"Oh. I'd heard that it had burned."
The ceannaire nodded. "There was a fire, but the library is being rebuilt and the books are being replaced. If you don't have the books, I'm afraid they'll be an extra fee of one thal per book."
Mar nodded at Ulor, who counted out additional coins.
"You're supposed to bring at least five books," Ehlse suggested, prompting Ulor to hand him two additional silver. When he was done, Ehlse seemed quite pleased. "Welcome to the Imperial City, Merchant Drath! I hope you enjoy your stay."
"I am certain that we will!" Mar told the man, spurring his horse through the gate. The cost, bribes included, had come to forty-one silver, two hundred thay -- almost a full thalar! He had hardly cleared the gate when he began to work out how he would recover the money, one way or the other, from the self-appointed scions of the Glorious Empire of the North.
By the time he and the others had established themselves in a modest inn near the Blue Fortress in the Lower City, they had had to expend an additional half thalar in bribes and fees to satisfy the primary merchant houses and to pay costs for stabling and lodging. The flunkies and proprietors had explained that new taxes imposed by the Viceroy to fund the reconstruction of his library were to blame for the steep price increases that they had had to impose.
With clean beds and solid doors, the inn was neither the best nor the worst and Mar selected it on that basis, his primary concern being to draw as little attention as possible. It was on a side street, taking up two sides of a small plaza. Around it were neighborhood shops, row houses, and the occasional small metal fabricator. Most of the inn's trade seemed to come through the tavern on the ground floor; he and the six Mhajhkaeirii were at present the only tenants.
As the six of them sat down at a large corner table to eat an early supper in the nearly deserted tavern, Ulor commented quietly, "At this rate, sir, we'll be out of money in a fortnight. We'll need to find a money changer for some of the gold tomorrow."
Mar took a drink of his tea. The inn had ale, wine, and stouter liquors, but he had never had a taste for them. Ulor and the others, mindful of the need to maintain a clear head, had eschewed the strong spirits for the mild dark ale.
"I'll recoup our loses shortly," Mar told the subaltern without appending an unneeded explanation. "We need to find an empty warehouse first thing in the morning. I don't want to delay any longer than absolutely necessary."
Mar had found his return to the city of his birth less than heartwarming. Though he had been gone from the Imperial City just a short time, it seemed half a lifetime. It was not that the city had changed -- it remained unaltered from his last view of it, a place of muddled contrasts, of squalor and opulence, of the learned and the ignorant, of glory and ignominy, of privilege and deprivation -- but rather that he had. How, exactly, he was different, he was not sure, but the Imperial City and the dark memories that it stirred were alien, offensive, and unwelcome.
Mar waited until after the bondswoman serving them brought their plates and they began to eat, to say quietly to the others, "We'll need to keep an eye out for the monks. They were here in the city before I left and probably still are."
"Can they witch us out?" That was Nehl, one of the newer members of the group that none of the Mhajhkaeirii ever named in his presence as the Royal Guard. Mar did not know much about him. The dark haired man was not young, spoke little, and obeyed orders with good grace.
"I don't know, but I would think they could. As long as they don't realize that we're here, though, they've no reason to search for us. Unless we betray ourselves, we shouldn't have any trouble."
THIRTY-SEVEN
142nd Year of the Reign of the City
(Thirteenthday, Waxing, 1st Autumnmoon, 1644 After the Founding of the Empire)
Aboard the sailed skyship Prince Davfydd
Running before the wind, the refurbished Number Nine, now re-named Prince Davfydd, made a decent speed. It was only a mere fraction of that possible by a skyship helmed by the King, but it was impressive nonetheless.
"I am satisfied, Captain," Lord Ghorn told Mhiskva. "Have Captain Brhendhisg bring her about."
The Gaaelfharenii's -- even Ghorn had begun to think of his chief marine officer as one of the mythical beings -- strong voice carried across the deck. Officers and underofficers echoed orders all the way to the stern and the sixty man strong crew sprang into action, dozens swarming into the rigging. Some of the sailors drew in and furled canvas, while others used the mainsail to luff the vessel into the wind. A skyship did not exactly sail as a waterborne ship did, having a tendency to cross-slip much more, necessitating oftentimes the use of a large, fin-like centerboard, and also loosing speed faster as a side-effect of the spells that made her fly, but it was near enough that her water trained crew had adjusted within hours.
"My lord," Mhiskva mentioned thoughtfully, "a fleet of ships such as these armed with Berhl's polybolos and the King's spheres would make a wet navy obsolete."
"Save for the monks," Ghorn rejoined, "a fleet of such ships would make Mhajhkaei ruler of the entire world."
"Not really a pleasant thought, either way you look at it, my lord."
"No, it is not. Now, I understand very well why our forefathers rejected magery and cast it aside. When all of this is done, I wonder if we will be able to hide it away again."
"Not very likely, my lord."
Ghorn made a grumbling sound. "Tell Brhendhisg to bring us in well wide of the sand sphere dome and prepare to dock. I want to try out that drag anchor maneuver."
Berhl had built a separate dock, a wooden mooring tower similar to the original one erected at the encampment, for the Prince Davfydd. Although one of the magician trainees could, if arduously, alter her altitude while they remained at the Monolith, Ghorn had ordered that her crew practice sailing at a fixed height, as that would be the normal condition during her voyage south.
The docking proved less than satisfactory, with the iron anchor dragging across the rubble field below jerking the vessel to a halt yet a hundred armlengths short of her goal.
"We will need to practice that more," Ghorn advised the marine captain. "The Prince Davfydd must make a marked impression on those we visit. I do not want anything to detract from that."
"Aye, my lord. Are you still determined to depart on schedule?"
"Yes. There will be no change in the schedule."
"Aye, my lord."
"Signal the launch."
Mhiskva sent a sailor to flash a green banner and Ghorn walked to the rail to watch as the launch, a simple plank platform ten armlengths by three with railings and secured benches, cast off from the dock and flew out to the skyship. While the skyship would not need a magician for a pilot, it had become readily apparent that the launch would be required to allow her crew to move to and from the ground. This meant that there would be one less helmsmen for the normal skyship fleet, but it could not be helped. Ghorn knew that it was imperative that he begin his journey to regain the reins of the Princedom before the monks could use their occupation of Mhajhkaei to seize bloodlessly all her domains.
Having recognized that the transportation of supplies to the Monolith must take priority, the prince had had to choose from among the least accomplished of the trainees, the brothers Ihlvoh and Trea. Although their control of larger vessels was barely adequate, though sporadic, the two brothers had considerable facility with smaller craft. Ihlvoh had shown some improvement of late, and Ironsmith Wloblh, who had been given command of the trainees in the king's absence, thought that it would only be a short time before the boy could helm one of the barges on a permanent basis. Ghorn had therefore felt compelled to select Trea to accompany the Prince Davfydd on her maiden voyage.
Thus far, the youth had performed his duties satisfactorily, though he had a tendency to loose focus from time to time, resulting in the launch veering unexpectedly.
Precisely as it was doing now.
"Remind me to have another talk with Trea," Ghorn instructed Mhisk
va, when the captain returned to his side.
The large man grinned. "He does seem to be having a more difficult time of it today, my lord."
"Like a drunken man staggering. I would have to say that this is his worst flight yet."
As the launch wobbled closer, Mhiskva, whose eyes were far better than Ghorn's, announced, "That explains it, my lord."
"Yes, what is it?"
"The pilot is not Trea, my lord, but Grandmother Heldhaen."
"Is that so? What are the chances, do you think, that she will crash into the side of us?"
"No greater than one in three, if I had to wager on it."
The old woman did succeed in not crashing headlong into the side of the skyship, but she did skid into the port rail, grind along it for a space of thirty armlengths or more, and finally come to an abrupt halt with the deck of the launch slightly canted and nearly an armlength below the main deck of the Prince Davfydd.
"Well, I have to admit," Ghorn told Mhiskva, "that that has to be her best flight yet."
"Yes, my lord. A remarkable improvement."
Ghorn allowed himself a brief grin. "We had better go and congratulate her, then."
They found the least accomplished and most irascible of the magician trainees slumped over the forward rail of the launch and singing a raunchy tune about milkmaids. A crowd of the now idle crew were hanging about, grinning and joking. Ghorn sent them on their way with a sharp glance.
The prince took note of the matriarch's lethargic movements and unfocused gaze. "My good woman, are you inebriated?"
Grandmother Heldhaen rotated toward the sound of his voice. "No, my prince. M'm drunk. I've figurred out tha' a few, hrmm, glasseses of wine make it a lo' easier t', hrmm, y'know, fly. Ha' a wee bit too many today, though. Always di' like the wine." She barked out a guttural laugh.
"Wine makes you a better magician?"
"Thass what I said, wassn't it?"
"I see. Where is Trea? He was scheduled to operate the launch today, I believe."
"I tol' 'm to fin' somming else t' do so's I could show y' 'm fit t' be y' pilot, err, yeah, thass it."
"If I understood that correctly, you are volunteering to travel with the Prince Davfydd?"
"S'right! Better me thn th' lad. He's needed here."
Ghorn glanced at his second-in-command.
"As long as she need only make short trips to and from the skyship," the High-Captain opined, "it should be possible for her to replace the youth. As she says, his talents would be better used to helm one of the larger skyships."
Ghorn hoisted himself over the rail and dropped down to the deck of the launch. "Take us to the dock," he told the old woman. "If you manage that without crashing the launch, I'll consider your proposal."
The trip was, if anything, not boring. She did reach the dock without disaster, but the flight was characterized by sudden dips, sharp pivots, and staggering surges. Ghorn, having ridden many a ship in rough weather, kept his footing ably enough, as did Mhiskva, but Grandmother Heldhaen toppled a time or two and had to be righted by the marine captain. When the launch came alongside the platform, it had the proper elevation, but Grandmother Heldhaen was unable to stop it completely and it coasted slowly passed, so that several marines on the dock had to haul it close with a thrown line.
The old woman, seemingly spent by the effort, slumped to the deck of the launch and sagged against the rail. "So," she accused Ghorn, "will y' le' m' come along?"
"You will need to enlist companions," he told her evenly. "Thus far there are no other females in the crew."
She burst out laughing. "Wha'? Y're worrred 'bout m' virture? Haw! Haw! Haw!" Then she went pale, leaned over, and was violently sick.
Leaving the magician trainee in the care of two of the dock workers, Ghorn and Mhiskva debarked and descended the tower stairs to find his command staff -- Lord-Commander Purhlea, Vice-Captain Berhl, Commander Aerlon, and Shipwright Khlosb'ihs -- waiting as requested.
"What sort of maneuver were you practicing in the launch?" Lord Purhlea asked, half-grinning.
"Avoidance of magical projectiles," Ghorn replied in a flat monotone. "The Prince Davfydd is ready, gentlemen. We should finalize preparations for her departure on this coming thirdday. Lord Purhlea, you will take permanent command of the defense and daily operations of the Monolith. Commander Aerlon, Vice-Captain Berhl, you will continue in your current duties, reporting to Lord Purhlea and performing any other tasks that he sees fit to assign you."
"Will you be taking a large contingent of marines along with you?" the knight-commander asked.
"No, only six quads. However, you should plan your defense with only the legionnaires of the Defenders and the Reapers. Tonight, the bulk of the marines will transfer to Elboern under High-Captain Mhiskva's command. From there they will conduct a mobile defense of the Lower Gray."
Aerlon's face burst into a savage grin. "Excellent news, my lord!"
"How will this 'mobile defense' be conducted?" Lord Purhlea wanted to know.
"Using the methods refined on his earlier raid, Captain Mhiskva and his battle group will primarily destroy bridge crossings and slow the enemy advance. He will also attack supply trains, small parties, messengers and other means of communication south of the Lower Gray."
Khlosb'ihs, whom Ghorn had placed in charge of maintaining the skyship fleet and organizing transport, asked, "Will he need supplies from here? I'll need to know if we have to put on extra flights."
"We will supply ourselves as required," Mhiskva stated. "We should arrange a rendezvous at least once every half-fortnight, however, so that I may tender reports and evacuate casualties, if there be need."
"That shouldn't be a problem," the shipwright allowed.
"Fine," Ghorn approved. ""Berhl, have the name Prince Davfydd painted in large letters on either side of the bow. Also, I want an ensign, as large a one as you can produce, to fly from the top of the mast."
"Aye, my lord. Sea blue?"
"Indeed. Trimmed in gold, if you can manage it, to identify the skyship as an official emissary of the Prince of Mhajhkaei."
"I might be able to find a bright yellow."
"That will do."
Aerlon frowned. "My lord prince, will not the Prince Davfydd also be an emissary of the King?"
Ghorn did not hesitate. "That is correct."
"Then should she not fly the flag of the king as well?"
Ghorn had to admit that this made sense, though it felt disloyal, somehow, to the young Prince. "Excellent suggestion. I doubt that the King will object if we design a standard for him. Ideas, gentlemen?"
"A crown?" Mhiskva wondered.
"Yes," Lord Purhlea agreed. "A red one."
"Blood red," Aerlon amended.
"I could have that cut out and sewn to the sea blue ensign," Berhl proposed. "Less confusion with one ensign atop the mast."
Ghorn saw only support for this proposal in the faces of the other men. Setting aside his own internal misgivings, he nodded. "Good, have it done that way."
"Aye, my lord."
"By the way, Berhl, have you had any further progress with the polybolos?"
The vice-captain frowned. "None, my lord. It still jams after a few shots. We're thinking we might have to redesign the entire apparatus."
"Keep at it. I'd like to see you all again the morning of our departure. Oh, Commander Aerlon, one other thing."
"My lord?"
"Make sure that there is a stock of wine aboard for Grandmother Heldhaen's use -- you should question her about which vintage she prefers -- but make sure that it is under lock and key and make doubly sure that I have the only key."
The Plydyrii gave Ghorn a puzzled look, but said simply, "Of course, my lord."
The Prince Davfydd sailed on the appointed day and at the appointed hour, proudly flying the combined banner of the King of the Mhajhkaeirii and the Prince of Mhajhkaei. As the skyship coasted serenely away from the Monolith, Ghorn took a position in the bow, m
ainly to be out of the way as the crew bounded about to their tasks. Fugleman Hraval, in charge of the marines and assigned as Ghorn's aide, stood with him.
Winds were south by southwest and Ghorn had ordered the captain to make his heading with the wind. For reasons of security, the prince had not shared his planned itinerary with any but his command staff. In his cabin was a packet of sealed letters from Lady Rhavaelei to various agents of the House of Trajhen. He had given her a list of fifty locales, with the majority destined to be decoys, and had rebuffed all of her attempts to sniff out hints as to his route.
In point of fact, he had left the route up to chance. Their first port of call would be that city, village, or post to which the fastest wind would take them. On this trip, his primary purpose was simply to establish far and wide that the rule of the Prince -- and by extension the King -- had not vanished with the fall of Mhajhkaei. Those military units that he did contact would be ordered to hold in place, retain control of their areas, and deny entry or sustenance to any ships or parties of the Brotherhood that might appear. In months to come, after the return of the King and the subsequent expansion of the skyship fleet, he would begin planning for coordinated action, but for now, he would be doing nothing more than, as if were, showing the flag.
Ghorn turned toward the bowsprit to let the cool, sweet air rising from the forest below wash across his face. It was good to be on the deck of a ship again, even one that flew. It had been years since he had had the luxury of concerning himself with only one ship and one crew.
"Have you ever been to the fortified lighthouse on Steel Point, Fugleman?"
Hraval had been personally selected by Captain Mhiskva, and his report of the man had included the words "smart", "fearless", and "deadly". Mostly bald, he was a big man, though nothing approaching the stature of a Gaaelfharenii, with impressive shoulders and the thick wrists of a lifelong swordsman. The distinguishing feature of his face was a well-waxed red mustache whose points extended half a fingerlength beyond his pox-scared cheeks. One description that could not be applied to him, however, was "talkative."
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