by Garon Whited
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she advised. “First, you have to kidnap someone and force him to acknowledge how trading would be to his benefit.”
“I can do it.”
“I don’t doubt you for an instant,” she agreed, “but I question your choice of student.”
“How so?”
“Kidnap a her, not a him. Get one or more of their women. From what you tell me, they’re somewhat used to the idea of being kidnapped.”
“Huh.” I thought about it. Could be she had a point. “I’ll try it. I’m not sure they can persuade the hairier sorts to go along with it, but it couldn’t hurt to try. Good thinking.”
“Thank you. We’re still cycling people through your new arrow-drill, too. Mind telling me why?”
“We might run into a more brutal conflict than is usual. I plan to get us some more weapons and—damn. I forgot to ask. What do we have in the way of flammable liquids?”
“Uh? Not a lot. Most of it goes to the unenchanted lamps.”
“I’ll pick up something on the way. I made a change to our bridge. It’s a choke point and I don’t want it taken by enemy forces. That would really stick a cork in the bottle.”
“I agree, but I don’t know what you have in mind.”
“It’s not important right now.”
“If you say so. Now, about the drill I have people doing? With the bows and arrows?”
“Oops. Sorry. I get sidetracked. The drill is to get them used to shooting in that pattern. It’s partly to get them some skill in projecting the flight of an arrow, too, but I don’t expect them to become archers.”
“Good. Bowmen aren’t too useful.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” she repeated. Clearly, the question was nonsensical. “Because arrows don’t go through shields…?”
“You’d be surprised. I’d have everyone drill with longbows, but training a longbowman starts with training his grandfather.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a difficult skill and takes years to master,” I clarified. “I’ve got an idea for something easier than the bows we’re using and about as powerful.”
Leisel looked up and to the side, clearly trying to envision it. She didn’t try to imagine the device, but its implications. Finally, she shook her head.
“I’m not seeing how this will be useful.”
“Good. Let it be a surprise. Other than the obvious issues, how are we doing?”
“No one is panicking, if that’s what you’re asking. Mind opening that chest for me so I can get dressed while we talk?”
“Sure.”
I opened her clothes chest and helped with her suit of scales. I was even nice enough to run a cleaning spell over her.
“I have to learn that,” she decided.
“It’s more complicated than you think, but we can work on it when we have more time. How are the things you’re overseeing?”
“So far, we’re still eating well. I’ve spoken with Cormar at the ironworks and Valdet at the coal mine about rationing. As far as most people know, there’s a problem with the road and wagons can’t get through. Cormar and Valdet helped spread the story and are pushing people to cut back a little and to make sure every scrap is accounted for—no more tossing it out if no one wants it, no scraps to the pigs. Nothing we can eat goes to waste.” Leisel shrugged. “It’s not perfect, but it’s better.”
“Good start. Who are Cormar and Valdet? Someone mentioned Cormar to me and I had to pretend I knew who he was.”
“Cormar is your mahrani at the ironworks. He’s an old man and a miner, but it’s a mining camp.”
“Fair. You obviously think he can organize the place and maintain order.”
“He seems capable,” Leisel agreed. “I haven’t had any problems with him. Valdet, on the other hand, is younger and flashier. One of those with lots of teeth in his smile. He was well-liked by everyone in the camp and they all came to him for advice. It seemed easiest to formalize it. He keeps handing me backtalk, though, and he’s got a bit of a personal clique surrounding him.” Leisel shrugged. “I’m not saying he’s doing a bad job, but he’s not doing it the way I would, if you see what I mean.”
“Obviously, you’re keeping an eye on him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Sounds like you have it under control. What else?”
“The miners could use some more enchanted lamps. Using flame in a coal mine isn’t a good idea.”
“Excellent point. Bring me some shiny rocks and I’ll see what I can do later today.”
“I’ve also had some requests for children.”
“Beg pardon?”
“From the warmeet. If you’re going to it, I can immediately place six kids with warriors here.”
“Really?”
“Being pregnant is a lot of trouble. We try to avoid it until we find a solid situation and a good man.”
I didn’t comment on the order of her priorities. It might not mean much.
“I’ll see what I can do, but is it time-critical? I’d rather resolve the siege first, then adopt kids.”
“Oh, sure. Nobody’s expecting children tomorrow. Just keep your eyes open.”
“I can do that,” I agreed.
“Now, what’s this I hear about Renata and Illaria going somewhere to be your agents?”
“Someone’s been talking behind my back,” I muttered.
“She spoke to me to request Illaria as her ishanda.” Roughly, ishanda means maid-companion. It’s not exactly a girlfriend, but it’s more than a professional partner. I’m not sure how to describe it. Best friend, possibly with benefits, but not necessarily? Battle-buddy who can share your sleeping bag? I don’t think my native culture has an exact equivalent. I realized the word, ishanda, was gender-neutral, though. It didn’t specify who was male, female, or other. It only described a relationship. Interesting.
“Fair enough. I want to get Renata out of reach of Sarcana until she has her kid. I don’t want Naskarl doing something sneaky and unexpected and maybe succeeding. If she’s looking after our interests in a faraway land, Sarcana’s people aren’t going to get lucky.”
“I’m not arguing. I’m for it. I only want to be sure you’re on board with this. She is the reason Sarcana has declared a vendetta. If we send her away, we can’t guard her.”
“I think that’s what sold Renata on the idea, actually. She doesn’t like feeling guarded.”
“Mmm. Possibly. But we still can’t protect her if she’s elsewhere.”
“Trust me on this. When I stash someone, the gods have trouble finding them.”
“I trust you. Breakfast?”
“No, I have a couple of things to do, then I’m off for the day to handle more arrangements. Do you need me for anything?”
“Not today.”
“Not even…?”
“Well, maybe. Ask me again in the afternoon.”
I waited until the sun rose on my supply Earth and used the barn to shift over. It worked perfectly and saved a lot of effort getting a gate for Bronze. We both changed into local clothes—meaning she jumped from statue to pickup truck—and we went into Corpus Christi to finish paperwork. There were a lot of things to cover, mostly conveniences. Rather than try to brief Renata on the ins and outs of utility bills and checking, I authorized the bank to pay things, instead—property tax, power and water bills, all the usual things. The local laws required an attorney be present, as well as some notarized documents, along with notification forms for the government and the utility companies…
I’m not sure which is simpler, starting a village from scratch or dealing with a bureaucracy. It was decidedly inconvenient to set up a convenient way to pay my bills.
I also hunted down an ad in the local paper for a cleaning lady. I found one who wasn’t part of a company, but a private and possibly off the books contractor. Pay cash, everybody wins, all that. I spoke to her on the phone for a while, explaining
my “South American” staff didn’t speak fluent English and would be maintaining the house. They would need help with grocery shopping and other details in the civilized world. Annunciata was quite sympathetic and made time to come by the same day.
Annunciata was in her mid-forties, somewhat hefty, perpetually smiling, spoke Spanish with great fluency, and spoke English with moderate proficiency. I’m sure she was on her best behavior to make a good impression, but the impression I got was of a cheerful lady with a helpful attitude. The only thing to even vaguely cloud her smile was when I asked how she preferred to be paid—cash, check, or credit card. Cash was her instant answer, complete with undertone of horror at the idea of the other two.
I wasn’t worried about her reporting “South Americans” in the house. I doubted she wanted to talk to anyone in law enforcement. I don’t know the rules on immigration between this Texas and Mexico, but I’m willing to bet it’s still something of an issue.
With all parties suitably lubricated with bribes—excuse me, I meant to say the fees were all paid—I hit an internet café and checked the delivery progress on my order. It might arrive today, in fact. With this cheerful news, I headed over to the local university. There was no Texas A&M, but there was a University of the Republic of Texas.
“URT” is a terrible acronym. Clearly, the University doesn’t have a marketing department.
A little time in the library got me a current world atlas. Texas was a sovereign nation in this world and apparently ate most of Oklahoma at some point. The other southern states were the Confederacy. Most of the rest of what I knew as the United States was where I expected it to be. I was tempted to look up the details on how and why and so forth, but I had more pressing business.
The library also had a campus directory and map. I wandered around a bit, checking the listings and asking questions. Finally, I knocked on a door. I was told to come in, so I did. As expected, the office was tiny. Some things about academia never change. There wasn’t much paper to be seen, but there was a computer on the desk.
“Can I help you?”
I pegged him as a grad student. He was too young to be the professor.
“I’m looking for a couple of upperclassmen in a mechanical engineering degree program.”
“Professor Thurston is out at the moment—”
“And I want to hire them for a project.”
I had his attention.
“You want to hire students? What sort of project?”
“A design and fabrication competition. Fifty thousand is first place, twenty-five for second, and ten for third. There might be another job offer after the competition is over.”
“Wait. You said you only wanted a couple of upperclassmen.”
“Three. Yes. Probably the ones with the highest grade point average, but those are privileged information. I was hoping for some recommendations by the professor.”
He glanced out into the hall.
“Close the door.”
We spent close to an hour defining exactly what I wanted. To wit: A crossbow.
The Tautan forces don’t use crossbows. They’ve never invented them. Even so, crossbows of any power require tools to cock them—goat’s foot lever, belt claw, or even a hand crank. I was willing to sacrifice some power for the sake of mobility in cocking the thing, though. The idea was to have a pump-action forestock, kind of like a pump shotgun with a foregrip. Instead of loading a shell, the pump action would work a gear, ratcheting the bowstring back a little. One could walk along while working the action several times to cock the bow before manually placing a quarrel for firing. No extra equipment, no mobility issues, and—considering there were wizards—no gunpowder to be ignited.
Never carry firearm ammunition anywhere you might be fireballed.
I might have found something close to what I wanted with a gate search. Trouble is, I’m a physicist, not a mechanical engineer. While I can cope with a sawmill or windmill and design gears for it, I don’t intuitively “get” the details of how such a system would be put together. I understand the principle just fine in the sense of energy inputs being stored in the flexing of the bow, but the actually mechanical bits? I’m sure I could draw it out, given a few weeks.
I could even do a gate search to get an example, but made of what? How powerful? Composite, compound, or recurved bow? I want something pretty darn exact. It has to be light enough to be easily carried, powerful enough to punch through a metal-faced wooden shield, and easy enough to cock that any of my warriors can do it. It also ought to be—ideally—simple enough to be repaired or even reproduced by the local artisans. And how durable is this mechanism, exactly? Will it take being dropped or—in an emergency—being used as a club? There are a lot of finicky factors I wanted sorted out.
I suppose I could have sat down for several days, burned through a bunch of power crystals, and snatched a couple dozen variations on crossbows. On the other hand, if I can get someone else to do the work, I don’t have to spend the power or the time. Therefore, I commissioned a custom design.
Chuck—Charles Lockwood, the professor’s graduate assistant—had some suggestions on who to ask. I was pleasantly surprised to get phone numbers and email addresses from him, and all without ever asking me why I wanted designs for an updated medieval weapon. I suspect the amount of money involved was well above the project norms. Far enough above, in fact, so he didn’t want to ruin it by asking anything not directly related to the design and fabrication.
It was well after lunchtime before I finished pitching my idea to some proto-engineers. All three of them took the job, took a wad of cash as a retainer, and my local address for questions and/or prototype delivery. They’re all handshake agreements, but if I get one practical, useful design out of them, I’ll call it a win.
Besides, I hate student loans.
I tanked Bronze up, filled the bed of the truck with fuel cans, and we went back and forth to the house. I went ahead and started a repair spell on the house and the barn, simply as maintenance spells, along with a solar converter to keep them running. Bronze wore her pickup body to drive around, playing in the dusty fields while I worked. Then we made a couple more trips into town for furniture, sundries, and some drums of fuel. I also made sure to have a decent supply of the local cash.
Late that afternoon, a semi pulled off the road and down the dirt drive to the house. I opened up the barn and let him pull right through rather than force him to back it up. He had an unloading thing mounted inside the trailer—I don’t know what it’s called—for use where there wasn’t a loading dock. I specified the delivery would be “to the ground,” rather than “to the dock,” when I ordered it. They charged me a fee for it, too. At least unloading crate after crate after crate wasn’t difficult, merely tedious. The driver unloaded a stack at a time, lowering it to the ground, and I moved them, one crate at a time, to stack them farther away, inside the barn.
I signed for the shipment, shook hands, and he circled his rig around the house to head back for the road.
What else did I need to do here? Not much, really. I checked the time and saw it was still daylight in the valley. Bronze parked and moved back into the statue, I changed clothes, and we—along with a few tons of food and fuel—shifted from Earth to Tauta.
Leisel was out. Tessera told me she was out at the western ridge, looking over the fort, so I supervised the relocation of the supplies. The fuel went out to the bridge-fort. Tessera and I ate a ration pack apiece. She was impressed. An MRE contains more than a simple entrée. The full bag has four different things to eat, some sort of candy, a powder for drink mix, and a bunch of other things, like disposable spoon, matches, toilet paper, packets of salt, pepper, and sugar, even chewing gum. For a soldier with her technological background, they’re a miracle.
I made sure she was aware we would use these to supplement, not replace, the food we still had. She promised to see them stowed in one of the new—and now complete—outbuildings of the keep. I went up to
my bedroom to check on the shower arrangements.
Yep. Working shower. I stood under running water for my evening transformation and came as close as I ever get to enjoying it.
Firebrand reminded me, once I stepped out of the shower, about the magic lanterns request. I did some thinking about my schedule for the night. Bridge work, kidnapping, and lights, but in what order? The bridge was already in motion, but I juiced it up and sped it along while I did other things. Magic lights, then a late-night kidnapping or three? No, kidnapping, then the enchantment. I’d rather deal with any unexpected problems farther from sunrise.
We rode out to the fortification at the bridge. The stone under the lowered drawbridge was already thinner and countersunk to let the drawbridge thump down level with the roadway. Technically, it would still be possible to cross without the drawbridge, but dangerous. When the reshaping was done, there would be a pair of narrow paths, each about a handspan wide, connecting the face of the cliff to the new end of the bridge. It would provide auxiliary support for the wooden bridge and provide access for hidden pipes from fort to bridge. A man might walk the length of either one like a balance beam if he didn’t mind a hundred-foot drop to tumbled rocks and water. With the drawbridge up, getting through was still problematic.
The rest of the bridge was still as I left it: wide enough for two full-sized wagons to pass, with a stone wall on either side, about three feet high. I walked out and started fiddling with the spells, altering the shape some more. The most obvious change was for pillars. It would grow ten-foot pylons vertically out of the walls, staggering them on either side, all across the bridge. Later, we could hang lanterns and use the pylons as lampposts.
Less obvious was the piping inside the bridge walls, all leading back to a big funnel inside the fort, far up inside one of the new towers. We might never need it, but it was nice to have it. The fuel, a mixture of gasoline and diesel, would be stored by the main tank in a tower. Gravity would supply the pressure to squirt it out onto the bridge.