None of the citizens of Mhajhkaei appeared on the streets as he coasted between the tenements and factorages, but as he swung onto Mucker, slowing to a crawl to make the tight turn, he inadvertently allowed the bow of the first galley to scrape against the side of a yellow painted building with a bakery at street level. The grating, vibratory sound brought a curious middle-aged couple wearing nightshirts onto a third floor balcony. Their eyes grew wide as they saw him and he raised a hand in a half wave, but they rushed hurriedly back inside without a word and slammed the door.
It was only a thousand paces or so to the depot, and he coasted there in short order without further incident. The city had begun to stir to life. The sounds of voices, uneager steps, and slamming doors carried, and the odors of breakfast -- spicy, sedate, warm, and flavorful -- blushed the air.
He would have to hurry.
He had left the door closed and barred, but both door and bar, previously spelled, yielded as he alighted from the empty galley. The rowboat and its ready burden sailed out first, then an entire row of shelves, one at a time, and their complement of various tools. Crates, boxes, bails, and kegs followed in a near constant stream, steadily filling both decks of the first galley from stem to stern in a disordered jumble. Having considered that he might have to sacrifice the second galley in his escape, he planned to fit everything aboard the first. He thought that the entire contents of the depot warehouse would fit as long as he used every bit of space -- cargo hold, rowers deck, and steerage -- and it was his intention to leave nothing, not even a single bent nail, behind.
When he was nearly done and in the process of tediously herding a clutch of heavy hammers to an already crowded spot on the cluttered steerage, a man edged from between the two galleys and waved tentatively.
Mar stopped and eyed the fellow. Dressed in a simple jacket and plain trousers, the mostly bald man was of middling years and had the sturdy, thick-shouldered frame of a tradesman. By all indications, he was Mhajhkaeirii.
"Yes?" Mar asked in some annoyance. Interruption by a local denizen was not something that he had contemplated.
The man ducked his head respectfully. "Pardon me, my lord, but you're not one of them, are you?"
"One of who?"
"The monks."
"No."
The man flashed a grin and then sidled a bit closer. His glance kept slipping off Mar's face to the hammers suspended in mid-air behind the thief. "No offense intended, my lord, but are you a witch?"
"No. I'm a magician."
Looking blank at the unfamiliar term, the questioner tilted his head and raised his shoulders in a not quite shrug, then advanced to a more conversational distance. He extended his hand slowly, as if apprehensive that some calamity might befall it. "My name is Khlosb'ihs. I live in that house with the green door just over the street."
Leaving his hammers hovering on the chance that he might need to use them as missiles to fend off an attack, Mar reached out and shook Khlosb'ihs' hand briefly. "What was it that you wanted? I need to finish loading and get going."
"Right, my lord, I'll get right to it then." Khlosb'ihs flicked his eyes at the floating galleys. "My neighbors and I have noticed that you're in the, ah, shipping trade?"
Mar blew out a puff of air. "I guess you could say that."
"Could I ask your destination?"
"Sorry, no." Revealing the location of the encampment to anyone in Mhajhkaei was not something Mar intended to do willingly.
Khlosb'ihs hesitated slightly, his stance indicating that he thought his next question potentially hazardous. "But you are leaving the city?"
Mar nodded. He saw no point in denying this, since it was probably glaringly obvious.
Again the man hesitated before finally blurting, "Might you have room for paying passengers?"
Mar quirked his eyebrows. "The Brotherhood isn't allowing people to leave the city?"
"Not if you're a tradesman or have sons."
"How's that?"
"Yesterday, the monks posted a 'Bill of Public Regulations' all through the city. It was a long, drawn-out thing, but one of the provisions stated that no skilled tradesman could exit the city. There was a long list -- shipwrights, carpenters, masons, ironmongers, smiths, just about every sort of tradesman that you can think of. I'm a master shipwright and I expect that they will press me to work right off, but it's another of the regulations that concerns me and my neighbors. The monks are going to enforce a public levy to support their 'Work.' They have ordered all able-bodied men between the ages of sixteen and forty to assemble tomorrow in the main plazas for registration and selection. My neighbors and I all have sons that we don't have any desire to see conscripted by these devils."
"There are ways out of any city aside from the main gates," Mar pointed out.
"But not for families with children or elderly folk. Some of the young men and women might sneak over the wall at night, but we'd all like to go together if we could."
"My trip away from the city will involve a considerable amount of danger," Mar warned.
"Surely no more that staying in a city occupied by the Brotherhood of Phaelle, my lord."
"You'd have to ride on the deck of the second galley and brave the wind. There's no free space below and the first ship is as full as it can get."
"We could manage, my lord!" Khlosb'ihs exulted. But then he sobered. "Will the fare be very extravagant?"
"One hundred thalar a head for first class."
Khlosb'ihs' face fell like a stone. One hundred gold was probably more money than he had earned in his entire life. "Might there be a cheaper fare, my lord?"
"One thal for steerage, but you'll have to cart your own baggage and no amenities will be provided."
Confused, the man simply looked at Mar in strained incomprehension.
"I'm joking."
"Oh, right, my lord. I see. Ha. Ha. Ha." The man's laughter was somewhat forced and his uncertainty did not completely disappear.
Mar sighed. "Get your people out here. I'll be leaving right away."
"Yes, my lord!"
Mar stowed the hammers, restacked some of the cargo for the sake of stability, and then made one final, thorough but likely unnecessary pass through the ground floor of the depot. Aside from dust and spider webs, he had literally stripped the place bare, even stealing a push broom that had been leaned in a corner. Only the buckets of sand spheres remained. Not wanting to chance some unexpected flux interaction, he carried the buckets out two at a time by hand and put them down in the gutter near the bow of the first galley.
He had been the better part of an hour loading the galley and it was getting on toward midmorning. Stealing the galleys and cleaning out the depot had taken much longer than he had expected, but he was not overly concerned. Mhajhkaei was a huge city and the Brotherhood surely did not have sufficient armsmen to watch constantly every street and district. Still, he should not dawdle; some errant patrol could round a corner at any moment. Looking for the shipwright, he started around the bow of the galley and encountered the returning Khlosb'ihs, who immediately offered him two large, drawstring purses.
"What's that?"
"It's the fare, my lord. One hundred and seventy-seven thal, all in good silver and copper Mhajhkaeirii'n coin. Should I count it out for you?"
Mar shook his head. "I said I was joking about the money. Just how many of you are there?"
"One hundred and seventy-seven, my lord, counting the seven infants. We made an exact count to come up with the correct amount."
"I thought you said you wanted passage for you and your family?"
"I'm sure I mentioned my neighbors, my lord. And my neighbors all have neighbors, who are usually relations of one sort or another. When the monks attacked, the fighting cut this borough off from the Citadel right away and we've been holding up in our houses. Since you sailed the ships up the street, everyone's been watching. It's not something that you see every day."
"What, all your neighbors then?"
>
"Well, actually, just the ones that we could get up the money for. I and some of the older folks decided to stay."
"How many?"
"How many what, my lord?"
"How many don't you have the money for?"
"Oh, a good forty or fifty, I'd imagine."
"So there are over two hundred of you?"
"If that's too many, I'm sure we could get some more volunteers to stay, my lord. If you could tell me how many you have space for, I could run back and --"
"Just get the whole bunch out here right now. I'm in a hurry."
It took another aggravating half hour to load Khlosb'ihs and all of his neighbors, a variegated collection of men, women, and children clutching bags, parcels, and family heirlooms, into the second galley, even with the assistance of several ladders that the forward thinking shipwright and his adult sons bought with them. Exasperated, Mar ended up levitating large groups seated on tables appropriated from nearby homes. When the last of them were aboard, hardly a dozen square armlengths of deck space remained unoccupied. Taking a perch on the ship's bow so that he could see and address the whole lot, he waved to get their attention.
"No walking about while we're in flight," he called out. "We'll be traveling very fast and changing altitude and direction quickly." He decided not to mention that they might also be under attack. They would find that out soon enough for themselves. "We'll be departing in five minutes."
Without bothering to wait for a response, he hopped over to the stern of what he now thought of as Galley Number One, and the waiting buckets of overcharged sand spheres.
As with Brother Fhsuyl, the Droahmaerii, and the pickle barrel, he hoped that the spheres, arced toward the center of the Phaelle'n fleet in a general broadcast, would occupy them and their skyships for the few moments that he would need to flee the city.
There were almost two hundred and fifty of the spheres, each a little more than a fingerlength across. Within the proximity of an armlength, as now, he could sense each as an individual bundle of flux modulations. Focusing intently, he infused them one by one with the familiar lifting quiet turquoise and driving yellow tympani and then caused each set, looking like bunches of large, glistening tan grapes, to rise from its bucket.
Shifting about to gain an orientation toward where he judged the gray ships to be, he looked up to make sure that his launch angle would clear the depot and the buildings seaward of it, then rapidly accelerated the first bunch, again neutralizing his driving flux at the last moment. After a count of ten, he launched the second bunch at a slightly different orientation and quickly followed with the third and fourth at the same interval.
Not waiting, he urged the two galleys up above the buildings, swung around sharply, and flew them eastward as fast as his magic could drive them. Shouts and sounds of alarm erupted from the passengers as the sudden movements jostled them.
A shiver of unease pricked his skin.
He heard the distant sounds of the first detonations while still a full league from the city wall.
TEN
17th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension, 47th Day of Glorious Work
(Thirdday, Waxing, 3rd Summermoon, 1644 After the Founding of the Empire)
Aboard the Work, anchored in the harbor at Mhajhkaei
Senior Subdeacon Aealmohs, Archivist, scholar, and Captain of the recovered Relic Work, took the exterior stairs to the bridge at a sedate pace, holding firmly to the guardrail. He was given to moderate, but not debilitating, anxiety in enclosed spaces. The often oily-smelling interior of the steel ship tended to feel oppressive to him and he preferred the open air. This affliction was nothing that he could not by a simple exercise of will ignore, but he did indulge his preference whenever convenient. Today, with the warm, clear weather and abundant sunshine, walking from his cabin to stand his regular command watch by way of the longer outside route had certainly seemed the proper choice.
By long maritime tradition, the Captain of every ship had the unique privilege of choosing his own watch hours. Although the Holy Trio were not operated according to the dictates of conventional naval law, but rather as Communities of the Brotherhood with the normal routines and hierarchy of a corresponding land-based community, Aealmohs had seen no need to disregard many of the established traditions. While this mainly gave passive reassurance to the brethren under his command with sailing experience, it also provided the Work's Captain with specific benefits, as in this case, whereby he could, in good conscience, never stand a watch earlier than midmorning.
His breathing modestly labored, he reached the catwalk that circled the view ports of the command bridge. He paused for a moment and turned to look east across the five hundred armlengths of placid water at the Restoration. There were some slight variations in the central towers of the two ships, but they were close enough alike to be twins. The damage done by the Apostate's attack was on the opposite side and not visible for the most part, but he could see crews working to repair decking in front of the lower forward turret.
Even though damaged, the Archdeacon had ordered the Restoration to the Work's starboard side. With the larger and more heavily armed Duty an equal half a thousand armlengths to her west, this configuration was expected to give Aealmohs' vessel coverage from any further aerial attacks by means of her sisters' close defense weaponry.
Though he had voiced no objection, Aealmohs was not convinced that this plan would prove effective. Based on what he had witnessed during the Apostate's attack, he felt that the spontaneous impulse engines reacted only to threats that entered their respective alert zones. Those zones might thwart any projectile aimed from either east or west, but would do nothing against projectiles that came straight down on top of the Work.
Two Salients stood guard at the portside entrance to the bridge. The brother on the right pulled open the port door for the Captain.
"Good morning, Brother Feigngny!" Aealmohs greeted the Combatant with unfeigned good cheer as he passed into the bridge. "Beautiful weather today."
"As you say, Brother Subdeacon." Senior Veteran Brother Feigngny tended to non-committal responses. Aealmohs knew the man to be quite dedicated to the Duty and suspected that he considered any social familiarity to be an impediment to the Work.
As always, the leader of the previous watch, Junior Brother G'ean, had already vacated the command chair and stood waiting beside it. The brethren assigned to Aealmohs' watch, five junior ranked Postulant and Novitiate trainees, had already relieved their counterparts and taken control of their stations. Another maritime tradition adopted by the Senior Subdeacon was to have the most junior watch standers serve under the most senior officer. The watch crew all stood respectfully as he entered and at his routine nod sat again and returned their concentration to their various tasks.
Aealmohs offered G'ean a warm smile. "Good morning brother, how does our great Relic fare today?"
"Good morning Brother Subdeacon. All operational magics are fully functional. All Secondary mechanical systems, save for starboard bilge pump number six, which remains out of service for repair, are fully functional. The brethren of the Armaments Assemblage have reported this morning that full restocking for the main impulse engines has been completed. All brethren are present or accounted for."
"Status of main propulsion?"
"Drive pumps fully charged and tested. Water reservoirs full."
Aealmohs nodded and took his seat. "Thank you, Brother G'ean."
Though relieved of his duty, the Junior Brother did not immediately depart. Abbot Mylstran having taken ill of a stomach ailment, G'ean was currently standing in as Aealmohs second officer.
Aealmohs looked out through the large forward port, a single, broad pane of a not yet understood clear material that was not glass. The height of the bridge on the central tower placed the entirety of the forward end of the ship, including the two impulse engine turrets, the smaller but so far not enabled close defense turrets, and the slightly upward-sloping section of steel deck th
at swept up to the knife-edged bow, in view. Beyond was the panorama of the Second Fleet scattered through the harbor and The Greatest City in All the World.
He had little interest in the conquered city, however. The disposition of the Work was his single-minded focus.
Having noted that several of the brethren were in the process of disassembling one of the smaller turrets on the starboard side, he asked G'ean, "Has there been any progress in understanding the difficulties with the spontaneous defense magics?"
"No, Brother Subdeacon," the temporary second officer replied. "Junior Brother Blhisght and his team are searching for inscriptions that might offer clues to help them to understand the disruptions in the system's spells."
"Apprise me immediately if there is any progress."
"Aye, Brother Subdeacon."
"Has a reply arrived to my missive concerning Brother Whorlyr's Salients?"
"Not yet, Brother Subdeacon."
Aealmohs did not comment, either by word or by expression. He had addressed his appeal of the Martial Director's reassignment of the enervated bolt thrower equipped cloister directly to the Archdeacon. A lack of a reply commonly meant that the Preeminent Brother had determined that the appeal did not merit consideration, though it was possible that no final decision had yet been made. In either case, Aealmohs knew better than to say anything that might be construed as criticism of the Archdeacon; he had not achieved his present command by undisciplined chatter.
Aealmohs turned to the novitiate manning the central console. "Cycle through the steerage commands, if you please, Novitiate Third Seingt."
"Aye, Brother Subdeacon." Seingt was barely sixteen years old, but had the second highest Ability in the Work's crew.
The Captain watched carefully as the boy went through the eighteen hand gestures necessary to move the ship's rudder through one hundred and eighty degrees of arc,
"On one sixty degrees you allowed your right thumb to relax slightly from the optimum," the Senior Subdeacon cautioned. "If you straighten you thumb too much, the magics could interpret the gesture as fifty degrees and throw the ship into a violent port turn."
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