by Bob Shaw
On reaching the crest of Greenmount he galloped through silent avenues to the Square House and dismounted in the walled precinct. He went into the entrance hall and was met by Sany, the rotund cook, and a balding manservant who was unknown to him.
“Master Toller!” Sany cried. “Have you news of your brother?”
Toller felt a renewed shock of bereavement — the pressure of events had suspended his normal emotional processes. “My brother is dead,” he said. “Where is your mistress?”
“In her bedchamber.” Sany pressed both hands to her throat. “This is a terrible day for all of us.”
Toller ran to the main stair, but paused on the first flight. “Sany, I’m returning to the Skyship Quarter in a few minutes. I strongly advise you and.…” He looked questioningly at the manservant.
“Harribend, sir.”
“…you and Harribend — and any other domestics who are still here — to come with me. The migration has started ahead of time in great confusion, and even though you don’t have warrants I think I can get you places on a ship.”
Both servants backed away from him. “I couldn’t go into the sky before my time,” Sany said. “It isn’t natural. It isn’t right.”
“There are riots in the city and the ptertha screens are burning.”
“Be that as it may, Master Toller — we’ll take our chances here where we belong.”
“Think hard about it,” Toller said. He went up to the landing and through the familiar corridor which led to the south side of the house, unable to accept fully that this was the last occasion on which he would see the ceramic figurines glowing in their niches, or his blurred reflection ghosting along the polished glasswood panels. The door to the principal bedchamber was open.
Gesalla was standing at the window which framed a view of the city in which the dominant features were the seemingly motionless columns of grey and white smoke intersecting the natural blue and green horizontals of Arle Bay and the Gulf of Tronom. She was dressed as he had never seen her before, in a waistcoat and breeches of grey whipcord complemented by a lighter grey shirt — the whole being almost a muted echo of his own skyman’s uniform. A sudden timidity made him refrain from speaking or tapping the door. How was one to impart the kind of news he bore?
Gesalla turned and looked at him with wise, sombre eyes. “Thank you for coming, Toller.”
“It’s about Lain,” he said, entering the room. “I’m afraid I bring bad news.”
“I knew he had to be dead when there was no message by nightfall.” Her voice was cool, almost brisk. “All that was needed was the confirmation.”
Toller was unprepared for her lack of emotion. “Gesalla, I don’t know how to tell you this… at a time like this… but you have seen the fires in the city. We have no choice but to.…”
“I’m ready to leave,” Gesalla said, picking up a tightly rolled bundle which had been on a chair. “These are all the personal possessions I’ll need. It isn’t too much, is it?”
He stared at her beautiful unperturbed face for a moment, battling with an irrational resentment. “Have you any idea where we’re going?”
“Where else but to Overland? The skyships are leaving. According to what I could decipher of the sunwriter messages coming out of the Great Palace, civil war is breaking out in Ro-Atabri and the King has already fled. Do you think I’m stupid, Toller?”
“Stupid? No, you’re very intelligent — very logical.”
“Did you expect me to be hysterical? Was I to be carried out of here screaming that I was afraid to go into the sky, where only the heroic Toller Maraquine has been? Was I to weep and plead for time to strew flowers around my husband’s body?”
“No, I didn’t expect you to weep.” Toller was dismayed by what he was saying, yet was unable to hold back. “I don’t expect you to feign grief.”
Gesalla struck him across the face, her hand moving so quickly that he was given no chance to avoid the blow. “Never say anything like that to me again. Never make that kind of presumption about me! Now, are we leaving or are we going to stand here and talk all day?”
“The sooner we leave the better,” he said stonily, resisting the urge to finger the stinging patch on his cheek. “I’ll take your pack.”
Gesalla snatched the bundle away from him and slung it from her shoulders. “I made it for me to carry — you have enough to do.” She slipped past him into the corridor, moving lightly and with deceptive speed, and had reached the main stair before he caught up with her.
“What about Sany and the other servants?” he said. “Leaving them doesn’t sit easy with me.”
She shook her head. “Lain and I both tried to talk them into applying for warrants, and we failed. You can’t force people to go, Toller.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He walked with her to the entrance, taking a last nostalgic look around the hall, and went out to the precinct where his bluehorn was waiting. “Where is your carriage?”
“I don’t know — Lain took it yesterday.”
“Does that mean we have to ride together?”
Gesalla sighed. “I have no intention of trotting along beside you.”
“Very well.” Feeling oddly selfconscious, Toller climbed into the saddle and extended a hand to Gesalla. He was surprised at how little effort it took to help her spring into place behind him, and even more so when she slipped her arms around his waist and pressed herself to his back. Some bodily contact was necessary, but if almost seemed as though she… He dismissed the half-formed thought, appalled by his obscene readiness to think of Gesalla in a sexual context, and put the bluehorn into a fast trot.
On leaving the precinct and turning north-west he saw that many more ships were now in the sky above the Quarter, dwindling into specks as they were absorbed by the blue depths of the upper atmosphere. A slight eastward drift was becoming apparent in their movement, which meant that the chaos of the departure might soon be made worse by the arrival of ptertha. Off to his left the towers of smoke rising from the city were being horizontally sheared and smeared where they reached high level air currents. Burning trees created occasional powdery explosions.
Toller rode down the hill as fast as was compatible with safety. The streets were as empty as before, but he was increasingly aware of the sounds of tumult coming from directly ahead. He emerged from the last screen of abandoned buildings and found that the scene at the Quarter’s periphery had changed.
The break in the barricade had been enlarged and groups totalling perhaps a hundred had gathered there, denied entry to the base by ranks of infantry. Stones and pieces of timber were being hurled at the soldiers who, although armed with swords and javelins, were not retaliating. Several mounted officers were stationed behind the soldiers, and Toller knew by their sleeved swords and the green flashes on their shoulders that they were part of a Sorka regiment, men who were loyal to Leddravohr and had no particular affiliations with Ro-Atabri. It was a situation which could erupt into carnage at any moment, and if that happened rebel soldiers would probably be drawn to the spot to turn it into a miniature theatre of war.
“Hold on and keep your head down,” he said to Gesalla as he drew his sword. “We have to go in hard.”
He spurred the bluehorn into a gallop. The powerful beast responded readily, covering the intervening ground in a few wind-rushing seconds. Toller had hoped to take the rioters completely unawares and burst through them before they could react, but the pounding of hooves on the hard clay attracted the attention of men who had turned to gather stones.
“There’s a bluecoat,” the cry went up. “Get the filthy bluecoat!”
The sight of the massive charging animal and of Toller’s battle sword was enough to scatter all from his path, but there was no escaping the irregular volley of missiles. Toller was struck solidly on the upper arm and thigh, and a skimming piece of slate laid open the knuckles of his rein hand. He kept the bluehorn on course through the overturned timbers of the barricade and h
ad almost reached the lines of soldiers when he heard a thud and felt an impact transmitted through Gesalla’s body. She gasped and slackened her hold for an instant, then recovered her strength. The lines of soldiers parted to make way for him and he pulled the bluehorn to a halt.
“Is it bad?” he said to Gesalla, unable to turn in the saddle or dismount because of her grip on him.
“It isn’t serious,” she replied in a voiceiie could scarcely hear. “You must go on.”
A bearded lieutenant approached them, saluted and caught the bluehorn’s bridle. “Are you Skycaptain Toller Maraquine?”
“I am.”
“You are to report immediately to Prince Leddravohr at Enclosure 12.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do, lieutenant,” Toller said. “It would be easier if you stepped aside.”
“Sir, Prince Leddravohr’s orders made no mention of a woman.”
Toller raised his eyebrows and met the lieutenant’s gaze directly. “What of it?”
“I… Nothing, sir.” The lieutenant released the bridle and moved back.
Toller urged the bluehorn forward, heading for the row of balloon enclosures. It had been found, though nobody had explained the phenomenon, that perforated barriers protected balloons from air disturbances better than solid screens. The open western sky was shining through square apertures in the enclosures, making them look more than ever like a line of lofty towers, at the foot of which was the seething activity of thousands of workers, air crew and emigrants with all their paraphernalia and supplies.
It said much for the organising ability of Leddravohr, Chakkell and their appointees that the system was able to function at all in such extreme circumstances. Ships were still taking off in groups of two or three, and it occurred to Toller that it was almost a miracle that there had been no serious accidents.
At that moment, as if the thought had engendered the event, the gondola of a ship rising too quickly struck the rim of its enclosure. The ship was oscillating as it shot into clear air and at a height of two-hundred feet overtook another which had departed some seconds earlier. At the limit of one of its pendulum swings the gondola of the uncontrolled ship drove sideways into the balloon of the slower craft. The latter’s envelope split and lost its symmetry, flapping and rippling like some wounded creature of the deep, and the ship plunged to the ground, its acceleration struts trailing loosely. It landed squarely on a group of supply wagons. The impact must have severed its burner feed lines for there was an immediate gouting of flame and black smoke, and the barking of injured or terrified bluehorns was added to the general commotion.
Toller tried not to think about the fate of those on board. The other ship’s appallingly bad take-off had looked like the work of a novice, making it seem that many of the one thousand qualified pilots assigned to the migration fleet were not available, possibly stranded by the disturbances in the city. New dangers had been added to the already daunting array of hazards facing the interworld voyagers.
He could feel Gesalla’s head lolling against his back as they rode towards the enclosure, and his anxiety about her increased. Her lightweight frame was ill-equipped to withstand the sort of blow he had felt at a remove. As he neared the twelfth enclosure he saw that it and the three adjoining to the north were heavily ringed by foot soldiers and cavalry. In the protected zone there was an area of comparative calm. Four balloons were waiting in the enclosures, with the inflation teams to hand, and knots of richly dressed men and women were standing by heaps of ornamented cases and other belongings. Some of the men were sipping drinks as they craned to see the crashed ship, while small children darted around their legs as though at play on a family outing.
Toller scanned the area and was able to pick out a group at the core of which were Leddravohr, Chakkell and Pouche, all standing close to the seated figure of King Prad. The ruler, slumped on an ordinary chair, was staring at the ground, apparently oblivious to all that was happening. He looked old and dispirited, in marked contrast to the vigorous aspect which Toller remembered.
A youngish army captain came forward to meet Toller as he reined the bluehorn to a halt. He looked surprised when he saw Gesalla, but helped her to the ground readily enough and without any comment. Toller dismounted and saw that her face was totally without colour. She was swaying a little and her eyes had a distant, abstracted look which told him she was in severe pain.
“Perhaps I should carry you,” he said as the ranks of soldiers parted at a signal from the captain.
“I can walk, I can walk,” she whispered. “Take your hands away, Toller — the beast is not to see me being assisted.”
Toller nodded, impressed by her courage, and walked ahead of her towards the royal group. Leddravohr turned to face him and for once did not produce his snake-strike of a smile. His eyes were smouldering in the marble-smooth face. There was a diagonal spattering of crimson on his white cuirass, and blood was congealing thickly around the top of his scabbard, but his manner was suggestive of controlled anger rather than the insane rage of which Zavotle had spoken.
“I sent for you hours ago, Maraquine,” he said icily. “Where have you been?”
“Viewing the remainsof my brother,” Tollersaid, deliberately omitting the required form of address. “There is something highly suspicious about his death.”
“Do you know what you are saying?”
“Yes.”
“I see you have returned to your old ways.” Leddravohr moved closer and lowered his voice. “My father once extracted a vow from me that I would not harm you, but I will regard myself as released from that vow when we reach Overland. Then, I promise you, I will give you what you have sought so long — but for now more important matters must engage my attention.”
Leddravohr turned and padded away, giving a signal to the launch supervisors. At once the balloon inflating crews went to work, cranking the big fans into noisy life. King Prad raised his head, startled, and looked about him with his single troubled eye. The spurious festive mood deserted the various noblemen as the clatter of the fans impressed on them that the unprecedented flight into the unknown was about to begin. Family groups drew together, the children ceased their play, and servants made ready to transfer their masters’ belongings to the ships which would depart in the wake of the royal flight.
Beyond the protective lines of guards was a sea of apparently undirected activity as the work of despatching the migration fleet continued. Men were running everywhere, and supply wagons careered among the lumbering flatbed carts which were transporting skyships to the enclosures. Farther away across the open ground of the Quarter, taking advantage of the near-perfect weather conditions, the pilots of cargo ships were inflating their balloons and taking off without the aid of windbreaks. The sky was now thronged with ships, rising like a cloud of strange airborne spores towards the fiery crescent of Overland.
Toller was awed by the sheer drama of the spectacle, the proof that when driven to the limit his own kind had the courage and ability to stride like gods from one world to another, but he was also bemused by what he had just heard from Leddravohr.
The vow of which Leddravohr had spoken explained certain things — but why had he been asked to make it in the first place? What had prompted the King to single one of his subjects out of so many and place him under his personal protection? Intrigued by the new mystery, Toller glanced thoughtfully in the direction of the seated figure of the King and experienced a peculiar thrill when he saw that Prad was staring directly at him. A moment later the King pointed a finger at Toller, casting a line of psychic force through the groups of bystanders, and then beckoned to him. Ignoring the curious gazes of royal attendants, Toller approached the King and bowed.
“You have served me well, Toller Maraquine,” Prad said in a tired but firm voice. “And now it is in my mind to charge you with one further responsibility.”
“You have but to name it, Majesty,” Toller replied, his sense of unreality increasing as Prad gestured
for him to move closer and stoop to receive a private message.
“See to it,” the King whispered, “that my name is remembered on Overland.”
“Majesty.…“Toller straightened up, beset with confusion. “Majesty, I don’t understand.”
“Understanding will come — now go to your post.”
Toller bowed and backed away, but before he had time to ponder on the brief exchange he was summoned by Colonel Kartkang, former chief administrator for the S.E.S. Following the dissolution of the Experimental Squadron the colonel had been given the responsibility for coordinating the departure of the royal flight, a task he could hardly have foreseen carrying out in such adverse conditions. His lips were moving silently as he directed Toller to a spot where Leddravohr was addressing three pilots. One of them was Ilven Zavotle, and another was Gollav Amber — an experienced man who had been short-listed for the proving flight. The third was a thick-bodied red-bearded man in his forties, who wore the uniform of a skycommander. After a moment’s thought, Toller identified him as Halsen Kedalse, a former aircaptain and royal messenger.
“…decided that we will travel in separate ships,” Leddravohr was saying as his gaze flickered towards Toller. “Maraquine — the one officer who has experience of taking a ship past the midpoint — will have the responsibility of piloting my father’s ship. I will fly with Zavotle. Prince Chakkell will go with Kedalse, and Prince Pouche with Amber. Each of you will now go to his designated ship and prepare to ascend before littlenight is on us.”
The four pilots saluted and were about to walk to the enclosures when Leddravohr halted them by raising a hand. He studied them for what seemed a long time, looking uncharacteristically irresolute, before he spoke again. “On reflection, Kedalse has flown my father many times during his long service as an aircaptain. He will fly the King’s ship on this occasion, and Prince Chakkell will go with Maraquine. That is all.”
Toller saluted again and turned away, wondering what was signified by Leddravohr’s change of mind. He had been quick to take the point when Toller had said he was suspicious about Lain’s death. My brother is dead! Was that an indication of guilt? Had some grotesque twist of thought made Leddravohr unwilling to entrust his father’s life to a man whose brother he had murdered, or at least caused to die?
