The Practice Effect

by David Brin

  “Next he’ll say he’s had scouts out scourin’ the countryside far an’ wide for their Princess,” Arth said.

  Sure enough, Kremer waved an arm at his troops and at a squad of mounted horsemen. Then he pointed to the gliders circling patiently in the updraft over the castle.

  “The two L’Toff on the right aren’t buyin’ it,” Arth commented. “They’d like to take th’ castle apart, startin’ with th’ Baron hisself.”

  The gray-bearded leader of the embassy tried to stifle one of his companions, a brown-haired youth in dark-brown body armor, who shrugged off restraint and shouted hotly at the Baron. Kremer’s guards muttered angrily and shifted weight, poised for a nodded command from their Lord.

  The young L’Toff looked contemptuously at the tense guards and spat on the ground.

  Arth chewed on a grass stem speculatively. “I’ve heard it used to be the L’Toff were pacifists. But they’ve had to become fighters the past two hunnerd years or so, in spite of the protection o’ th’ King and the old Duke. Some of ’em are said to be about as good as th’ King’s own scouts.”

  Arth pointed to the tall, angry young L’Toff. “That one may make it hard for the ambassador to get outta here without a fight.”

  Arth sounded like he was handicapping horses. From what Dennis had heard, one of the major spectator sports here in Coylia seemed to be watching men hack each other to bits and betting on the outcome.

  The Baron did not rise to the young man’s challenge. Instead he grinned and whispered to one of his aides, who sped away.

  Kremer waved forward trays of refreshment, which he diplomatically sampled first. He had seats brought for his guests as the troops stepped back to create a broad aisle from the dais to the courtyard wall.

  The L’Toff looked suspicious, but they could hardly refuse. They sat nervously near their host. As they turned his way, Dennis thought he saw, in the face of the angry young man, a family resemblance to Linnora.

  He wondered if her fey sensitivity had informed the Princess that relatives were only a few hundred meters away. Dennis had finally become convinced Linnora really had such a gift. Over a month ago the power had led her to the zievatron, where she was captured. It had enabled her to know him in the dark prison yard weeks later.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to keep her from falling under the spell of Hoss’k’s fallacious logic, or to let her see through Kremer’s manipulative explanations.

  In any event, her talent was apparently intermittent and quite rare even among the L’Toff. Kremer didn’t seem afraid of it.

  Arth clutched Dennis’s shoulder and gasped. Dennis followed his pointing finger.

  A cluster of guards were dragging a prisoner from one of the castle’s lower gates. Dust rose from the struggle, for the captive was very big and very angry.

  Dennis suddenly realized it was Mishwa Qan, the giant whose strength had been key to their breakout from jail. Mishwa bellowed and heaved against his bonds. When he saw they were leading him to a scarred, upright post, the battle became furious.

  But the guards had been chosen carefully to be almost his equal in size. Dennis saw his old nemesis, Sergeant Gil’m, pulling a rope tied to Mishwa’s neck.

  Kremer motioned the scholar Hoss’k forward from his entourage. Hoss’k bowed to the dignitaries and brought forth items to show them, one at a time. Dennis stirred when he saw that the first was his camp-watch alarm.

  As the L’Toff stared at the lights on the screen, Dennis wondered what changes practice had wrought in the tiny machine since the last time he had seen it.

  No doubt Hoss’k was pointing out how difficult it would now be for an enemy to approach the castle undetected.

  Then he demonstrated Dennis’s monocular, showing the L’Toff how to use it, pointing out various objects. When the ambassador put the scope down he was visibly shaken.

  Dennis felt a slow burning rise within him—a combination of shame and deep anger. In spite of the strategy he had chosen, for very good reasons, his natural sympathies were with the L’Toff.

  Dennis didn’t like it one bit when Hoss’k turned and pointed directly at him. Kremer smiled and bowed slightly to his wizard. The Baron’s well-rehearsed personal guard shouted Dennis’s name in unison.

  He scowled. If only there were some way of communicating with the L’Toff privately!

  By now Mishwa Qan had been dragged to the post and tied into place. Dennis had already figured out that they planned to execute the man. He had witnessed many executions during the past week, and there was nothing at all he could do. Arth knew that as well and stood almost rock-still.

  The guard, Gil’m, marched up to the overlord and bowed. Kremer drew something small from his robe and handed it to the trooper, who bowed again and turned to march back down the dais toward the prisoner.

  Realization struck Dennis. “No!” he cried aloud.

  Gil’m marched halfway to the target post. Mishwa Qan glared back at him, hands flexing uselessly under his bonds. The big thief shouted a challenge at Gil’m which everyone in the yard could hear, offering to take the trooper on blindfolded, with any choice of weapons.

  Gil’m simply grinned. He lifted a small black shape.

  Dennis felt a purple outrage. “No!” he screamed.

  He vaulted the fence and ran toward the execution aisle, dodging one set of guards, then plowed through two more who ran to cut him off. He flattened one with a round house. Those on the dais turned to look at the commotion as one of Dennis’s own guards tackled him from behind. At that moment Gil’m aimed Dennis’s needler and pulled the trigger.

  In the confusion only a few people were actually looking at the prisoner when the burst of tiny metal needles struck at hypersonic velocity. But everyone heard the explosion. Dennis heard Arth’s astonished gasp.

  Fighting partway free of a pile of guardsmen, Dennis struggled up far enough to see a bloody stump where the target post had been sheared in half. Beyond that lay a gaping hole in the wooden wall.

  The needler had, indeed, been getting practice. Gil’m grinned and held the weapon up to the sun.

  A wave of revulsion and shame overwhelmed Dennis. He snarled and flailed at those around him, biting at one hand that grabbed near his face. Then a heavy object struck him from behind and turned off the lights.

  7

  Linnora stared at the little creatures that arranged themselves in such orderly rows on the face of the little box. At the far right they shifted and reformed with great rapidity, hopping into new positions almost faster than she could follow with her eyes. The group next to the left shifted their formations more slowly, and so on. At the far left, the tiny bugs were patient, and seemed to take about half a day to make their next move.

  The little box wasn’t much more than four times the size of the first digit of her thumb. On each side it had two straps, one of which ended in little metal pieces whose purpose she had yet to divine.

  Hesitantly, Linnora tried pressing a few of the many little nubs that protruded from the half of the box where no bugs danced. The bugs hopped into new patterns every time she touched one of the nubs.

  A part of her wanted to laugh at the antics the little creatures went through—there was an urge to play and make them dance some more.

  No. She put the little box down and withdrew her hand. She would not experiment with living things. Not without knowing what she was doing and having a clear idea of her purpose. That was one of the oldest credos of the Old Belief, handed down from parent to child from the earliest days of the L’Toff.

  Only a deep conviction that they needed to be within the box to survive kept Linnora from breaking it to set the little slaves free.

  That and a lingering uncertainty that they really were slaves.

  The ordered patterns had a feeling to them … not joy exactly, but pride, perhaps. She sensed that very much had gone into the making of the little box and its tiny occupants. There was more complexity here than she had ever encou
ntered before one month ago.

  If only I could know for certain, she sighed silently.

  Deacon Hoss’k had made such a consistent and logical case! The wizard’s people must have used ruthless means to accomplish such wonders … especially to freeze the state of practice in each of these amazing tools. The lives of many of the equivalent of the L’Toff in Dennis Nuel’s homeland must have been sacrificed so these things would remain in unchanged perfection.

  Or must they? Linnora shook her head, confused.

  Could the whole logic of making and practicing be different somewhere else?

  Once upon a time it had not been the same here on Tatir, according to the Old Belief. In ancient days, before the fall, it was life that had been perfectible, and tools had no powers at all.

  That was what the stories said.

  Resting her elbows on the dressing table, she let her face fall into her hands. Hope had been fragile since that day when Hoss’k’s men boiled out of the forest near the wizard’s mysterious little house. Now, with Kremer pressing his demands harder than ever, with the L’Toff searchers come and gone without contact, she felt more desperate than ever.

  If only there were a way to believe in the wizard! If only he were the kind of man she had originally felt him to be, instead of serving Kremer and living high—in his plush new rooms with his pretty serving wench—proving himself a complacent syncophant to Kremer’s rising star like all the others!

  She wiped her eyes, determined not to weep again. On the table before her the little bugs continued their mysterious dance, whirling on the right, shifting slowly on the left. Marking time.

  8

  Dennis woke up feeling as if his body had been used to practice baseball bats. The first few times he tried to move, he only managed to rock from side to side a bit. He hurt all over.

  At last he succeeded in rolling to one side and got his eyes blearily open.

  Well, he wasn’t in the luxurious quarters he had been assigned before. Still, he wasn’t in the dungeon either. The room had the rough-hewn, half-finished look of the newer, higher parts of the castle.

  Guards stood by the door—two of Kremer’s northland clansmen. When they saw that he had awakened, one of them stepped out into the hall and spoke a few words.

  Dennis sat up in the cot, groaning aloud just a little at the twinges. His throat was sore and dry, so he reached over to the rickety bedstand to pour himself a cup of water from an earthenware jar. His cut lip stung as he drank.

  He put down the cup and settled back against the rough pillow, watching the clansmen watch him. He said nothing to the guards and expected no words from them.

  His status had declined, apparently.

  There were heavy bootsteps in the hallway. Then the door was flung back. Baron Kremer stepped over the threshold.

  Dennis had to blink at the brilliance of the man’s clothing in the sunlight that streamed behind him. Kremer regarded Dennis silently, his dark eyes in shadow below heavy brows.

  “Wizard,” he said at last, “what am I going to do with you?”

  Dennis sipped again from the cup. He licked his stinging lips gingerly.

  “Uh, that’s a real toughie, your Lordship. Let’s see, though. I think I might have an idea.

  “How about this? You’re going to help me and my friends, in utter sincerity and to the best of your ability, to return to our homes in good health, both mental and physical?”

  Kremer’s slow smile was not particularly appreciative.

  “That is a thought, Wizard. On the other hand, it occurs to me that the palace torturer has been complaining that his spare tools are getting out of practice. Only the main set has had any work the past month or so. Remedying that situation seems equally appealing.”

  “You face a quandary,” Dennis sympathized.

  “It is a difficult choice.” The Baron shook his head.

  “I am certain you’ll work something out, though.”

  “Are you, really? Ah! Such confidence from a wizard is inspiring. Still, the two options do seem mutually contradictory. I was wondering if you might be able to suggest a compromise solution. Just a hint, mind you.”

  Dennis nodded. “A compromise. Hmm.” He scratched his stubble. “How about something midway in between, like me doing your bidding quickly and cheerfully, giving you whatever you desire, in return for which you will keep me in a moderate level of comfort, and string me along with minor rewards and vague promises of eventual freedom and power?”

  Kremer smiled. “An amazing solution! No wonder they call you a wizard.”

  Dennis shrugged modestly. “Oh, it was nothing, really.”

  The Baron cracked his knuckles. “Then it is settled. You have two more days to complete the making of your beverage ‘distillery’ and to teach my servants to practice it. Then you shall begin work on something of more immediate practical value, such as more of the beautiful long-range killing weapons. If, as you claim, the animals needed to drive such devices are lacking in my realm, I shall require that you come up with something else of military value.

  “Is our compromise clear, then?”

  Dennis nodded. He was thinking, and he had had enough of bantered wisecracks for now. They hadn’t really helped all that much, anyway.

  “One more thing, Wizard. Should you ever again embarrass me in front of outsiders, or attempt to thwart me in any way, you will find my torturers have planned something special for you. There will be no repeat of yesterday’s unfortunate demonstration. Am I understood?”

  Dennis said nothing. He looked at the tall blond man in the resplendent costume, and nodded, barely.

  The Baron acknowledged with a possessive smile. “You will be happy here, Dennis Nuel,” he promised. “Eventually—perhaps soon, if you behave well—we will improve your quarters again. Then you and I can talk as gentlemen once more. I would be interested in learning how your people persuade their recalcitrant L’Toff to become pliant. Perhaps Princess Linnora can be a test case.”

  He grinned, then turned and left. The door closed, leaving Dennis alone with a single guard. For a long time there was silence; only the distant shouts of drilling troops carried up from far below.

  The Earthman sat on his cot. He could almost imagine it perceptibly changing, minute by minute, into a better and better bed as he lay in it.

  Logically, his options were still the same, only put off a little. In a year or two of feeding Kremer wonders he felt sure he could gain the man’s trust and gratitude, especially if he invented gunpowder for him, ensuring his conquest of all Coylia.

  Dennis shook his head, making up his mind. He hadn’t thought about it much before, but there were few worse criminals on any world than the engineer who blithely and knowingly hands over to a tyrant the tools of oppression. Come plague or ruin, he wasn’t going to give Kremer gunpowder, or the wheel, or the secret of metal smelting, or anything else he could use to make war.

  What options did that leave, then?

  Only escape. Somehow he had to get out of here again.

  9

  Hot iron pincers closed upon his thumbs. A steaming stench rose where the flesh shriveled back, rolling away on black, curling ash.

  Dennis moaned. He felt a wet splash against his face and he opened his eyes, breathing hard.

  Arth looked down at him worriedly. “You were dreamin’, Dennizz. It must’ve been a bad one. Are you all right now?”

  Dennis nodded. He had been taking a nap near their work area after supper. It was twilight already, out in the shadow of the castle.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, “I’m okay.” He got up and dried his face on a towel. He still felt shaken from the dream.

  “I just got back from the jailyard,” Arth told him. “I said I wanted to go and personally pick the guys to run the new still.”

  Dennis nodded. “Did you find out anything?”

  Arth shook his head. “Nobody’s seen Stivyung or Gath or Maggin or any more of my boys, so they don’t
seem to’ve been caught.”

  Dennis was glad. Perhaps Stivyung would eventually be reunited with his wife and son. The news helped lift his spirits a little.

  “So what’s the plan now?” Arth asked, too low to be overheard by the guards. “Do we try to make another balloon? Or do you have somethin’ else in mind, like that saw that can break through walls?”

  After the execution of his friend, Arth was no longer tempted by life within the castle walls. All he wanted was to get away from here, to see his wife again, and to hurt Baron Kremer as badly as possible. The thief looked to the Earthman with complete confidence.

  Dennis wished he could share the feeling.

  As twilight fell, a squad of soldiers climbed a pedestal in the courtyard where Dennis’s needler was kept during the day. When not being practiced or stored for the night, it was exposed to sunlight, always surrounded by at least six guards.

  Dennis had run through a few calculations. Clearly the needler was approaching the theoretical limit of capability for that type of weapon. No matter how efficient it became, it could only throw slivers of metal with the amount of energy it could absorb through a five-square-centimeter solar collector.

  That gave Dennis one more reason to get out of here. Kremer had talked of using the needler to blast down the walls of cities. Dennis didn’t want to be around when the Baron found out the deadly little weapon could be practiced only so far.

  He watched the guards cautiously remove the needler from its little solarium. No. The device was guarded much too closely. He clearly wasn’t going to be able to reclaim his property and blast his way to freedom. There would have to be another way.

  He had considered building a wheeled cart and practicing it into an armored car. Theoretically, it should be possible. But it could take months or years, at the rate things normally improved here. It just wasn’t feasible under the circumstances.

  As dusk settled, the watch kites were pulled in. The Baron’s glider corps had already swooped down from their training flights for the night.

  Dennis thought again about those glider sheds. They were lightly guarded. It took long training to learn to fly one of the gossamer-winged things, and Baron Kremer apparently assumed he controlled the only corps of qualified pilots in the world.