by Garon Whited
“You really should eat,” I observed.
“Woman, I’ll eat when I’m—” he began, then straightened. I think he realized it was not his wife’s voice, even if it was something she obviously said a lot. He turned easily and I was pleased to see he didn’t seem to be in any pain. He looked at me and stared hard for a moment. I recognized his weatherbeaten face; he had much better color, if reddened and leathery counts as a color.
“You’ll recuperate more quickly if you eat,” I advised. “Trust me. I get distracted by things I’m working on, too.”
He got out of his chair and went to one knee, fist on the floor. I realized he wasn’t as old as I thought. He was one of those people that age quickly to a weatherbeaten fifty and just stay there forever.
“Your Majesty.”
I tried really hard not to let that bother me. I don’t like being formal all the time, or even most of the time. After the third one in an hour, it gets annoying. Any more than that and I get grumpy. I really need to learn to ignore it.
“Rise,” I told him. “You are feeling well? No soreness, fever, or other pains?”
“I am well, Your Majesty,” he assured me, climbing to his feet. He leaned on the chair to do it, though.
“Still weak, or dizzy?”
“A little weak, Your Majesty, yes.”
“Eat more,” I ordered him. He looked pained and a little desperate.
“As you say, Your Majesty.”
“Now, tell me about this giant crossbow.”
“Majesty?”
I rubbed my forehead for a moment, trying to phrase things properly.
“Flim, you’re a citizen of the Kingdom of Karvalen. That means you don’t have to call me ‘Majesty’ in every sentence. You can use pretty much any respectful term during a conversation and I won’t mind. If you were standing in my throne room to answer my questions before the court, you’d be calling me ‘Your Majesty’ all the time. As it is, I’m trying to just talk with you, not conduct an inquisition.
“So,” I concluded, “during this conversation, I want you to use a new and different term every time you say something—and you’ve already used ‘Majesty’. Got that?”
“I… yes, your… Magnificence?”
“It’s a start,” I sighed. “Now, tell me about this giant crossbow of yours. What’s the problem?”
At last, I touched a nerve.
“What isn’t the problem!” he groaned. He gestured me to the sand tray table and waved a hand over it. “I’ve tried six different woods—you have to get a tree big enough to carve down into shape for the bow, see? All of them break before they bend far enough to be useful. And the chains! I tried rope of all sorts, then braided ropes together, then went to chains… there’s nothing that will hold that kind of tension and still serve as a bowstring.”
He stopped talking for a moment when he turned his gaze from his drawing to look at me.
“Um. My lord.”
“I see your problem. Got any ideas?”
“Uh, yes. There’s another tree coming in this week, a morat tree. It’s a softwood, not a hardwood, but I tried all the hardwoods we have; maybe this will be a bit more flexible. I’ve asked Wethel for a heavier chain, but he says he’s got a lot of new work, now that Kavel’s moved off to Karvalen… Sire?” I nodded at him.
“Good thought. Have you tried laminating layers of woods together for the bow?”
“Huh?”
“Here,” I said, and took his stylus. “See, one solid piece, like this, gets a lot of stress when it bends. See here, in the curve, how the outside is much longer than the inside? It’s trying to rip itself apart. But if we have a lot of thinner layers,” I sketched in the sand, “and they bend the same way, the slide next to each other, so the bending force isn’t so bad, and you don’t rip it apart. The plains tribes do something like it, on a smaller scale, with the bows they use.”
He stared at the damp sand like I’d just drawn something to summon demons.
“That’s… That’s…”
“It’s just a thought,” I told him. “Tell you what… why don’t you try building small ones—say, things you can actually lift? Models of the real thing, just to see how it all fits together. You can probably build a dozen from just the wreckage out front; then you can figure out the ratio of thickness to length, what’s the strongest pull you can get, and so on.”
“That will take time,” he said. “Your Highness?”
“I think that’s for princes and princesses,” I noted, “but you’re on the right track. Anyway, I’m interested in these things. What got you involved in this sort of project?”
“Oh, my father was a merchant captain, uh, Kingness. He never liked pirates, and when I was a lad I was forever taking things apart. Since I couldn’t set foot on a ship without upchucking, he finally told me to work on building a bigger crossbow, one he could use against pirates. So I started on it.”
“He was a merchant captain?” I prompted.
“Got taken by pirates, your lordship, about the time my eldest was born.”
“Ah. And you’re still working on these things?”
“Yes, Sir King. He left behind a lot of money.”
“Good.” I already noticed that the place was very nice, well-built and well-furnished. But it was also all rather weathered, getting on toward worn. I doubted there was anything, aside from clothes, that was younger than the younger son—and most of it from Flim’s father’s time.
At a guess, his inheritance wasn’t as large as it used to be.
“Tell me,” I said, “would you like to experiment with making these sorts of things for me?”
“Yes, Sire. King. Kingship?” he asked, desperately.
“Look, drop it. Just call me ‘Sire’ and move on, okay?”
“Yes. Sire.” He was much relieved.
“Fine. Here’s what I want you to do.” I explained about scaling, and taking a crossbow from a one-man size to a two-man size. “I’m pretty sure I can find you a semi-portable crossbow to examine, and I can see from the giant thing out there that you’ve got some ideas about gearing for winching back a bowstring. Just build me the best crossbow—big crossbow—you can. When you’ve got that perfected, then we’ll concern ourselves with making it even bigger. And, of course, we’ll also know a lot more about what we had to do to make a regular crossbow bigger, which will help a lot.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Great!” I took out a pouch of silver and thumped it into a corner of the sand table. “There’s your first payment. I’ll make sure more gets to you as time goes on. And if you run into anything that you feel is a serious problem, or discover you’ve had a resounding success, you have word sent to me about it. Okay?”
“Yes, Sire!” He sounded as relieved as he looked.
“By the way, who made the sand table? I think it’s brilliant and ingenious.”
He blushed heavily. That didn’t seem right on his face.
“I did,” he admitted.
“Good work. Very good. Clever, too.” I smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “But, pay attention to me, here,” I said, leaning forward. He leaned toward me to listen.
“I’m going to have a word with your wife,” I told him. “If you don’t take things easy for at least a week, she’s going to let me know, and then I’ll have to come back here to express how disappointed I am. Got that?”
He nodded miserably. He wasn’t looking forward to a week under his wife’s thumb.
“On the other hand, I fully expect you to have a lot of ideas all drawn out and ready to build in a week,” I continued, “and if you need helpers, I feel certain I can find some for you. All right?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Good. Now, you can finish eating, rest up, and plan the things you want to try first in your new crossbow designs. And don’t look so glum! You’ve got a job—the King’s Artillerist.”
“What’s an artillerist?”
“Nothing, right now
. You’re inventing it.”
“Ohhhhhh,” he said, nodding. “I’ll get right to work on it… ah, I mean, in a week.”
“Good man.”
I made sure he had a good healing spell still running on him; sucking chest wounds are nothing to trifle with. Then I went and found his wife; she was hiding in the kitchen. I think she was afraid to come out while I was there. But I did manage introductions with Jessa, and I explained about Flim taking things easy for a week. I also put a spell on a wooden spoon; if she broke it, I would know it.
She stood there in her kitchen, holding the enspelled spoon, and watched me go with a look I can only describe as amazed.
Sometimes, I have good days. I think this is one of them.
I made several other stops while I was in Mochara. I spoke to Timon; his woodcutter shop was festooned with little clay cups full of dirt. His seedling production was coming along as quickly as could be expected, which was good; we needed to cut a lot of trees, and replacing them was a priority.
Then there was Gorbal, a stonemason. I jinglingly persuaded him to help with the construction of a road into the Eastrange. I didn’t need much in the way of skilled labor there, just someone who could direct laborers. If they could break up rock from the Eastrange, cart it into the path of the spreading stone from Mochara, and lay it out in a line for the spreading stone to follow…
That would make things go faster. I don’t know how much faster, but I think it will multiply the speed the stone spreads. I don’t know how I know, either, but I’m getting used to that.
With only a little prompting, he also promised to hire help from the beggars’ ghetto, which pleased me immensely.
I’m the King. Having beggars in my kingdom bothers me, especially when they can work. They should be doing something, not just… just… dying in a burned-out area of ruins while hoping for a handout.
Besides, this might get them permanent employment. Maybe even some skills.
Yeah, yeah; I’m one of those people. Judge me later, but remember: it’s better than using them for dinner, okay?
I checked on the progress of the mirrors I wanted; two were ready. I wondered, then, who should have one in Mochara if Tort was in Karvalen. Thomen? He was going to be leaving for Karvalen, soon; he might not come back. I could make it a point to meet the captain of the city watch, but the watch is the police, not the people in charge of the place.
Amber was my only real choice.
Still, she was my daughter—that is, the daughter of the King of Karvalen, and therefore a Princess of the Blood Royal and all that. Forgetting for the moment that her goddess probably wanted me fried in my own grease, Amber was a pretty decent person. She deserved the benefit of the doubt. After all, she’s been Mochara’s effective ruler for quite some time and the place is still kicking along.
On a more political front, she probably needed someplace of her own to govern. If I’d been awake for it, I might have encouraged her to take up some political duties as she grew up. Things might not be so awkward, and I might get along with the Goddess of the Sun a little better.
Okay, maybe not that last part.
I had them wrap the mirrors in quilted blankets and I brought them with me to see Amber. We traveled at a walk; the mirrors were a bit bulky and I wanted them intact.
When we arrived at the Sparky’s temple, I had the distinct feeling that the statue was looking at me. I couldn’t tell for sure. Amber was out in front of it, standing in a shaft of sunlight, and apparently sermonizing at a number of worshippers. She saw me—it’s hard to miss the guy on a seven-foot metal horse carrying something the size of a small door on his head—and I waved to indicate there was no hurry.
I slid off Bronze, carefully, and carried the mirrors inside. Amber kept on with her sermon, apparently unconcerned. Several of the worshippers were distracted by my arrival, but nobody actually got up or tried to bow in the middle of it.
Inside, I unwrapped mirrors and set them against a wall. They looked identical, which was exactly what I’d asked for. There was even a small bell built into the top of the frame, as per spec. My plan was to enchant the things so they would automatically connect with each other even if the person using them wasn’t a magical adept. It wouldn’t ruin them as scrying devices, but you would have to really work at it to get them to look anywhere else. Buying another mirror would probably be easier. I also planned to add a correspondence chime: hitting one bell would cause the other bell to ring.
Not certain of how long the sermon or ceremony or service would last, I just did some preliminary work on them, mostly to build on their affinity for each other. I’d get into the heavy lifting once I finished talking to Amber, hopefully.
Tianna came in while I was doing this and sat down to watch. There’s not much to watch when I’m working with such forces, unless you’re an adept. I just stare at something, usually, and wave my hands around it or draw on things.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Working a spell.”
“What for?”
“So these mirrors can let people talk to each other.”
“How?”
“They’ll work like windows. You look in one, you see out the other. And you can talk into one, and the person at the other mirror will hear you.”
“Even if they’re far apart?”
“Yep.”
“So, I could talk to someone outside?”
“If that’s where the other mirror is.”
“Or on the other side of town?”
“If that’s where the other mirror is,” I repeated.
“What about at the haunted mountain?”
“It’s called ‘Karvalen,’ and yes, the mirrors should let you do that. In fact, that’s where I’m going to take one of them. One of these should be staying here, with your mother.”
“Does that mean I could use it to talk to you?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Tianna watched me for a while again while I worked.
“Does that mean you could help me with my numbers?”
“Sure. I’m good with numbers.”
“I know. Everyone says you’re a number magician, too.”
I stopped and looked at her. A number magician. Using numbers to make magic. A magician of great training in numbers. Huh.
“That might be the most accurate thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” I observed. She nodded, swinging her feet under the bench. I went back to work.
“Is Bronze here?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Can I go for a ride?”
“If your mother says it’s okay.”
“Oh. She’s busy.”
“I saw.” A thought occurred to me. “What is it that you do all day, anyway?”
“Well… I have to practice healing things. We’ve got a garden, and I’m supposed to bend leaves and branches and stuff, then make it all go back together again.” She made a face. “I’m not even allowed to set things on fire if I can’t fix them. It’s boring.”
“I imagine it is. What else?”
“I had to learn to read, and I have to read from the holy words of the Mother every day. And I have to count. Mom says that when I’m older, I’ll have to use a lot of math—I might even learn how to multiply and divide!”
“I’m sure you will. I’ll teach you.”
“Really?”
“Sure. You might even learn what an equation is, and algebra.”
“Algebra?”
“It’s using letters in place of numbers.”
“How can you do that?” she asked, frowning. “You can’t add a letter, can you?”
“It’s a form of higher math,” I told her. “You learn the easy stuff first because you have to know the easy stuff to understand the harder stuff. You had to learn letters, then to put them together to make words, and then words became sentences. It’s like that.”
“Oh.”
“So, what else do you do?”
“Meditating,” I corrected.
“Meditating,” she agreed. “That’s boring, too. She only wants to talk about the glory and honor and being a priestess and stuff.”
“Do you never go out to play with friends?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have many friends. Just other kids I know from the evening prayers.”
“Well, why not go play with them?”
“I’m not allowed to go places where I can set stuff on fire,” she said, quietly. “Sometimes I have accidents.”
“Ah. Yes, I can see how that would be an issue,” I admitted. If the child can’t control her temper, a town of wood and thatch might turn into a very small town very suddenly. Certainly more embarrassing than a potty accident.
“Can they come see you?” I asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I might set them on fire,” she said, sadly. “I promised I wouldn’t, but Mom said I might get upset if someone teased me. I said I wouldn’t!”
“I believe you.” I finished my preparatory work on the mirrors and moved to a bench to sit. “Would it help, do you think, if your friends were temporarily fireproof?”
“I don’t understand. Everything burns.”
“Well, yes, eventually. I could put a spell on people that makes them really hard to burn, though. You’d have to be angry with them for a long time, and really trying to burn them. Then they’d be safe enough if they came over, wouldn’t they? I mean, if you got really angry and accidentally started to set someone on fire, they could just run away before you succeeded.”
“That would be wonderful!” Tianna enthused. “Could you? Could you really?”
“Sure. I bet I could even put a spell on you, so whenever you tried to burn something, your flame shot straight up—then you could play with other kids outside. It wouldn’t last long if you fired off, but it would signal everyone to get away. And it would be a lot easier than putting a fire-shield spell on everybody else, that’s for sure.”