. He had cautioned Don and Crispin to mention nothing about the towns to the south. He had said it would be best to have the council assume that the cannon balls were requested by Stonegate.

  “Your friend has probably warned you about me,” continued Burger. He raised his hands in mockery, as though recoiling in disgust. “It is true that I am no friend of the privileged rich. Those fat little merchants quiver in their boots when they think of me. But all I want is to take some money that they will never miss and help the poor have a chance for life. Is that so bad?”

  “Councilman,” returned Don, somewhat uneasily. “You have the advantage of me. I know nothing of Steamboat and the conflicts here. If you are trying to help the poor, then I must commend you. But I am also very favorably impressed by Lord Wesley.”

  “Oho!” replied Burger. “Diplomatically spoken. I see that I have met my match. But tell me, how are things in Stonegate?”

  “I left Stonegate several months ago,” answered Don. “So I have no recent news. But Stonegate was prospering when I was last there.”

  “Strange that Stonegate would need a few cannon balls from us,” mused Burger. “I understand that these guns and all the ammunition came from Stonegate in the first place.”

  “Alas,” allowed Don, with a short bow. “I can’t give you the technical details. But I have been told that there is a good chance that it may extend the useful life of your guns.”

  Don excused himself and went on into the courthouse, which was where the meeting was being held. He caught up with Crispin, who gave him a grin and a careless wave. As he entered the council chambers, Wesley introduced him to the other councilmen. All were polite, but none seemed to be pleased to be at the meeting. Crispin stood by the door, tolerated, but neither welcomed nor introduced.

  The mayor, Charles Easton, was as short as Buddy Burger, but his head was as round as a ball and his smooth-shaven face as red as holly berries. With a white mane of hair and beard, he resembled the ancient Christmas icon. He had been the one to call an emergency meeting of the town council. But even an “emergency” meeting had taken an entire day to arrange. Things seemed to move slowly in Steamboat.

  As the council took their seats, the mayor lost no time in convening the meeting. The floor was turned over to Wesley who explained the purpose of the meeting. The marshall spoke briefly, saying that he had no objection to the request. Then Don was invited to tell his story.

  Don introduced Crispin who was invited to come forward and take a seat. Don then told the story of how Amber and the others were rescued. He made little of his own part in the rescue, and did not mention the House of Healing or Ariel at all. He emphasized the danger of the Prophet’s Raiders. He then made his request for the shells, saying that they were needed by skilled craftsmen to try to extend the useful life of the town guns. He did not say that the skilled craftsmen were of Stonegate. But he allowed the council to reach that conclusion. As he had previously mentioned to Burger, he confessed that he had no idea exactly what would be done with the shells and said that he was willing to agree that the shells would be without fuses.

  When Don had finished his presentation, Benny immediately claimed the floor. “What proof do we have that the Prophet had anything to do with these girls’ abduction?” he demanded in a scornful tone. “Whispers in the dark? Elders have told tales to their children and ended up believing their own fantasies. The Prophet is a harsh foe, no doubt. So let us do what we can to stay on friendly terms. Never tweak the tail of a bear, I say!”

  “So what would you have us do, Councilman?” demanded Johnny Evans. His beard bristled with indignation. “What would you have us do—give young Amber back? It is pointless to deny what we all know. The Prophet is behind these kidnappings and he is no friend of ours. Someday we will either have to submit utterly, or he will swat us like a fly. And that would mean the end of this council. But maybe not the end of you, am I right?”

  “You are out of order, Councilman Evans,” ruled the mayor. “Let us confine ourselves to the matter before the council.”

  “I did not come here to be insulted,” continued Burger. “Lord Mayor, I daresay that we could de
bate these matters all night. I say that we send these young men away with our thanks and a gold piece each for their trouble. We are all glad that young Amber has been returned. But we have no ammunition to spare!”

  “And I thought Sunday was you Christian’s holy day!” Burger continued.“If we must meet today, surely decency would insist that the meeting be short.”

  The mayor chose to not recognize Burger, nor did he acknowledge his remarks. He only struck the table with his gavel. “Let’s have some order!”

  Maitland Clarke was recognized next. He looked the part of the patrician—even more than Wesley. His white eyebrows jutted out like ice shelves below a high forehead that vaulted up and up to finally vanish beneath an unruly shock of white hair. His eyes were like blue diamonds, and were just as hard as he faced Burger and the two at-large councilmen that hovered on either side.

  “Lord Mayor,” he began, addressing the chair. He fixed his gaze on Burger like an archer taking aim. “The Raiders are threat enough. Even if the Prophet is not behind them, as most of us believe, we still cannot ignore them. Our walls protect our town and the guns guard even our nearby neighbors and their farms. So long as the threat is real, we must be wary. The Prophet, himself … well—I have never thought that our guns would stop him for very long if he were determined. But as long as it would cost more to take us than he would gain, we may enjoy some safety.”

  “You point is what, exactly?” asked Rex Wilson, one of the at-large members. His face was smug and clean-shaven. Wrinkles surrounded his mouth like a miser’s purse.

  “What I mean is that we are wasting time arguing. The Prophet’s involvement is beside the point. Young women like Amber are being stolen. Even Stonegate is being raided. Only our guns protect us. If this study can improve our defenses, we should not say no. Give them the shells.”