by David Brin
“Now, wouldn’t that be somethin’!”
Dennis nodded in agreement. “It would at that.”
She sighed and turned to stir the coals.
3
It had been years since Dennis had done any useful carpentry, and the tools he used now were unfamiliar. Nevertheless, he started work early the next morning.
He trimmed two long, stout poles from a pair of half-practiced hoes he had found on the porch, then he cut out several flat planks from one of the hay cribs. When Mrs. Sigel returned from her sister’s farm with better tools, Dennis drilled four holes in the sides of a light-framed watering trough, and slid the poles through the holes.
Perched on a stack of hay, her feet swathed in white bandages, Linnora worked on a leather harness. She deftly used an awl to punch holes in straps of hide, in places where Dennis had made marks, then fastened them together with thongs. She hummed softly and smiled at Dennis whenever he looked up from his work. Dennis grinned back. It was hard to feel tired when encouraged like that.
Arth puffed into the barn, carrying a small chair Surah Sigel had donated to the project. He put the chair down and examined the contraption Dennis was building.
“I get it!” The little thief snapped his fingers. “We put the chair in the tub an’ the Princess rides inside. Then we grab those poles an’ lift! I heard of those things. They call ’em ‘litters.’ When the Emperor from across the big sea came to visit our King’s father years back, I hear he was carried aroun’ in somethin’ like that. A couple of our big nobles tried to copy the idea an’ almost had riots on their hands before they gave up.”
Dennis just smiled and kept working. Using a beautiful saw with a serrated gemstone edge, he cut four identical round disks from a flat slab of wood. They were about a meter diameter and an inch thick.
Arth thought for a minute, then frowned. “But we’d need four men to carry this thing! There’s just you an’ me an’ the L’Toff donkey Surah’s given us! Who’s gonna support the fourth side?” He scratched his head. “I guess I still don’t get it.”
Dennis used a sharp-bitted drill carefully to cut a small circular hole out of the center of each disk.
“Come on, Arth,” he said when he had finished. “Help me with this, will you?”
Under Dennis’s direction, the bandit leader lifted one of the poles penetrating the sides of the trough. Dennis slid one of his disks over the end, then removed it to trim the center hole a little wider. When he tried again, it wedged into place a few inches down the shaft. He pounded it farther with a cloth-muffled hammer.
Arth lowered the tub. It lay canted at an odd angle, propped up at one corner by the upended disk. Linnora put down her work and edged forward on the hay to watch.
“What is it, Dennis?” she asked.
“It’s called a wheel,” he replied. “With four of these in place and with the help of Surah’s donkey, we should be able to carry you out of here tomorrow night almost as fast as if you could walk. Of course, it’ll force us to use the roads at first, but there’s no helping that. The road’s the only way over the pass, anyway.”
Dennis directed Arth to lift one corner at a time. He pounded a wheel onto each.
“This whole device is called a cart. Back in my homeland, this crude thing wouldn’t last more than a few hours, at best. I imagine at first it’ll scrape along little better than if we were dragging the trough on its belly. There’s no bearing between the axles and the holes in the body, for one thing. That’ll play hell with the rolling friction coefficient. Of course, with practice we can expect a lubrication effect to come into play eventually.…”
Arth and Linnora glanced at each other. The wizard was getting opaque again. They had grown used to it by now.
“I could’ve made a better starter,” Dennis said as he drove the last wheel firmly into place. “But there’s no time. Right now they’re ranging all over the countryside looking for us, but once the sniffers find our trail, they’ll concentrate. We’d better be well into the mountains by that time.
“We’re going to have to count on the Practice Effect to fix this wagon up. Tonight Arth and I will take turns pulling it around the farmyard. By tomorrow maybe …”
Dennis stepped back and looked at the cart. He saw bewilderment on Arth’s face. But Linnora wore an expression of deep concentration. Her eyes were narrowed and she moved her hand as if trying to visualize something she had never seen before.
Suddenly she clapped her hands and laughed out loud.
“Push it! Oh, Dennis, push it and make it move!”
Dennis grinned. Linnora did not have the mind of a caveman. Her ability to envision the way things worked was just short of amazing, considering her background.
He lifted his foot and gave the back of the cart a shove. Groaning loudly, it rattled and rolled down the gravel path and out the barn doorway.
Someone shrieked, and there was a loud thump outside. Dennis hurried out and found Surah Sigel seated on the ground, staring wide-eyed at the contraption. It had rolled to a stop a few feet away. Beside her a cloth bag of provisions lay open, its contents half scattered.
“I thought it was alive when it came out at me like that!” She blinked at the cart.
“It’s just a machine,” Dennis reassured her as he helped her up. “It’s what we’re going to use to carry the Princess.…”
“I can see that!” Surah brushed his hands away and straightened her clothes stiffly. She started gathering the provisions—dried meats, fruit, and sacks of cornmeal—and shooed Dennis away when he tried to help.
“Tomosh just came back with word from my cousins down the road,” she said. “They’ve been quartering four of the Baron’s troopers for a week. And now the soldiers are saying they’re going to move out the day after tomorrow. They won’t say where, but my cousin thinks its westward.”
Dennis cursed softly. He and the others had to be through the pass before the troops entered the mountains. If they waited until tomorrow night they would still be on the road when the main force reached the gap!
“Tonight, then,” he said. “We’ve got to go tonight.”
Tomosh came running out of the house. He stopped and stared at the little wagon.
Arth supported Linnora as she hobbled over to take her seat in the cart. She laughed as Arth and the boy pushed it slowly about the farmyard.
Dennis shook his head. The little red wagon I had as a child would be more useful, he thought, than that creaky thing will be on its first day.
They started out soon after nightfall, while the moons were still down. The donkey snorted uncomfortably as it pulled the rickety cart. When it stopped at the gate and threatened to balk, Linnora strummed her klasmodion and sang to the restive animal.
The donkey’s ears moved; its breathing slowly settled as the girl’s melody calmed it. Finally, it responded to Arth’s gentle tugs and pulled at its awkward burden. Dennis helped push until they were out onto the road proper. There they stopped to bid the Sigels farewell.
Linnora whispered to Tomosh while Dennis shook hands with Mrs. Sigel.
“Good luck to y’all,” Surah said. “Tell Stivyung we’re fine if you see him.” Surah looked at the motley party dubiously. Dennis had to admit that they didn’t look like much of a force to take on Kremer’s patrols.
“We’ll do that,” Dennis said, nodding.
“You’ll be back ag’in, Dennizz!” Tomosh promised as he whacked the Earthman on the thigh affectionately. “You ’n my pop an’ the Royal Scouts’ll come back an’ fix old Kremer once and for all!”
Dennis tousled the boy’s hair. “Maybe so, Tomosh.”
Arth clucked to the donkey. The crude cart squeaked up the dark, sloping road. Dennis had to push for an uphill stretch. When he looked back, Surah and her son were gone.
Except for the narrow, mirror-focused beam of their small oil lantern, the night was black all around them. The wind brushed through the trees lining the highway. Even on the smo
oth, superresilient highway, the cart thumped and bumped and shook. Linnora bore it bravely. She plucked her klasmodion softly, with a dreamy, distant expression on her face.
She was already hard at work, using her L’Toff talents to help the cart practice.
On Earth the rickety contraption could be expected to fall apart anytime from a few minutes to a few hours after construction. Here, though, it was a race between wear and practice. If only it lasted long enough, the thing would get better. Maybe.
Dennis pushed the noisy cart, wishing the pixolet was around to help.
4
Murris Demsen, commander of the Green Lion company of the Royal Scouts, poured another cup of winter wine for Prince Linsee, then looked to see if anyone else wanted a refill.
The boy from Zuslik, young Gath, nodded and grinned. The winter wine of the L’Toff was about the best thing he had ever tasted. He was already well on his way toward getting tipsy.
Stivyung Sigel held his hand over his goblet. He knew the potency of the stuff from his days in the Scouts.
“The latest word is that Kremer’s patrols have been applying pressure all along the border,” Demsen said. The gangly scout commander put down the beautiful, ancient decanter and pulled a sheaf of notes from a folder. “There are also reports that the baronies of Tarlee and Trabool are mobilizing, and setting up outposts in L’Toff territory. Even Baron Feif-dei appears to be getting ready for war.”
“That is indeed bad news,” Prince Linsee said. “I had counted him a friend.”
Stivyung Sigel stood slowly. He bowed to Prince Linsee, to Demsen, and to Linsee’s son, the brown-haired Prince Proll.
“Sirs, I must ask once again for permission to return to my home. You say my wife is no longer here. Therefore I must go to her and my son. And once I see that they are safe, there are friends I must try to help, who at this moment languish in the tyrant’s dungeons.”
Prince Linsee looked to Demsen, then back at Sigel. He sighed. “Stivyung, have you heard nothing? The border is closed! Any day now we expect to be under attack! You can’t make it over the pass while it’s choked with troops!”
Demsen agreed. “Sit down, Stivyung. Your place is here. I need you, Prince Linsee needs you, your King needs you. We can’t let you throw your life away.”
At the end of the table Prince Proll slammed his own goblet down. “And why stop him?” the young man demanded. “Why should you stand in his way?”
“My son …” Linsee began.
“He, at least, is willing to take chances—to dare all to rescue those he cares for! Meanwhile, we let Linnora suffer in the clutches of that amoral spawn of tree lizards, Kremer! Tell me, what good will waiting do when the forces of all the baronies west of the Fingal march on us? Oh, for the gods’ sakes, let Sigel go! And let me strike while they can still be taken one at a time!”
Linsee and Demsen shared a look of exasperation. They had been through this too many times of late.
“We shall strike, my son,” Linsee said at last. “But first we must prepare. Stivyung and Gath have brought us this ‘balloon’ device of the alien wizard’s—”
“Which is nothing compared with the weapons the alien has given Kremer! What good is it, anyway? It was ripped to uselessness when Sigel landed!”
“It was damaged, yes, Prince,” Demsen said. “But it is almost repaired. Duplicates are being made and practiced. Why, this may be the very thing we have been looking for—a way to counter Kremer’s gliders! I will grant that I do not yet see how it will be used, but what we most need is time. My scouts and your companies must buy Prince Linsee time!
“Meanwhile, young Gath and Sigel, my old comrade-in-arms, must do their part in supervising the making of more balloons—”
“Making! What can you accomplish by making?” The young prince turned and spat on the fire. He sank back into his chair.
“My son, do not blaspheme. Making is as honorable as practicing, for according to the Old Belief, did we not once have the power to make life itself? Before the blecker threw us down to savagery?”
Proll stared at the fire, and finally nodded. “I will try to control my temper, Father.”
Still, they all knew Proll had a point. It took time to make things. And even among the L’Toff it took more time still to practice them. Time was something Kremer wasn’t about to give them.
In all their minds, also, was the dread of how Kremer intended to use his hostage. Would he display Linnora at the battlefield? The effect on the morale of the troops could be devastating if Kremer timed his move right. And Kremer was a past master of timing.
Conversation lapsed. Finally Demsen unrolled the grand map, and he and the Prince examined still more ways to distribute their meager forces against the hordes they expected soon.
Young Gath paid little attention to the talk of strategy. He was not a soldier. But he was an … an engineer. Dennis Nuel had taught him that word, and he liked the flavor of it.
Gath felt certain that the key to saving the L’Toff—and eventually rescuing Dennis and Arth and the Princess—lay in perfecting the balloons. So far Gath had been kept busy just supervising the repair of the original and the construction and practice of new models. But that didn’t keep him from turning his mind to new design problems.
Such as how to use them in battle! How could one make the balloon go where one wanted it to go and then keep it there? It had been almost impossible to maneuver the first balloon in their escape from Zuslik. Only a small miracle of wind had taken it into the mountains where he and Stivyung wanted to go. From their landing site it had taken days to seek out the fastness of the L’Toff.
Somehow there must be a way, he thought.
Paper was much too valuable for casual doodling. So Gath dipped his finger in the wine and traced out sketches on the beautifully ancient, varnished tabletop.
5
Baron Kremer sat in bed, a pile of reports spread wide on the silky, ancient coverlet. He worked doggedly, reading messages from the other great lords of the west, who were due to arrive soon for a meeting he had called.
Those messages were satisfying to read, for not one of the western barons and counts had demurred.
But the rest of this garbage! There were reams of lists of accounts to be paid for war materiel. There were bills from hundreds of freeborn practicers, requisitioned for the duration, and complaints from the guilds over his demand of even greater subsidies for his campaign against the liberal King.
The pile was daunting. Paperwork was the one thing in this world that Kremer feared.
If anyone noticed that the Baron’s lips moved as he read, nobody said anything. The three scribes who assisted him also carefully averted their eyes from the purple welt that discolored their overlord’s left temple.
Kremer slammed down a long scroll.
“Words, words, words! Is this what it means to carve out an empire? To conquer, only to wade neck deep into a storm of paper?”
The scribes looked down, knowing their Lord’s questions were rhetorical.
“This!” Kremer shook a roll out. It spread like a long, thin flag to float out over the floor. The fine sheet was in itself worth nearly a peasant’s yearly income. “The guilds cavil over a pittance! A pittance that will win them security and me a crown! Do they want Hymiel and his rabble to have their way in the east?”
Kremer growled and shoved the stack aside. Reports flew out across the floor. The scribes scuttled to recover them.
Taking a moment’s satisfaction, Kremer watched them stack the sheets and rolls. But it was a poor distraction from the nagging little irritations that seemed to abound on the very eve of his triumph!
The guilds were useful, he reminded himself—besides serving as rich allies. For instance, the monopoly of the paper guild kept their product rare and expensive. If the stuff were cheap, the number of reports would probably double, or even triple!
Kremer chafed. He had been told to stay in bed by the palace physician—an
old gentleman who had treated him as a child, and one of the few men alive whom he respected. He had to be healthy in a week’s time, when the main campaign against the King was to begin. Without good cause, he couldn’t justify breaking the doctor’s advice. The advance against the L’Toff was a sideshow that his commanders were competent to handle without his presence.
Everything seemed to be going according to plan. Still, he half hoped for an emergency just to have an excuse to get out of here!
Kremer’s fist pounded on his thigh. The tension brought back the twinge in his temple. He winced and brought up a hand to touch the spot, gingerly.
Ah, there will be an accounting, he thought. There will be much to pay for this. A certain individual owes much.
From under his pillow he drew out Dennis Nuel’s metal knife, now practiced to a razor edge. He contemplated the shiny steel while his scribes waited silently for him to return from wherever he had gone.
What pulled the Baron back from his feral reverie was an explosion that blew the curtains about like cracking whips. The delicate windows bowed and rattled in their frames as the detonation pealed like thunder.
Kremer threw aside the coverlet, sending the papers flying again. He strode quickly between the blowing curtains onto the balcony and looked out onto the courtyard. He saw men running toward an area just under the wall out of view. Shouts carried from the site of the commotion.
Kremer grabbed his two-hundred-year-old robe. The senior physician was not present, but his assistant protested that the Baron was unready, yet, to venture outside.
Being picked up by the shirtfront and thrown halfway across the room changed the fellow’s mind. He quickly pronounced his Lordship ambulatory and scuttled away.
Kremer hurried downstairs, his bedrobe flapping about his ankles. Four members of his personal guard, all intensely loyal clansmen from the northern highlands, clicked into step behind him. He strode quickly downstairs and out into the courtyard. There he found the scholar Hoss’k poking through a pile of charred wood splinters and pottery shards.
