by Bob Shaw
"Continue without me for the present," Toller said comfortably, appreciating Zavotle's motives. "I find your discourse both interesting and instructive."
"Your Lord Toller," Chakkell whispered to Zavotle, "is so sure of himself that he has no fear of gifted and promising subordinates. Now, I have another and more prosaic difficulty for your consideration—one I fear you will not be able to magic away so quickly."
"Majesty?"
"It is many years since I controlled the production of the Migration fleet, but I recall very clearly that the only material light enough and strong enough for the manufacture of skyship envelopes is linen." Chakkell paused and frowned, dispelling the trace of levity which had crept into the proceedings.
"You may not be aware of this, but the flax seeds we brought from Land have not taken well in the soil of Overland. Only a few acres here and there produce a useful crop, and much of the yield has already gone into airships which are currently in service. In your considered opinion, could the material of those airship envelopes be cut up and restitched to form skyship balloons?"
"No!" Toller and Zavotle spoke simultaneously, but once again Toller—whose reply had been a reflex—was at a loss for a constructive answer. He was reminded of the fact that Chakkell was not King because of an accident of birth, that he had a phenomenally detailed knowledge of those aspects of agriculture, manufacture and trade which were the true foundation of a nation's power. And again he chose to remain silent, transferring all responsibility to Zavotle. He was both surprised and impressed when Zavotle responded with a calm smile.
"The balloons must be made from new, perfect material, Majesty," he said, "but not many will be required. The ambush strategy devised by Lord Toller is a good one, and it is fortunate for us that, in the circumstances envisaged, balloons would be an encumbrance, a serious handicap."
Chakkell's frown deepened. "We seem to be parting company, Zavotle. What are you saying?"
"Majesty, we are talking about a new kind of warfare, but some ancient principles must prevail. It is essential for us to remain out of sight of the enemy for as long as possible, until he has blundered into our trap. That being the case, balloons—which are so huge that they can be seen for many miles in the purity of a weightless zone—would become a liability. The fortresses would function more efficiently without them."
Toller began to comprehend the scheme Zavotle was proposing, and for a moment he seemed to feel the coldness of the high air seeping into his body. "You want to detach the balloons, and … and…"
"And return them to the ground, where they will be used to carry other fortress sections aloft," Zavotle said, nodding. "I see no reason why an individual balloon should not make the return journey many times."
"That is not the issue I was going to raise," Toller said. "You're talking about leaving men up there. Stranded! With no means to check a ship's fall!"
Zavotle's face became more serene, and somehow less human. "We are discussing the weightless zone, my lord. As you yourself once said to me – how can an object fall if it has no weight?"
"I know, but…" Toller retreated from the use of logic. "I don't like it."
"But I do!" Chakkell half-shouted, beaming at Zavotle in a manner which suggested that his burgeoning affection had quickly reached full flower. "I like it a lot!"
"Yes, Majesty," Toller said drily, "but you won't be up there."
"Nor will you, Maraquine," Chakkell countered. "I am appointing you my Sky Marshal because of your extensive knowledge of skyships—not because of your redundant and fading physical prowess. You will remain firmly on the ground and direct operations from here."
Toller shook his head. "That is not my way. I lead from the front. If men are required to entrust their lives to … to wingless birds, I would prefer to be among the first of them."
Chakkell looked exasperated, then he glanced at Zavotle and his expression became enigmatic. "Have it your own way," he said to Toller. "I am investing you with the authority to take any man in my kingdom into your service—may I assume that your friend Zavotle will be given an important advisory post?"
"That was my intention from the beginning."
"Good! I expect you both to remain at the palace until we have discussed every major aspect of the defence plan, and as that will take a considerable time it will be…" Chakkell broke off as his stoop-shouldered secretary entered the room, bowing vigorously, and approached the table. "Why do you interrupt me, Pelso?"
"Apologies, Majesty," Pelso replied in a quavering voice. "My information was that you were to be informed without delay. About the execution, that is."
"Execution? Exe…? Oh, yes! Go on, man."
"Majesty, I sent for the holder of the warrant."
"There was no need for that. I simply wanted to know if the chore had been completed. Oh, all right—where is your man?"
"He waits in the east corridor. Majesty."
"What good is he to me in the corridor? Bring him here, you old fool!"
Chakkell drummed on the table with his fingers as Pelso, still bowing, backed away to the door.
Toller, although he had no wish to be diverted from the discussion in hand, stared towards the doorway as the thick-chested figure of Gnapperl appeared. The sergeant, carrying his helmet under his left arm, showed no sign of nervousness over what was undoubtedly his first audience with the King. He marched to Chakkell and saluted very correctly, awaiting permission to speak, but his eyes had already met Toller's and they were malignly triumphant, beaconing their message ahead of the spoken word. Self-recrimination and sadness caused Toller to lower his gaze as he thought about the hapless farmer he had met on the road to Prad that foreday. Could it really have been such a short time ago? He had promised Spennel help, and had failed him, and adding to the poignancy of his regrets was the knowledge that Spennel had expected him to fail. How was he to defend an entire world when it had proved beyond his powers to rescue one man from…?
"Majesty, the execution of the traitor Spennel was carried out in accordance with the lawful warrant," Gnapperl said in answer to Chakkell's signal.
Chakkell shrugged and turned to Toller. "I did what I could. Are you satisfied?"
"I have one or two questions for this man." Toller raised his head and locked eyes with Gnapperl. "I was hoping that the execution would have been delayed. Did the sight of the skyship occasion no disturbances in the city?"
"There were many disturbances, my lord—but I could not allow them to divert me from the course of duty." Gnapperl spoke with ingenuous pride, a way of covertly baiting Toller. "Even the executioner had gone off with the crowds to follow the skyship, and I was forced to ride hard for several miles to find him and bring him back to the city."
He was the first executioner you encountered today, Toller thought. I am the second. "That is most commendable, sergeant," he said aloud. "You appear to be the kind of soldier who puts his duty above all else."
"That I am, my lord."
"What is going on here, Maraquine?" Chakkell put in. "Don't tell me you have descended to feuding with common soldiers."
Toller smiled at him. "On the contrary, I hold the sergeant in such esteem that I intend to recruit him into my own service. That is permissible, isn't it?"
"I told you you can have anyone you want," Chakkell said impatiently.
"I wished the sergeant to hear it from your own lips." Toller addressed himself directly to Gnapperl who—belatedly realising he had misread the situation—was beginning to look alarmed. "There will be many dangerous tasks to perform when it comes to testing our new skyships which hang in the high air without the support of balloons, and I will have need of men who put their duty above all else. Send those who are with you back to Panvarl, with my compliments, then report to the house commander. Go!"
Gnapperl, now pale and thoughtful, saluted and left the room, followed by the bowed form of the secretary.
"You told him enough about our deliberations," Chakkell grumbled.
"The sooner the word is put about the better," Toller said. "Besides, I wanted the sergeant to have some idea of what is in store for him."
Chakkell shook his head and sighed. "If you intend to have that one killed, do it quickly. I won't have you wasting your valuable time on trivia."
"Majesty, there is something in this account I fail to understand," Zavotle said, abstractedly rubbing his stomach. Throughout the exchange with the sergeant his narrow head had been bent over Colonel Gartasian's dispatch book, ears protruding like tiny clenched fists, and now he was looking puzzled.
"Does it concern the musket?"
"No, Majesty—it's to do with the Landers themselves. If these odd-looking New Men are simply the offspring of men and women who were partially immune to pterthacosis, should there not have been a sprinkling of them among our own newborn?"
"Perhaps a few were born," Chakkell said, not showing much interest. "The parents would probably have disposed of them quickly without saying much about it. Or perhaps the condition is latent. It may not manifest itself until the brats are exposed to the toxins—and the ptertha on Overland are not poisonous."
"Not yet," Toller reminded him, "but if we go on destroying brakka trees the globes will surely change."
"Something for future generations to worry about," Chakkell said, pounding the table with the gavel of his fist. "Before us is a problem which must be solved in days, instead of centuries. Do you hear me? Days!"
I hear you, Toller thought, and already in his mind he was ascending towards the weightless zone, that realm of thin, cold and meteor-streaked air which he had entered but twice in his lifetime and had never expected to see again.
Chapter 5
The dream had returned many times during the night, taking Bartan Drumme back to the day of his airboat flight.
He had just tethered the boat and was walking towards the whitewashed farmhouse. An inner voice was shrieking at him, warning him not to enter the house, but although he was afraid he was unable to turn back. He unlatched the green door and pushed it open—and the creature was waiting inside, gently reaching for him with its single tentacle. As had happened in reality, he sprang backwards and fell, and when he looked again the monster had been transformed into a conglomerate of old clothes hanging on a wallhook. Where the dream differed from the reality was that the apron continued to beckon him, languorously, in a manner which could not have been caused by transient air currents, and somehow that struck more fear into him than the confrontation with the monster itself…
At that point Bartan had always awakened with a moan of alarm, relieved to find himself back in the normal night-time world, but each time he had recaptured sleep the dream had begun again. Consequently, he had welcomed the return of daylight, even though he had risen with a lingering tiredness in his system. He had claimed an entire section on his own behalf, as Jop Trinchil had wanted him to do, and was working himself to exhaustion every day in an effort to get the place ready for Sondeweere's arrival.
Now, as he drove his refurbished wagon towards the Phoratere section, the contrast between the sunlit ambience of the morning and the terrors of darkness was invigorating him, dispelling all traces of weariness from his limbs.
There had been rain during the night and as a result the air was soft, thick and sweet. The mere act of breathing it was subtly thrilling and evocative as though it were wafting around him from out of those years in which he had been a dreamy-eyed child who perceived the future as little more than a shifting aureate glow. And what added a psychic sparkle to the surroundings was the realisation that the instinctive optimism of his boyhood had been fully justified.
Life was good!
Keeping the bluehorn moving at a leisurely pace, Bartan reviewed the various circumstances which were conspiring to make this a special day in a special time. There had been the news from the reeve, Majin Karrodall, that all the expedition's claims had been registered and approved in the provincial capital. The farmers, who had been happy to take over ready-made buildings and cleared land, now regarded Bartan as a benefactor. Jop Trinchil had set a date, only twenty days away, for Sondeweere's wedding. And, finally, there was the prospect of the festive gathering—to celebrate the ratification of the claims—at which there would be many kinds of food and drink, and dancing far into the night.
The revel was not due to begin at a set time, but would gradually accrete during the day as family groups made their way in from outlying sections. Bartan was going exceptionally early in the hope that Sondeweere would do the same, thus giving him some extra hours in her company. He had not seen her for at least twelve days, and he was hungry for the sight of her face, the sound of her voice and the dizzying feel of her body against his own.
The thought that she might already be at the Phoratere farm prompted him to urge the bluehorn to a faster pace. He soon reached the top of a shallow dome, from which he was able to see many miles ahead, and the pastoral serenity of the view accorded with his mood. The night's rain had deepened the blue of the sky, as was evidenced by the fact that he could discern several whirlpools of light in addition to a generous sprinkling of daytime stars. Below the horizon were sweeps and swathes of grassland in which the only perceptible movements were occasional reflections from near-invisible ptertha drifting on the breeze. In the middle distance, fringed by striated fields, were the buildings of the Phorateres' farm, visible as tiny rectangles of white and grey. Harro and Ennda Phoratere had volunteered the use of their place because it was one of the most central.
Bartan began to whistle as the wagon rolled more easily on the downward slope, following the parallel ruts of the track. When he neared the main farmhouse he saw that several wagons were standing by the stable, but Trinchil's—in which Sondeweere would have travelled—was not among them. It was likely that those which had arrived so early belonged to families whose female members were helping with the preparations for the party. A long table had been set up and a number of men and women were standing near it, apparently deep in discussion. Children of various ages were at play in the vicinity, producing a cheerful hubbub of laughs and screams, but as Bartan halted near the stable he received the impression that something was troubling the adults.
"Hello, Bartan—you are early." Only one of the farmers—a ruddy-cheeked young man with spiky straw-like hair—had left the group to greet Bartan.
"Hello … Crain." Bartan named the man with some difficulty because the Phorateres were a large family, with several cousins of similar age and appearance. "Am I too early? Should I depart and return later?"
"No, it's all right. It's just that … something has happened. It has taken the wind out of our sails a bit."
"Something serious?"
Crain looked embarrassed. "Please go into the house. Harro needs to see you. We were on the point of sending a rider to fetch you when we saw your wagon coming over the rise." He turned and walked away before Bartan could question him any further.
Bartan walked to the farmhouse's front entrance with growing curiosity. Harro Phoratere was the head of the family—a reserved and taciturn forty-year-old who had not warmed to Bartan as much as the other members of the community. The fact that he had invited Bartan into his home was unusual in itself, a hint that something extraordinary had occurred. Bartan tapped the planked door and went inside, to find himself in a large square kitchen. Harro was standing by an inner door which probably led to a bedroom. He had a cloth pressed to his right cheek and his face was devoid of the high colouring which was a family characteristic.
"There you are, Bartan," he said in a subdued voice. "I'm glad you came early—I'm sorely in need of your help. I know I haven't shown you much cordiality in the past, but…"
"Put that out of your mind," Bartan said, starting forward. "Only tell me what I can do for you."
"Speak quietly!" Harro said, putting a finger vertically to his lips. "Those wondrously fine little tools that you showed us … the ones you use for repairing jewellery
… have you brought them today?"
Bartan's puzzlement increased. "Yes, I always keep some by me. They are in my wagon."
"Could you unlock this door? Even with the key still in the lock on the other side?"
Bartan examined the door. It was unusually well crafted to be in a farm dwelling, and its having a lock instead of a latch was an indication that the original builder of the house had had gentlemanly aspirations. The shape of the keyhole, however, indicated that the lock itself was of the simplest and cheapest warded pattern.
"An easy enough task," Bartan whispered. "Is your wife in that room? I hope she isn't ill."
"Ennda is in there, all right, and I fear she has gone mad. That's why I didn't break the door down. She screams when I so much as touch the handle."
Bartan remembered Ennda Phoratere as a handsome, well-made woman in her late thirties, better educated and more articulate than the other farmers' wives. She was eminently practical, with a good sense of humour, and probably the last person in the community he would have expected to fall prey to fevers of the mind.
"Why do you think she is mad?" he said.
"It started during the night. I woke up and found Ennda pressing herself against me, working herself against me. Intimately, you understand. Moaning she was, and insistent—so I obliged. To tell you the truth, I had little choice in the matter." Harro paused and gave Bartan a hard look. "This is between us, you understand."
"Of course," Bartan said. He had noticed before that, while being fond of using vulgar sexual references in everyday speech, the farming people tended to be reticent about their own personal relationships.
Harro nodded. "Well, at the height of it all she … bit me."