Fliers of Antares dp-8

by Alan Burt Akers

  certainly in Hamal and Hyrklana — airboats were perfectly sound.

  The desire to uncover the secret, perhaps to take away with me the knowledge of the construction of vollers, fired me to a determination that made me do things I detested. Even if this meant I would miss the date on which I could fly back to the Shrouded Sea and pick up my life again with Delia and my friends, even this I would do to secure the secret knowledge.

  I have some skills as a carpenter and can turn my hand to that trade when necessary, as a ship’s officer of a wooden navy must be able to, if he is a tarpaulin lieutenant without prospects. Learning my way about the yards took little time after our arrival, and Deldar Naghan the Triangle took to me, with Avec’s coarse comments to spur him on.[5]

  The long open sheds resounded with the blows of ax and adz, the chirr-chirr of saws, the sliding hiss of planes and the sharp staccato cracks of hammers. I’ll admit they built well. The wooden frames were fashioned from seasoned wood, and the Kregans know what there is to know about seasoning and steam bending as about compass timbers. Sometimes the coverings were mere canvas and hide, at others sliced planks produced with extraordinary skill by slaves trained from birth to the work. The timbers were beautifully jointed and glued. As well they were on occasion pinned. Over at Conelawlad, so Naghan the Triangle told me, they built their frames from metal. Ilter said he would stick by that fambly of an uncle of his, for the nurdling onker would as well cut his thumbs off as saw a straight line. We were a harum-scarum bunch, as I see now, looking back. Under the harsh laws of Hamal we still found time to skylark. The lot of the slaves was far less enviable. They were guarded by the prowling black-and-white-striped forms of the werstings. These four-legged hunting dogs are extraordinarily vicious, and when they draw their lips back from their fangs it is time either to face front with a weapon or to run. But, running, you would be brought down in an instant. The wersting packs kept the slaves under guard, and the guards kept intruders out, and in Sumbakir there in south-central Hamal we built fliers.

  Looking at the black and white stripes of the werstings reminded me of Jumnee of Nycresand, that Hikdar of a wersting pack, and on the morning the Kov of Apulad paid us his customary once-a-sennight-visit, I thought of Jumnee and wondered what he was doing now. This morning the Kov was in a foul temper. This was quite normal. Only once had I seen him come in smiling, and that morning the rumor was that one of the Emperor’s daughters had had a miscarriage.

  “I run Sumbakir for the glory of the Emperor!” This Ornol ham Feoste, the Kov of Apulad, was fond of declaiming.

  He stalked into our shed and everyone straightened up from their tasks and bent their heads, even me, Dray Prescot who was called Chaadur. The four guls the Kov had had whipped last week were back to work, and we all knew that the Kov was out to find fault. Any one of us might find the thongs around his wrists and his shirt stripped down his back, and the Deldar of the Lash laying on. Ornol ham Feoste stalked between the lines of petal-shaped vollers, for we were working on an order that called for simple four-place fliers at the time. He ran his hand down the wood to test its smoothness, then he would wrench away at joints hoping they would come apart in his hands. As usual, I did not look at his wife. The Kovneva, however, as usual, looked at me. The silly woman wore her fine sensil veil swathed across her face so that her large dark eyes could look boldly upon whatever and whoever she wished. Her gown, a gaudy combination of emerald and ruby and diamond stripes sewn against a white soft material spun from the wool of the Methydrian ponsho, clung to her body as she moved. This was scarcely the dress a Hortera would wear to visit a workshop. The custom of elderly Earthwomen never to wear silk out of doors is a strange custom not followed upon Kregen; but this dress was too flamboyant by half.

  In her arms she carried a wersting pup. The thing grew bigger week by week, and now the Lady Esme, Kovneva of Apulad, held a thin golden chain in her dainty hand, a chain that fastened to a gem-studded golden collar around the pup’s neck.

  We were all standing there, and many of the guls were trembling in a thinly controlled way that indicated they were almost beyond control. We were all wondering what the Kov would find fault with this week, for we knew that find fault he would. We stood there, hating the cramph, for in a very real and meaningful way he was the chief blot upon the landscape.

  Ornol ham Feoste, Kov of Apulad, broke the joint that young Lenki had just made. I saw Lenki sway and his hands wring together behind his back. The Kov turned to him quite slowly, and the Kov’s face bore a look that chilled the human soul in Lenki.

  “You call yourself a gul, rast,” said the Kov in a quiet and deadly way. “No Horter would demean himself with you. A slave could do better work than you. And yet I, the Kov, must spend my time seeing you do work for which you are paid well — golden deldys the empire could use better elsewhere.”

  Lenki had sense enough not to reply.

  The Kov gestured to his guards. They were apim, heavy-set fellows in half-armor and close-fitting helmets with the bright plumes of the arbora flaunting from their crests. They were soldiers, as their insignia showed, for it was the habit of the Hamalian government to post regiments from one part of the empire to duty in another and remote part. They seized Lenki.

  He yelled, then, a thin shriek of abject fear.

  “The joint broke, rast!” The Kov was enjoying this.

  There was no excuse. The joint should not have broken, even in the thick and sweating hands of the Kov. We looked after Lenki as he was dragged out, screaming.

  Esme, Kovneva of Apulad, lingered as her husband strutted on. She eyed me. I could see the red smudge of her mouth beneath the veil. Her body thrust boldly forward as she snuggled the wersting pup against her bosom. The golden chain jingled.

  “Should I ask the Kov to break your joint, Chaadur?”

  I said, “Your gracious eminence must do as she pleases. The joint will not break to a bungling clasp.”

  She flushed.

  She had said to me, the week before last, “I am the Kovneva, Chaadur. You would do well not to forget that.”

  She walked on, swinging her hips. She had taken many lovers from the strong young men working here, soldier, guard, Horter, gul, slave. It was rumored she preferred slaves, for their mouths might be stoppered with least inconvenience.

  When the inspection was finished the Kov strode to the wide double-doors which stood open so that the radiance of Far and Havil might strike through. He paused and shouted at us.

  “You must work harder! By Hanitcha the Harrower! The Emperor demands more fliers. You will build them, or as Malahak is my witness, it will be the Jikhorkdun for you!”

  He strode away, the thraxter swinging at his side, his guards at his heels. Following them strolled Esme, insolent in her power and beauty, with her two maids.

  Avec rumbled an oath and said, “The Emperor will have that rast of a Kov in the Jikhorkdun if we do not work!”

  Avec had no real idea of what a strike was; one day the minds of the guls might veer to the concept. The guls have no power, no privileges, no ranks. They are free men, not slaves, children of free parents, and they are not Horters, not gentlemen. They are not working people of the tradesmen class nor yet are they of the class of which stylors form the bulk. They are craftsmen, masters at their trades, and without them Kregen — aye, and the Earth — would tumble into ruin.

  Soon after that the petal-shaped four-place flier I was helping to build was framed out and her canvas covering sewn on. With Avec and old Ob-eye I helped trundle her out of the double doors and across the yard into the fitting shed.

  This was a place I needed to know more about. Here was where the controls and the silver boxes were fitted. The boxes were made up from tin. In a black-walled room at one end of the shed the tin boxes went in with their lids neatly laid beside them, for they were all handmade, and one lid might not fit a different box. They came out from the black-walled room with their lids fastened down and soldered. At the op
posite end of the fitting shed stood the red-walled room. The tin boxes went in here just as they did into the black-walled room and came out exactly the same, filled and with the lids soldered. With great care the guls then took a tin from the red room and a tin from the black room and slotted them into the grooves made for them in the voller. Then the controls could be fitted. As usual, a guard — he was a Rhaclaw — herded us out as soon as we had pushed our flier into the fitting shed. We wet our lips, but the next mealtime lay a few burs ahead yet, and took ourselves off to the stores to draw fresh timber and so begin the construction of the next voller. Ilter had told me that the silver boxes were made up from sheets of metal beaten to an extraordinary thinness and then passed through a bath of molten tin. Iron or copper, he said, he supposed, were the favorite metals. I was far more interested about what was inside the tins. Those silver boxes intrigued me. The Emperor of Vallia had once ordered a silver box broken open so as to discover the secret of the fliers. In one tin they had found fine grit and sand and earth, packed in tightly to the lid. The other tin had been empty.

  That had been some time ago, and the flier had, of course, been ruined. Despite my suggestion that I would pay to open a flier’s silver boxes, the Emperor, Delia’s father, had told me that he would not permit it. He knew, he said, what was in the silver boxes: dirt and air.With that I had been content at the time; now I was actually standing in the very place where fliers were made, where the silver boxes were filled!

  Let the devils of a Herrelldrin hell take me if I didn’t find out the answers now!

  Around at the far end of the fitting shed, where I made it my business to wander as though merely dawdling, I had seen piles of dirt and gravel and sand. As unlikely as it had sounded, the Emperor’s story must be true — not that I doubted his word in a matter like this even if, and despite my Delia, I would not trust him wholeheartedly.

  Dirt and air?

  There was a mystery here, by Vox!

  On the night I decided it was worth the risk of breaking out of our barracks by the back way and sneaking over to the fitting shed I made a few suitable precautions and then prepared to burglarize a window from the inside. Just as I put the blade of a chisel to the window a knock rattled the door of my cubicle, for the barracks, as I have said, were subdivided into single cubicles. I cursed and slid the chisel up the sleeve of my shirt and flopped onto the three-legged stool by the bed, and bellowed grumpily,

  “Come in, come in!”

  If my plans worked as I envisaged I wanted no one knowing I had broken out and gone prowling. The front door was open, and anyone could go out and come in, but I did not want to be noticed. It was Ilter. He carried a Jikaida board under his arm and a sturm-wood box of pieces. I dissembled. I owed him a game for I had beaten him soundly the previous evening, and he wanted revenge. We set up the board in deadly silence and ranked our Deldars and set to work. Although he was a fine player and my mind was not fully occupied with the game, I managed to hold him to a Pyrrhic victory. He grimaced and shuffled the pieces up, folding the board. “Next time, Chaadur, I will smite you, hip and thigh!”

  When he left the suns were completely gone from the sky and the Maiden with the Many Smiles floated above serenely. I did not bother with the cheap oil lamp in my room but again laid the chisel against the window. I was not too concerned over the delay. Now was probably a better time, anyway. The door opened swiftly, so swiftly that I only just had time to slide the chisel into my shirtsleeve. Hikdar Covell ti Heltonlad, as thin faced and hollow eyed as ever, with that suspicious beaky nose of his poking where it was not wanted, pushed that very selfsame nose into my room. He wore his uniform, and his thraxter was drawn. He looked as though he barely repressed an explosion of resentment and malice.

  “Are you washed, gul? Are you clean?”

  He poked his damned thraxter at me, rather as a schoolmaster pokes little boys with his cane. I did not take it away from him and clout him over the ears with the flat. Outside in the corridor shapes moved, and I heard the chink of a sword-blade against a lorica, and so I knew Hikdar Covell had not come alone.

  He did not wait for me to answer.

  “Up! Up with you, rast! Come with me!” He swirled his short cape, checkered green and black with the gold lace and bullion tassels, swung his sword up over his right shoulder, and pranced out. I heard him complaining to his men. “This place smells like a dopa den of Lower Ruathytu! Drag him out if he does not come-”

  I stepped into the corridor.

  Six soldiers closed around me.

  “Smartly, now,” rapped Hikdar Covell. “Here-” and a Deldar at his Hikdar’s sword clapped a foul black bag over my head. I let them do all this to me. I let them put my head in a black bag and grab me by the elbows and guide me out of the barracks and into the night. I knew where I was being taken. I knew what their errand was. Also, I knew what I wanted to do. I would make a fine dovetail joint of those two wantings that no cramph of a Kov could break.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Concerning the silver chains of Kovneva Esme

  I could hear the shrill ululating call of the night straerlker as we walked past the end of the barrack block and up the winding stone-flagged path to the Kov’s villa. The night straerlker, unlike its cousin of the daytime, hunts night-flying insects, whereas the day variant hunts in rocky clefts for scurrying arachnids. The black bag over my head smelled of a scent not unlike chypre, heavy, cloying. That was the favorite scent of Esme, Kovneva of Apulad.

  Tripping over a step quite deliberately to let them know I was helpless and had no idea where I was being taken, I took stock of our progress. Up the long flight of steps to the villa, past the guardhouse, around to the side where I heard the soft night breeze rustle in the yellow mushk and I smelled its sweet perfume. That recalled Valka to me, and the high fortress of Esser Rarioch. Then I was pushed roughly through a narrow door for those shoulders of mine brushed against each jamb. Up a long carpeted stair. Then a wait before a door, and the faint sound of a girl’s laugh, and a door closing, and then the rustle of soft clothes, and the rough hand on my arm relaxing, and a smaller, softer hand, urging me forward. The door clashed at my back, a harsh sound in what I guessed must be a scented, soft and downy bower. I heard the harsh breathing of a man near my right shoulder, and the creak of his harness as he breathed, and I smelled oiled leather and steel, and so knew a guard stood over the doorway, ready to kill if the Kovneva so ordered.

  There was mystery and a haunting terror lurking below the threshold here, if I allowed. A normal man might be forgiven if he trembled at what awaited him. I did not tremble; but I admit I wondered if I had been so clever in allowing myself to be brought here. I had thought it a capital scheme, to further my plans. Now, the doubt occurred. Maybe I should have bashed Hikdar Covell and taken his thraxter, and cut up the guards, and gone my own headstrong way.

  But, as you know, I was trying to be clever. .

  The girl pulling me forward halted and again I heard that soft silver jingling. I had an idea what that was, and if my idea was right I would be less than polite to the Kovneva. . I heard a slithery sound that told me a screen had been pulled across. Probably it was sturm-wood cunningly pierced into a grille, or fabricated from ivory from Chem. I heard a low laugh, and then a hand whipped the black bag away and I had to shut my eyes against the glare of soft samphron-oil lamps. The Kovneva’s voice said, “A great shaggy graint! Yes, Merle, I shall enjoy taming this one!”

  “Indeed, yes, my lady,” responded a young voice, and yet the voice, although bright, held a note of dullness and despair.

  Sound of a slap and a muffled shriek, and then I opened my eyes and I could see again. I’ll give her this, Esme, Kovneva of Apulad; she tried to make of her private bower as sophisticated and luxurious a shrine to love as she imagined the empress’ in far Ruathytu’s must be. She was a Kovneva, and therefore a very great lady; but her husband the Kov had been personally charged by the Emperor with voller production at
Sumbakir, and that meant a dreadful provincial prison sentence for Esme. If I had had any feelings of sympathy for her they hardened as her maidservant, a young apim girl, put a hand to her cheek, which flamed scarlet and angry. Bright tears stood in the eyes of the girl, and her bosom moved beneath the scrap of peach-colored silk which the Kovneva allowed her as her only clothing.

  “You need not stand looking like a fambly, Chaadur! You onker! Sit on this cushion and drink this wine.”

  I sat. The room had been festooned with draping silks and tapestries embroidered with various scenes from the more amorous of the legends of Kregen. I saw many that depicted stories I knew, others that at the time I did not know. Samphron-oil lamps stood upon balass-wood tables. Gilt chairs stood against the walls. The sofa upon which Esme reclined rested on six feet sculpted to look like the pads and claws of zhantils. I thought they might be solid gold and then noticed a claw knocked off and the sturm-wood showing through the gilt. Provincial, provincial. .

  Another slave, a black girl probably from Xuntal, stood waving an exotic fan of whistling-faerling feathers to keep the air moving and sweet. If there were windows in the room they had been closed and shuttered and concealed by the draperies. Rugs upon the floor were strewn here and there; they were not of Walfarg weave.

  A third slave girl brought in the wine. She was a Fristle, a superb little fifi, and I thought of Tilly, my little Fristle fifi of the Jikhorkdun of Huringa, who now waited with Delia and my friends in the airboat — to which I would return, by Zair, to which I would return.