by Rachel Ford
“Me either,” Nance agreed. “But they’re hovering right by the coast. They’ve got to be planning on sending people over, or meeting people. Right?”
“I don’t know why else they’d be here. Maybe they take the bridge down at night, so no one can sneak across?”
“Wouldn’t sentries take care of that problem?”
“Maybe they don’t want visitors after certain hours. I mean, it’s not exactly like they’re on friendly terms with Inbalibrab.”
“That’s true,” Nancy agreed. “But if they don’t allow visitors…what are we going to do?”
That was a proper pickle, and Alfred considered for a long moment. “Maybe we can get someone’s attention. Let them know we’re here to see the king.”
“Only Trajan knows we’re coming,” she reminded him.
“Sugar cookies. That’s right.”
“We’ve got a bedroll. But I’d hate to spend the night camping when we’re this close to the island.”
Alfred nodded. “We’re a few steps away. No way I’m waiting until morning. Not if I can help it.”
Here, Nance cautioned, “Well, let’s be careful, babe. We don’t want another Dagson incident.”
The taxman scowled at the name. “That dratted pirate. But these aren’t pirates, Nance. These are Trajan’s men. They’ll listen to reason.”
It was now that a voice called, “Hullo there. What business have you with Atupal?”
Alfred started at the unexpected greeting, and threw a glance around. The road was empty, the cliff as desolate as it had been a moment ago. And no one had appeared on the shores of the island, either. “Hello?” he called.
“I said that already. What’s your business with the island, then?”
Alfred felt his heart hammer in his chest at the return of that disembodied voice, and he barely suppressed a yelp. It seemed to be coming from near – very near. But they were utterly alone.
He almost jumped out of his skin when Nance tapped him on the shoulder, saying, “Up there, babe.”
He followed the direction she indicated with his eyes, and, this time, he did yelp. Silent as the grave, a good five meters above and behind them, a hot air balloon hovered. A man in brightly colored getup, a pair of goggles strapped to his face, peered down at them from the basket. “Well?”
Nancy found her voice before the taxman. “We, uh, are trying to get onto the island.”
“Why?” Then, he snorted at his own question. “Well, to get off Inbalibrab, I suppose. Obviously. But have you any business on Atupal?”
“We have. We need to speak to the king.”
He laughed now. “Don’t we all, eh? Let me guess, you’re chums? Trajan invited you to tea and cricket?”
“No,” Nancy answered. “We’ve never met. But we have news. About Inbalibrab, and the Science Academy.”
“Oh.” The man in the balloon seemed for a moment nonplussed by that. Then, though, he bobbed his head. “Well, that does put a different spin on things. Alright, give me a minute.”
The balloon descended slowly, bouncing ever so slightly as it touched down. Then, the pilot opened a wicker door on the gondola, and gestured for them to enter. “Well, get in. I’ll ferry you to the palace.” The burner flame from the base of the balloon’s envelope cast him in a strange backlight, and shadows obscured his face. It was not enough, though, to hide his great bushy eyebrows and voluminous muttonchops. Nor did it entirely dim the bright reds and purples of his jacket and trousers.
The entire picture did nothing to bolster the taxman’s confidence in his new guide, and he asked skeptically, “With you? In a hot air balloon?”
“Balloon?” the other man bristled. “I’m a Man-at-Arms with the Royal Guard, sir, and not some scurvy balloon trooper. My craft is a dirigible, not a balloon.”
“Oh.” Alfred blinked at the vehemence of the other man’s words, and felt it necessary to add, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, erm, offend you.”
The Royal Guard huffed, but seemed placated. “Well, are you getting in? Otherwise, I’m getting back to my watch.”
“We are,” Nancy hastened to assure him. “Thank you for the lift.”
“In your dirigible,” Alfred added.
The guardsman frowned at him, great, shadowy creases forming on his forehead. “Yes. In my dirigible.”
Chapter Twelve
Nancy enjoyed the flight, but Alfred found himself in a quiet, reflective mood. She probably would have termed it sulking. But it seemed to the taxman that every time he opened his mouth in this place, it landed him in trouble – first with the pirate, now with the balloon pilot. At this rate, the king was as like to behead him as to work with him.
The pilot’s name, he told them, was Trevil Tannerson. And, fiddling with the airship burner controls to initiate takeoff, he launched into the surprisingly long backstory behind his name.
Alfred found himself utterly disinterested. For the beginning, as the gondola seemed to levitate, lifting at first slowly and then more rapidly, he was too busy clutching onto the wicker railing for dear life. And, later, as his heartrate slowed and he grew a bit more confident in Trevil’s piloting skills, he turned his thoughts inward.
He did notice some of the islands that they passed. His vantage, hovering above them, was better than it had been from the coast. On the uninhabited smaller islands, he saw silvery moonlight reflecting off lakes, and rolling meadows and leafy woodlands bathed in the bluish glow of evening.
Where there were habitations, though, his eyes went to population centers and homes. Unlike the mainland, and the stark contrast he’d seen between the marketplace district and the fishing village, there did not seem to be much poverty on Atupal. The humblest homes were grand, multistory affairs. The streets were paved with cobblestones and lit. There were no dirt lanes and dark alleys on the island.
What he saw of the people, too, bore out his observations. They seemed dressed to the nines – albeit in the same insensible fashion that he’d witnessed at the markets.
It was the sight of the palace, though, that really caught Alfred’s eye. It rose into the night sky, with towers reaching so high they disappeared into the clouds. A tremendous courtyard and vast tracks of cultivated land surrounded the building. But it was enormous in its own right, stretching far into the horizon.
He turned to Nance now, to draw her attention to the king’s residence. But she was lost in her conversation with Trevil. “So what is a balloon trooper, anyway?”
He snorted. “A monkey in a uniform, is what.” Then, he shrugged. “They’re useless, miss. It’s the Guard that does the real work. They just float around up there, tossing spears at the folk below. It’s us what risks our necks in the fight.”
“So they’re…a kind of airborne military unit?”
“So they say. But to them, a fight’s just a bit of target practice. And they’re as like to hit our men as not.” He shook his head grimly. “No, it’s us with the dirigibles that do the real work. And take the real risks.”
“Pardon my ignorance, but I’m not familiar with the distinction…what’s the difference between a craft like this one and a balloon?”
Alfred feared that Nance would have triggered another flash of anger, but, to his surprise, the Guardsman nodded. “It’s a more common question that you might think, actually. They’re both lighter-than-air ships. But a dirigible can navigate under its own power. Like we’re doing now: I can pilot this beauty. Whereas a balloon…well, it just floats. You can use the vents to raise and lower, and maneuver, but you go where the wind takes you.”
“Ah. So the balloon troopers…they just float over the enemy?”
“Exactly. As I say, monkeys in uniform. But have a gander, miss: King Trajan’s palace is just over there.”
Alfred frowned into the night as Nancy admired the view, and Trevil explained how his ancestors – Tannerson somebody-or-other – had had a hand in constructing one of the newer wings, some three hundred years back. He di
dn’t resent Nancy’s ability to get answers out of their temperamental hosts, but he couldn’t help but observe that every time he opened his mouth, he wound up in trouble. But the same kind of questions, coming from Nancy, earned perfectly pleasant responses.
Well fudge muffins.
Nance, meanwhile, moved to his side, and slipped her hand in his. “Are you seeing this, babe?”
“I am.”
“Incredible.”
He sighed, taking his hand out of hers so he could slip an arm around her shoulder, and smiled. “I don’t know. I like my view better.”
She grinned up at him, her blue eyes twinkling in the light cast from the burner. “Really? I’d say I’ve got the best vantage right here, Mister Favero.”
“I’ll put down in the courtyard,” Trevil declared, meanwhile. “One of the guard will bring you inside, and Lord Adrian will decide if you get to see the king or not.”
The guardsman was as good as his word, delivering them with a smooth landing, and then taking off again. “Good luck to you, travelers,” he called as his ship rose.
“Thank you,” Nancy called back, “and safe travels.”
Alfred offered a half-hearted wave, and turned his focus on the approaching guardsman. Unlike Trevil, he was cleanshaven. But he sported the same silly costume. “What is your business at the palace?”
“We need to speak to the king,” Nancy said. “We have news about the academy.”
“Oh.” He shook his head darkly. “Those lunatics. Well, you’d better come with me then. Lord Adrian will know if the king’ll see you or not.”
They fell in behind the colorfully clad military man, and in a minute, they passed through a set of grand doors into a glittering, gilded interior. It was Alfred who was lost to marveling at his surroundings, though, and Nance who was quiet this time. “This isn’t going to be easy,” she whispered in a moment.
“Huh?” He’d been too absorbed in wondering how much the taxes on such a building would be, or if the king was immune from his own taxes, to have a guess as to what she meant.
“He just called the Inbalibrab academy people lunatics. Trevil had nothing good to say about them either. But the mainlanders think Trajan’s a tyrant.” She shook her head. “How are we going to make peace when they all hate each other?”
“You know how it is when two sides are at odds, the kind of propaganda that gets bandied around. Even if Trevil and them believe it, I’m sure the people at the top don’t. They want peace. Winthrop as much as said so. Trajan will be reasonable.”
Chapter Thirteen
Alfred had always considered his predictive powers to be somewhere below prophetic, but certainly above average. Today, though, was certainly not a day that bore out his self-evaluation.
Trajan was not reasonable. On the contrary, nothing about the Atupalan court inspired a belief in their reasonableness.
It began with Lord Adrian. He was as foolishly dressed as the guards, in a tunic of bright yellow brocade with striped purple and green trousers. He was a migraine-in-the-making, on legs.
He was also a decidedly silly man. Or so Alfred was convinced, within the first few syllables he uttered. “From Inbalibrab? Oh, no wonder you look like something the cat threw up. Well, there’s certainly no way you can see the king looking…” Here, he pinched his nose and pulled a face. “And smelling like that. No, your news will have to wait, I’m afraid. You require a change of clothes, and a delousing before I’ll let you anywhere near His Majesty.”
Nancy frowned. “But we have news-”
“Yes, yes. About those children with their so-called Science Academy.” Seeing her frown deepen, he shrugged. “I’m sure it’s terribly important. But not as important as protecting the king’s eyes and nose from – well, you.”
He would brook no argument, and Alfred and Nancy were carted off to be scrubbed, subjected to a barrage of hideous-smelling oil treatments, and finally dressed.
The taxman protested all the while. He didn’t object to a bath in its own right, but he was not a child. He did not need anyone to bathe him, much less the veritable army of servants Lord Adrian set on him. In this particular, he triumphed: he would not disrobe until he was alone, and though the servants poured back when he was in the bath, he would not exit until they left again.
Still, he won this particular battle only to lose the war. No sooner than had he slipped on a dressing robe, did a thin man in long silver robes enter the room. Four tonsured youths, two on either side, accompanied him. If the angel of death had a boy band as an entourage, Alfred assumed it would look something like this. These musings he kept to himself, though, asking, “Umm…who are you?”
“I am the High Priest of Air, Mister Favero. I am here at Lord Adrian’s request, to purge your person and soul of foul vapors.”
“Foul…vapors?”
The priest nodded.
“Uh…do you have a name?”
Surveying him for a moment, he nodded again. “I am Apollo Antonius Adonis Antilien, son of Agaerta, master of flame and servant of air.” He shrugged. “But you can call me ‘your reverence’ for short.”
Normally, Alfred would have bristled at calling anyone reverence. But given the alternative, it seemed a reasonable compromise. “Uh, nice to meet you, your reverence. So…what is this foul vapors purge you’re talking about?”
“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary, Mister Favero.” This, however, proved to be a bald-faced lie, for the ritual was very much out of the ordinary – at least, what was ordinary for the taxman.
It began with the application of scented oils. “Lemon and cedarwood, to purge tension,” the priest explained. “The topical application of aetherolea will hasten delivery of the healing energies.”
As he spoke, one of the members of his boy band stepped forward, opening a case full of tiny glass vats. Alfred blinked as the priest opened the tops of two of these jars, and dipped his fingers inside. “Healing... energies?”
He nodded. “Exactly. Oil has long been known to be conductive. But the Royal Academy – in conjunction with my own studies, of course – has demonstrated that aetherolea are conductive to less readily perceptible energies, like the currents in the auras all around us. Our innovative research has transformed the science of delivery.”
Alfred shifted nervously. This sounded like the beginning to a pitch for some multilevel marketing scheme, or equally shady miracle cure. But no sales pitch followed. Instead, to the taxman’s even deeper mortification, Apollo brought his now oily fingers to his temples.
Alfred recoiled. “Uh, what are you doing?”
“Topical application,” the priest repeated. “It hastens absorption. The lighter molecular weight of the aetherolea makes it an ideal candidate for topical treatments.”
“That’s, uh, not necessary.”
“Lord Adrian said your business was urgent, Mister Favero.” Here, the priest shrugged. “But if you prefer an aromatic purge, I am happy to oblige. I know many people prefer aromatic treatments, for the sheer sensory delight of it.”
He turned to one of his attendants, and the young man scurried forward with a towel in hand. Apollo wiped his hands, then nodded toward a nearby divan. “You can take a seat, Alfred. This will take awhile.”
The taxman shifted in place. “Look, your, uh, reverence…is this really necessary? I mean, my aura energies are – great. Better than great. They’re all in sync.”
“Energies do not sync, Mister Favero,” the priest scoffed. “They align.”
“Right.”
“And if yours were aligned, you would not be so anxious to avoid the purge.” He shook his head sharply. “No indeed. That would be the vapors speaking. But…” he smiled triumphantly. “I have just the thing for that: bitter sage.”
Here, the boy band nodded in unison, and Alfred shivered. Their synchronized motions, their identical tonsures and ambiguously youthful visages reminded him distinctly of a cult. And he was at the mercy of its leader. “Can’t we�
��maybe forgo that, your reverence?”
“I’m afraid not, Alfred. Tell me, when is the last time you’ve had a purge?”
“Umm…never?”
Apollo stared mutely, rendered speechless for a good thirty seconds by the revelation. “Never? Dear gods above. Well, this is going to take longer than I thought.”
And, despite his protests, it did take a long time. It began with the burning of sage. “To clear the air of any foul vapors you might have inadvertently brought with you.”
Then came the topical treatment. “I’m sorry, in normal circumstances aromatic application will suffice. But in your particular circumstance, we cannot take half measures. The science of absorption is very clear: next to ingestion, topical treatments are the most effective.”
This at least silenced the taxman’s protests, on the solid basis that he simply did not want to push his luck. It was bad enough to have oils massaged into his temples, dabbed onto the tip of his nose and wrists, and sprinkled on his head. Ingestion – planetwide genocide at stake or not – was just a bridge too far. There was only so much weirdness he could tolerate, and his reverence and his convoy of mute acolytes were already pushing the meter well past normal settings.
A round of aromatic treatments followed. The junior weirdos were unleashed with the oils of lemon and yarrow upon Alfred’s new clothes, waiting in the next room, while the senior purified his essence with the application of grapefruit oil.
Finally, smelling like a walking version of one of those awful perfume stores Nance would on occasion drag him to, the taxman was released. “There you are, my son. You should be well protected, for awhile anyway, against the vapors. But I recommend monthly treatments, at least. You cannot be too careful.”
Scurrying into the adjacent room, so eager as he was to escape, Alfred pulled up short in dismay at what he found waiting for him. Fudge muffins. They can’t be serious. A change of clothes had been laid out, and it was a hideous sight. It consisted of four parts: a pair of striped jodhpurs, a loose-fitting shirt, a black and silver brocade jacket, and a double-breasted, silver paisley waistcoat. As if this was not bad enough, each article of clothing reeked of lemon.