by John Dalmas
* * *
That evening after his exchange with Kryger, Brokols felt unaccountably sleepy and went early to bed.
* * *
Usually, though by no means always, Panni Vempravvo ended his evening meditation sometime before midnight. This night he continued in trance on the mountain till long after midnight, his open eyes seeing nothing. He was busy creating dreams, or rather helping someone else create their own, something the sage couldn't do in an ordinary conscious state, or as effectively while sleeping. His beingness which he thought of as "Hrum-In-Me" always had more than enough of such matters to attend to, with one and another.
Finally it was enough. It was nearly dawn when the sage went into his cave and lay down on his mat to sleep a few hours.
Twenty-Nine
Leonessto Hanorissio sat reading trial records. In Hrumma, the amirr was the court of final appeals. His secretary interrupted by opening the door and looking in.
"Sir, Ambassador Brokols is here with Mr. Venreeno. They wish audience with you."
"Umh!" He'd hoped he was done with the foreigner for a while. Brokols could have given his acceptance or refusal to Allbarin; surely Venreeno knew that. Perhaps he had something more than a simple yes or no. "Send for Allbarin," he replied. "I'll see them all together."
He returned to his reading then. It was several minutes before his secretary knocked again, and he had the visitors sent in. He did not get up when they entered.
"Sit down," he said. When they had, he looked at Brokols. "What is your decision?"
"Your Eminence, I will do all I know how to help you resist and defeat the Gorballis. I've had specific thoughts on the matter."
The amirr leaned forward a bit at that. "Let's hear them."
"You recall the thunder weapons at the front and rear of the ship. It has others, more powerful, below deck. They're called cannon, and they're powered by something called 'gunpowder'; it was gunpowder made the thunder you heard when the ship fired its salute. I'm not familiar with how cannon are made. My knowledge of weaponry is limited very largely to use; it doesn't include manufacture. So it would take me too long to work out how to make suitable cannon and then see them made. But I believe I can make a primitive form of gunpowder.
"I envision making objects called grenades. They are like—small jars filled with gunpowder. Small enough that soldiers can throw them, or cast them with slings. Grenades can be thrown among the enemy to burst with great force, and each grenade can kill or wound several men. They need not hit a man to kill him. Close—several feet away—is often enough."
"And you believe you can make this gunpowder?"
"I believe so. There are problems involved. I have never made it before, or even seen instructions, but I know something of the ingredients, and with some experimentation . . ." He shrugged.
Leonessto Hanorissio nodded. He supposed he could make a sword of sorts himself, if he had to, but the first would be crude to the point of uselessness except as a club. And even a crude sword would be beyond him if he had to start with raw materials—iron ore, dry wood, and whatever else was necessary. "What do you need?" he asked.
"Just now, I don't know explicitly. In Almeon I could simply ask for the ingredients by name. Here I first need to learn what they're called, and then where to find them. I've discussed it with Reeno, and he can steer me. Later I'll need a place outside the city, to work on the mixture. Eventually you'll need shops to produce grenades in large quantities, assuming that I'm successful in making gunpowder."
Leonessto pulled thoughtfully at his chin and looked at the two adepts, Allbarin and Reeno. Was the foreigner sincere? He asked the question mentally while opening his mind to them. "What have you to say, Reeno?" he asked aloud.
The answer was clear, but obliquely put so that Brokols would never know what the question truly was, or how the answer was obtained.
"If Ambassador Brokols believes he can do it, I consider the prospects good, Your Eminence."
"Allbarin?"
"By all means we should let him try, and see that he gets the necessary help. With your permission sir, when we are done here, I'll prepare a suitable letter of authority for him, for your signature. Granting him the power of acquisition and hiring."
"Good."
They were looking at the amirr as if waiting for dismissal, but he had more to ask. "Ambassador, your superior is at Haipoor l'Djezzer, and I believe you've mentioned that he is or was a military man, a general. Not so?"
Brokols didn't remember mentioning it, but supposed he must have. The day before perhaps, when being questioned. Or did they know it from the same source they knew so much else from? "Yes, Your Eminence, he is a general."
"Isn't he likely to be providing the Gorballis with these—grenades?"
"It's possible," Brokols said thoughtfully, "but I rather doubt it. As you already know, the emperor will land an army in Djez Gorrbul, probably at or near Haipoor l'Djezzer. He would prefer, I'm sure, that the Gorballis not meet him with grenades.
"If—if Lord Kryger provides them with weapons that are unfamiliar to you, then . . . then I'd expect they'd be heavy cannon not suited to being moved rapidly. Something cumbersome, difficult to transport, that could be emplaced opposite your border fortifications. They could batter down your walls from a mile away, but couldn't readily be moved north to defend Gorrbian cities. Nor through the hills into Hrumma to collapse your resistance there.
"In fact, it might be well for you to prepare defenses in depth, in the Neck, not depending on your border fortresses."
The amirr nodded. "Thank you, Ambassador Brokols," he said. "We'd do that in any case." He looked around. "Unless someone needs to say something, I'm going to adjourn this meeting. No questions? Good. Allbarin, prepare the letter of authority. You gentlemen go with him. Ambassador Brokols, I'll want to hear of your progress or lack of it."
His visitors stood up and left. Leonessto Hanorissio looked down again at the trial record he'd been reading. It wasn't as interesting as the meeting just past, and it was hard to get back to it. But he'd be happy to forego the kind of national emergency that was developing—to have nothing but the routine affairs of a nation at peace with its neighbors—especially the poorly-known "neighbor" some eight thousand miles west.
* * *
When they left the Fortress, Brokols and Reeno didn't go back to the apartment. Instead they went to a nearby satta shop to sit quietly in a corner and talk, and to eat the breakfast they hadn't yet had. The shopkeeper gave Brokols dirty looks—Brokols had noticed more and more of those since the rallies had begun—but they were served readily enough, and the food was actually quite good.
The rallies still continued; Brokols had lied to Kryger about that the evening before. He was surprised things hadn't turned ugly—had asked Reeno if safeguards might not be necessary to protect him from violence. The Hrummean had looked surprised. Hrum's people would require truly extreme provocation for that, he'd said. He himself would be protection enough.
Such widespread public moderation remained somewhat unreal to Brokols. True, Eltrienn had explained the purpose of the rallies, and also true, the one he'd heard had not been truly inflammatory. But it seemed to Brokols that some people would still be driven by them to violence. In Almeon to make a public speech without a permit was a felony because of the violence that might result.
This morning though, the Almite paid little attention to the shopkeeper's look. He had things on his mind: the ingredients for black powder. Carbon shouldn't be a problem; not if crushed and powdered charcoal would serve, and surely it would. And sulfur? They were bound to have sulfur here.
"Reeno," he said, "I need a substance that I don't know the name of in your language. It's a yellow powder, a rather pale yellow. Do you have such a substance here?"
"Perhaps. When we've eaten, I'll take you to an herbalist's shop, and you can see what he has."
"What I need isn't a plant substance."
"Herbalists use all lands
of materials besides plants. It's simply that historically, plant materials are what they began with, and I suppose they're still the most important. But an herbalist will have most of the substances known to man."
"Hmm." Brokols relapsed into silent thought. So probably neither charcoal nor sulfur will be a problem. But saltpeter? I wouldn't know the stuff if I saw it. What was it, really? He recalled something about saltpeter being obtained from the large deposits of nightbird dung in certain caves on Kelthos, Almeon's southernmost island. Was it unique to nightbird dung, or was it found in other dung? And saltpeter wasn't simply dung; it would be a substance in the dung. How would one extract it? He hadn't the slightest notion.
Well, he told himself, if herbalists use all sorts of substances, they must know how to get them. The question is, do they have saltpeter?
"Reeno, do you have nightbirds on Hrumma?" He translated the Almaeic name for it, a compound of night and bird. "They're a bird that stays in caves during the daytime, where it's dark. They come out at night and catch insects."
"Yes, we have birds like that."
"What do you call them?"
"What you did. Nightbirds."
Brokols didn't pursue the matter further just then. It would have been indelicate to discuss dung at a meal.
But somehow the ancients had made saltpeter, probably in a form none too pure, and made gunpowder with it. And if they had, presumably he could too. He'd better. The amirr expected it of him.
Thirty
Neither moon was up; only starlight relieved the darkness, and only distant surf the silence, that and the soft sound of hooves on earth. Tirros made no attempt to sneak up on the compound. He'd nearly used up his kaabor; he'd have to get another here, and he couldn't do that unnoticed.
And they wouldn't know here of the murder, he was sure of it. His father wouldn't have made it public; he was too protective of the family reputation for that.
Still, he was tense when the gate guard held up the lantern, opening the bullseye to see who was coming.
"Mr. Tirros!" there was surprise in the man's voice, but no pleasure. "Just a minute." Climbing down from his platform, the guard opened the gate, and Tirros rode in past him. The man paused to close it. "I'll wake a groom to tend your kaabor, sir," he added.
"No. I'll take care of it myself." Tirros swung stiffly from the saddle and led the animal to the nearby stable, leaving the gateman staring after him. Mister Tirros tending his own mount?
He didn't actually. He took off neither saddle nor bridle, and of course didn't rub the animal down. Didn't even remove the bit from its mouth, fork hay into the manger or give the beast a dipper of grain which, after three days of ill use, it sorely needed.
It was darker inside than out, but he knew the stable. He felt over another animal, found it satisfactory, found tack on pegs, put bridle, blanket, and saddle on it and the bit in its mouth. He'd want to leave quickly when he was done here. Then he left the stable and went to the house, walking softly, raised the latch as silently as he could, and entered on predator's feet.
He knew where his aunt kept her ready cash. As a child he'd sneaked silver pieces from it more than once, only three or four at a time so she'd never notice, or at least never be sure.
It was still there—a small wooden chest half full of loose silver. With a little leather drawstring purse that by its weight held gold; that was new. He didn't think to wonder why he hadn't found it there before. He put the purse in his belt pouch, then closed the chest, put it back, and slipped into the hall, feeling the weight of the gold on his belt. He'd be glad to transfer it to a saddlebag.
He knew which room had been his sister's. If she was there now, he'd begin his real revenge. And she was! Her door was slightly ajar for the breeze, and listening at it, he could hear her breathing. He slipped inside. It was her all right; it wasn't too dark to mistake the slender form. He closed the door behind him, heart thudding now, hardly able to breathe for excitement. He removed his soft boots, unbelted his pants, stripped them off, then kneeling, fumbled a vial from his belt pouch and opened it.
Hasn't moved, he told himself, but she will soon enough. She'd even made it easy for him, sleeping nude with the pillow shoved half off the bed. He put the vial on the night table, took the pillow and with sudden violence jammed it over her face, throwing his body atop hers to hold her down. She grabbed at the pillow and, stronger than he'd expected, tried to push it away, struggling violently, twisting, bucking, but he stayed atop her until, after half a minute or so, she went limp.
As quickly as he'd moved before, he put the pillow aside, grabbed her nose, and with the other hand spilled bitter powder from the vial into her open mouth, then as quickly jammed the pillow over her face again to keep her from yelling till the drug had taken effect. Again he kept her smothered for half a minute, then raised it, not wanting her dead yet, thinking half a minute enough.
She spit almost at once, a mouthful of saliva and drug, at the same instant jabbing Tirros hard in one eye with stiff fingers. He cried out, grabbing at his face with both hands, and she shoved, rolled, dumping him onto the floor, stumbled over him and ran gasping and screeching into the hall.
Tirros heard his aunt's voice call, asking what the matter was, and naked below the waist, groped for his pants, then scrambled barefoot across the bed and out the window. Tears flowed copiously from both eyes, and he ran nearly blind across the garden, stumbling into and over things, felling, scrambling, yelping at a stubbed toe, a scraped shin, heading blindly for the sound of surf until he felt sand beneath his feet, then a breaker washing over them. Turning north, he ran limping along the beach, feet slapping on wet sand, carrying his pants, the sounds of shouts from the house spurring him on.
* * *
Juliassa had realized what was happening as soon as the smothering pillow and male body had wakened her. She even knew who it was, who it had to be, though her face was covered. She'd stopped her struggles while she still had strength, hoping the pillow would be removed. And she'd known at first bitter taste what her brother had dumped in her mouth, what it had to be.
Somehow, instead of running to her aunt's room for protection, she ran out of the building and across the same garden that Tirros would cross seconds later, ran to the beach and into the water, not looking back, swimming out through and beyond a high-running surf spawned somewhere at sea by a storm. Then she turned south, parallel to the shore, swimming hard. Soon she tired though, and treading water felt an undertow, which frightened her more than her brother did now. She paused to peer at the beach, scanning, seeing no one. Nothing moved. She must be more than a quarter mile from the compound, she thought.
She could feel the drug in her, feel the hungering in her body, her terror feeding on it, exaggerating it, till she was more the effect of her fear than of the drug. If Tirros got near her now! . . . or any man! She swam toward the beach, still slanting away from the compound, and once ashore ran southward, gasping for breath, keeping to where the larger breakers had wetted and kept firm the sand. From time to time she cast a hurried glance back over her shoulder, and occasionally ran through the run-out of the surf.
The tide was coming in, the beach narrowing. Staggering with fatigue, she slowed to a walk, the terror ebbing. She came to a notch in the cliffs, littered with boulders, and scrambling up it, lay down miserable in the blackness. Her exertions had burned off the peak of the drug effect already, but it was still strong in her.
As the heat of her running dissipated, she began to shiver. She almost climbed back down to return to the house, but fought off the temptation. She'd stay where she was till the drug wore off.
Meanwhile it was Brokols she fantasized about, until at last she slipped into a sleep of exhaustion.
* * *
Tirros tired more quickly than his sister would, and soon slowed to a walk. A mile north of the compound was a stretch where the beach pinched out. He was caught between cliff and rising tide, each breaker now hissing over his feet, so
me wetting him to the knees. Not far ahead, waves broke against sheer rock.
He realized then that he should have gone south, but to go back now meant capture, he was sure.
Just ahead was a jumble of boulders, the largest as big as a shed. After pulling on his pants, he went to them and clambered wet and slipping onto one of the smaller. From there, finding toeholds for his bare feet, he scrambled onto the largest, where he hoped he'd be safe from the tide.
Soon he was shivering, and the rock was a hard bed. Tears began to flow. He clutched his badly scraped shin and moaned almost continually. His leg hurt, and his toe. He had no kaabor. He was hungry. And somewhere, probably in the house, the heavily loaded belt had pulled from his pants, leaving him without money or knife. Everyone was against him, even Hrum, and guards were looking for him with swords.