by John Dalmas
But the dreamed departure time was much earlier than originally expected, so it didn't really prey on his mind. Much better to err in that direction than in the other, although it would be a terrific nuisance to be more than a couple of weeks early.
Fifty-Seven
Brokols had been freshly barbered and manicured. And he'd bathed thoroughly, of course. Wearing a simple unadorned robe of perfect whiteness, he stood at one side of the gazebo, wrapped in a sense of unreality, as if in a dream.
On the opposite side stood Juliassa, similarly robed but with a loose, plaited belt of gold cord round her waist. To Brokols she looked incredibly beautiful. Her hair, more copper than blond and grown now to shoulder length, had been brushed straight, and it sheened in the lamplight. Her eyes were downcast, her smile demure, but he had no doubt that would change when the ceremony was over.
Master Jerrsio presided at the altar. Nearly half the gazebo was reserved for the master and the two celebrants, The amirr and naamir stood together in the center, and behind them, standing guests filled the rest of the gazebo, to spill broadly out across a lawn roofed and made sparse by huge spreading trees. Lamplight and shadow fluttered on intent faces. To Elver Brokols it had the feel of another world, another time.
Near Juliassa, at the edge of the gazebo, a seated musician had been playing dreamily, unobtrusively, on a lap harp. Now she began to stroke the strings more strongly, and a flutist behind her began to play, generating music unlike any that Brokols had heard either here or in Almeon. It made gooseflesh flow from his scalp to his legs, and he felt as if he enclosed his body instead of being enclosed by it.
Master Jerrsio looked at Juliassa, then at Brokols, and gestured them to him. They walked toward each other, eyes meeting, and again Brokols' scalp prickled, then they turned and laced the master.
"Good evening," Jerrsio said. "It is the time. Are both of you here because you wish to be here?"
"I am." They said it in virtual unison.
"Excellent. Now I will speak to you of certain things that are a part of marriage."
His eyes were level, calm, direct. Safe. "Love one another," he said, "but do not bind one another with your love. For you are separate beings, and it is better that there be space between you, for freedom of life and movement. Fill each other's cup, but drink each from your own. Sing and dance together to life's music, but let each of you be separate, as the strings of Yelldas' harp are separate, though they vibrate together and contribute to the same music.
"Love can be joyful, and it need not be painful. Let your love be neutral, not clutching, not demanding. Let it be free of 'must' and 'must not.' Do not command where to go and how to be, but find pleasure in letting the other live. Mention, do not demand; suggest, do not insist. And let the mentioning be light as air, the suggestion without force.
"Admire one another but do not adore one another, for adoration is rope that restricts and glue that immobilizes. Enjoy each other. Give freely to one another and accept from each other, but do not force what you would give, and do not demand what you would accept."
Jerrsio paused, still looking mildly at the couple in front of him. Brokols stood bemused by his words, aware of little else. Reeno had said somewhat the same things to him, both in his lesson on being a husband and in the wedding rehearsal. But from Jerrsio the words struck deeper.
"Have you understood what I have said?" Jerrsio asked.
The replies came in unison again: "I have."
"Good. Does either of you feel any reservation about what I have said?"
"No."
"None."
"Good. Then in the name of Hrum, I bless the marriage which Hrum-In-Thee has created. Go and share your love each with the other."
The master grinned then and gestured them together. The couple embraced and kissed slowly, tenderly, while the crowd applauded, then they all flowed into the palace.
Food and drink had been set out in the party hall, but that was for the guests. Leonessto and Morrvia steered the couple into a small room and toasted the marriage, then sat down with them for a light and private meal. When they'd eaten, the amirr rang a hand bell. A servant came in, and Torissia, and while the servant cleared away the food and dishes, Torissia led the couple to the small, third-floor bridal suite, leaving them alone there. Her trial as chaperone was over.
Fifty-Eight
The newlyweds had planned to go to Sea Cliff the next day. Not for a vacation; they both had far too much to do. But Sea Cliff was a better place to do what they intended. Sleekit and K'sthuump, and Sleekit's two packmates, had come to the firth, so that Juliassa could keep track of the sullsi volunteers through the Vrronnkiess telepathic network. That morning they'd started off swimming south to Sea Cliff.
The intention was for Brokols to get a good working knowledge of sullsit, so he could help oversee the sullsi in mining the Almaeic fleet.
They delayed leaving for three days though, because when Brokols approached to mount his kaabor, it kicked him in the leg and broke his shinbone. A clean break, fortunately. Casts hadn't been invented yet in Hrumma, and the technology for pinning broken bones was well beyond them. Such a break required leaving splints on for a dozen weeks or more, while crutches were used.
This meant a change in operating plans, of course. Now Brokols would stay behind when the schooners left. Jonkka would learn sullsit with him (a project that had the big guard worried), and he'd go with the minesetting flotilla in Brokols' place, to help Juliassa oversee the mining.
* * *
The three extra days in Theedalit were not wasted. An omission had occurred to Brokols, an overlooked opportunity. If the emperor's fleet had sailed, there should be at least occasional wireless traffic between its flagship and the rest. And if they'd left when he thought, they'd probably be near enough now for him to pick up their calls.
So he had his chair wheeled into the wireless room, prepared to spend as much time as it took, tuning up and down the shortwave band looking for wireless traffic. The first evening he'd gotten a surprise. He found traffic that proved to be between Kryger and the Gorrbian invasion base at the northern end of the isthmus. Either Kryger had given up his backup set, or he'd had a spare. Their language was Djezian, of course, and its alphabet was different from Almeon's. But the sounds were mostly similar, and Kryger had chosen to wireless Djezian messages with the Almaeic alphabet rather than develop and learn a wireless code for the Djezian.
It was a valuable frequency to know, and it made Brokols more willing to stay behind when the flotilla left. He could monitor the invasion headquarters' reports to Haipoor.
The next day he ran into wireless traffic near the edge of his instrument's ability to receive. (His was considerably less sensitive than Kryger's larger set.) But he got enough signal to know it was the fleet. His plans were not too advanced. Hopefully they were advanced enough; somehow he felt they were.
Fifty-Nine
The fishing boat Merrias Lar wallowed and staggered as the two men at her steering oar held her at an angle across the waves. She wore no canvas that night, not even her jib, getting her steerage from the brawny backs of eight men at the oars. The wind was a hoarse bass, the foaming surf a distant growl, but through the darkness, the skipper had seen a gap in the breakers, the sort of gap that should mean a stream mouth, and they angled toward it, hoping to reach its channel before the surf grabbed them.
They rode a wave in diagonally, the steersman fighting the oar, and shallow though they drafted, both skipper and steersman tensed, half expecting to run aground. Then they were through, into a river channel some sixty or seventy feet wide, flanked with rushes eight feet tall or more.
The skipper knew what it was, or thought he did. On the Gulf of Storms, much of the Djezian shore was marshland. Several rivers came down from the north, each forming a delta at its mouth, emptying into the gulf through multiple channels. This would be a lesser channel of the River Bron, the skipper told himself, unless they'd been driven farther
west than he thought.
He walked between his oarsmen, slopping ankle deep in water they'd shipped, to the bow where he took up the sounding pole. This lower reach of the channel was deep; he couldn't find the bottom with it. Some two hundred yards upstream, they came to a rough wharf, shored with logs laid end to end behind stout pilings, and semi-decked with ill-sorted poles. On it a row of boats lay upside down.
He waved a thick arm, then gestured. "We'll land here," he said quietly, and the steersman angled them toward it. Two of the seamen crouched, and as the Lar drew close alongside, they jumped, lines in their fists, and made fast to pilings.
"Take up the decking and bail her out," the skipper ordered. "We'll wait here till the storm eases." Then he and his steersman got out and examined the boats on the wharf. There were ten of them, a somewhat varied lot, of a size for fishing. But why here? There was no hamlet in sight, no habitation at all, no racks or reels for drying nets and lines.
The rain, which had become intermittent, had turned off now, at least for the moment, and stars shown through breaks in the clouds. Great Liilia peered at them through scud, lighting the scene.
He went to an end boat and called to his men. "Help me turn her over," he ordered. They did. It was a fishing boat, fairly representative of the others there, a bit over twenty feet long—maybe twenty-two or three, with an eight-foot beam, and a sixteen-inch keel that ran most of her length. Stowed beneath her were ten oars plus a steering oar. And a stubby mast with folded canvas, the sort of thing you might give a landlubber to sail.
"Look at all the benches in her!" the steersman said. "I've never seen the like!"
The captain's eyes took it all in. These were no seats for a single oarsman, but ran across from flank to flank. "Aye," he said. "And the size of her water cask." He stepped quickly to the next boat in line, and they tipped it enough that he could see her equipage. "The same, or close enough," he muttered. "They'll seat thirty men, about."
"What in Hrum's name are they for?" one of the men asked.
They looked at one another. Several had the same thought. They tipped up two more; each had benches like the first two. "One'll get you three," the steersman said, "that there's boats like these in every channel around here. And these ten alone would carry three hundred men."
"Aye," said a sailor. "Meanwhile I'll bet there's damned little fishin' gettin' done. Old Gamaliiu probably commandeered every boat on the south Djezian shore."
The skipper's eyes were hard. "Let's turn this one back over," he said. "Then bail the Lar and stretch the awnings. We'll catch some sleep and leave as soon as the wind allows. Usippi, the first watch's yours."
"And take the hatchets to these?" one of the men asked, gesturing at the Gorrbian boats.
The skipper scowled; the thought of holing a boat made a bilious taste in his mouth. "No," he said. "We'll leave 'em as is. They're just ten out of however many; and if they know we've found 'em, they'll be warned and set guards.
"Leave no sign we've been here. We'll take the word home and let Leonessto and his folks decide what to do about 'em."
Sixty
. . .and their powder charges were uniform. Because instead of teaching the Gorballis to make gunpowder, which would not have been suitably uniform and would thus have resulted in inaccurate fire, Lord Kryger appropriated much of the standardly manufactured powder in carefully weighed powder bags in the magazines of the Emperor Dard. This permitted excellent accuracy. He also gave the Gorballis most of the Dard's explosive shells, and had the cannon barrels cast and rifled to accommodate them.
Captain Stedmer at first refused to surrender either powder or shells. By wireless, Lord Kryger then took the matter to the prime minister, who authorized him to confiscate them if necessary. At that, of course, Captain Stedmer gave in.
From: Memoirs of Midshipman Erlin Werlingus
* * *
General Doziellos stood on the wall, peering through his telescope. Two days after Brokols had left Kammenak, lookouts at the advance forts had reported Gorrbian army engineers setting up a vast camp on the plain across the border. Now, this morning, they'd reported the appearance of numerous small haystacks associated with paddocks for the Gorrbian kaabors. Hay would be brought in, of course. But a dozen of the stacks had each a wagon and cart parked near it, with tarpaulins tied over them. Much as the foreigner, Brokols, had said might happen.
Lowering the telescope, Doziellos turned to his intelligence aide. "Major, d'you see those haystacks? With the covered carts by them? I want you to carry out Cannon Plan Two tonight. Find out if there's anything besides hay in them."
The man lowered his own glass. "Cannon Plan Two. Yessir. And for what it's worth, sir, my guts tell me we'll find what the foreigner said we would." He'd wrapped his tongue cautiously around the foreign word, cannon. It'd be interesting to see one, especially in action, but not pointed in his direction.
* * *
Their uniforms were dyed black and their faces smeared with charcoal. They moved through the starlit night almost as quietly as a barbarian hunter.
Lieutenant Vendunno could see the haystack now, and more dimly the wagon. He stopped creeping, the two men with him following suit. After examining what he could see and hear of their immediate surroundings, he signalled—made three low sharp hisses—and continued toward the haystack. His two men should be creeping to examine the cart and wagon.
There seemed to be no sentries around. Probably the Gorballis saw no need of any and preferred not to draw attention to the haystacks. Or maybe they were just hay. Nonetheless he slowed as he neared the stack, and lowered himself to his belly, crawling.
The hay smelled fresh-cured. When he reached it, he burrowed in, forcing his way, eyes closed to protect them, feeling ahead of him as he crawled, breathing dust, and quickly touched something hard that felt like stout timber. He stopped, felt around, discovered a rather small thick wheel. Pushing against the weight of hay, he got to his knees, hands probing higher now. Leaves and chaff itched inside his uniform. He felt hard cylindrical metal with the texture of unpolished iron.
On hands and knees once more, he backed away carefully, trying to disturb the hay as little as possible, then stopped and rose to his knees again, feeling above him. The iron was still there. His hands crawled, found an end of it. With a hole! A hole that his hand said was about the width of his palm.
Lowering himself again, he crawled backward out of the stack and looked around. He wished he could take off his uniform and shake the chaff out. Both his men were ready and waiting for him. Without a whispered word they crawled toward their own lines. When they were well away, they heard trotting hooves, and flattened till the Gorrbian security patrol was well past. After that they rose to a crouch and hurried, but not carelessly, until the ends of two ridges rose on each side. Inky shadows filled the canyon bottom, and a low voice challenged: "Who's there?"
"Borrsio's grandsons," Vendunno answered quietly.
"Advance and be recognized."
They did, one of the sentries stepping out to peer closely at them, while others unseen surely stood by with bent bows, naked swords, and one with trumpet ready to blare.
"They're all right," said the first, and the reconn patrol walked through, still quietly.
"Maatio, what did you find?" Vendunno asked at last.
"The cart was full of cylinders, sir, tapering at one end to a sort of blunt point. About this big around." He indicated a diameter of roughly four inches.
"Not iron balls then?"
"No, sir."
Vendunno looked at the other man. "And you?"
"The wagon had sacks in it. Felt as if they were full of sand."
Unconsciously the lieutenant began to walk faster, eager to report. It was pretty much as Doziellos suspected. The only difference was that the carts held cylinders instead of iron balls. Verdunno wondered if he'd be going out there again tomorrow night.
* * *
Doziellos had sent patrols to check out t
wo haystacks that had carts and wagons by them, and two that did not. They'd checked out as he'd expected: The stacks with carts and wagons concealed what could only be the "cannons" the foreigner had warned about. Those without wagons and carts seemed to be simply hay.
So, he thought, twelve cannons then. The only false note was that the carts held cylinders four or five inches across instead of iron balls. He didn't know what that might mean, but cannon they surely seemed to be, which meant carrying out Plan Three tomorrow night.
* * *
Great Lillia's crescent was setting later and thicker each night, casting more light. And they didn't want to be spotted by Gorrbian sentries or security patrols, so they hadn't started till well on toward midnight. Vendunno wasn't as relaxed about this one. Last night only three patrols besides his own had gone out. Tonight there were twelve, all told, which tripled the odds of someone being sported and alarming the whole damned Gorrbian army. And last night they'd chosen haystacks with no squad tents close at hand. Tonight they couldn't do that.