by Ron Miller
* * * * *
“Have you had any news from Toth?” asks Payne Roelt. Some time has passed since their last meeting. This time they are enjoying the absence of the king, who has become increasingly engrossed in the forthcoming exhibition, as intended. They are sharing a little wine, confiscated from some baron’s renowned cellar.
“Oh, yes,” replies General Praxx, “I received a reply even faster than I expected. But then, there is some considerable incentive.”
“Incentive?”
“I had no expectation that the baron would turn on his precious princess on the basis of a letter that could easily have been a lie or forgery.”
“That’s true. What did you do, then, to convince him of its genuineness?”
Before replying, the general takes a miniscule sip that barely disturbs the surface of his wine. “I included some proof that did indeed prove to be effective in convincing the baron of the serious nature of the threat to his beloved child.”
“And that was?”
“Her left hand.”
“You’re appalling, Praxx! Here, let me pour you a little more wine.”
“Thank you. This is excellent,” he says, then continued. “The situation is a desperate one, sir.”
“I meant no criticism, General. I take it that the action is absolutely necessary?”
“Certainly. I would’ve merely sent the girl’s ring, but there might’ve been many ways we could’ve come into its possession. And the hand by itself had no guarantee of being recognized by itself. The two together, however, I felt would be compelling.”
“Milnikov will do as we instruct, eh?”
“Absolutely. A note appended to his daughter’s letter informed him in no uncertain terms that he could expect a small package every week until we received his unconditional guarantee.”
“Brilliant. I commend you.”
“Thank you, sir. May I have one more of those biscuits? What are your first orders for the baron, sir?”
“Please, help yourself. I think, at the moment, nothing more than preventing, at any cost, Bronwyn from leaving Toth. But he’s not to do anything to compromise his present position of trust with her. If she suspects that he’s turned against her, she’ll find some way to avoid or elude him and we’ll be back where we started.”
“Excellent. I’ll have the order sent at once.”
“Now there is one other problem.”
“What is that?”
“I’ve intercepted this latest letter from Felix to Ferenc. The old dodderer is becoming stubborn. If he means what he says, he has no intention of surrendering her to us.”
“Doesn’t that amount to what we want anyway?”
“Yes and no. Keeping her quarantined in Toth checks her actions, but I only intend that to be a temporary measure. I don’t want to lose sight of her again, ever. On the other hand, while in Toth her influence on Felix will be powerfully persuasive. I must not only check, but mate.”
“Milnikov will go a long way toward doing that.”
“But not far enough. We must find something that will influence Felix more than the princess can. Enough to turn him against his own niece.”
“I can’t imagine what that could be.”
“I can.”
CHAPTER SIX
FLIGHT
“Baron! Baron! Wake up!” whispers Brownyn urgently, shaking the sleeping man by his shoulder. The baron, dreaming of a snake tickling his ear with its flickering tongue and hissing voice, groggily tries to brush it away.
“Come on! Get up and get dressed!”
“Eh? What?” he murmurs, his sharp image of a leering boa constrictor segueing into a dim, watery-looking princess. “Bronwyn?”
“It’s me. You have to get up.”
“Why? Whatever for? What time is it?”
“I don’t know . . . about three, I guess.”
“Three? In the morning?” He squeezes his eyes shut and when he reopenes them he asks a question more suited to the usually wary baron. “What’s wrong? What’re you doing here?”
“We have to get out of here.”
“Why? What’s happened’?”
“There’s not time to explain everything. Thud’s already waiting. Get together some clothes . . . traveling clothes . . . and see if you can find some money and weapons. Get Gyven up and tell him the same thing. Meet me by the garden hall downstairs. And whatever you do, keep quiet.”
The baron is puzzled, but he takes the princess’s words as seriously as she had spoken them. He knows as well as anyone that the grave Bronwyn is little given to whimsy, especially if it means being awake in the grim hours before dawn.
He does as his princess bade and soon he and an equally mystified Gyven are standing in the darkness, recognizing Thud and Bronwyn by their distinctive silhouettes as they stand before the glass-paned doors.
“What’s going on?” he again asks.
“Keep quiet. Come on outside, we’ll talk in the garden. There’s not much time.”
Opening the doors as little as needed to slip through, which meant, finally, wide open to allow Thud’s passage, the four conspirators who did not yet know in what they are conspiring crept along the dewy flagstones until a tall hedge hid them from the palace. The princess drew their heads together, and spoke in whispers.
“We must get out of Toth right away.”
“Why?” asks Gyven.
“We’re going to be arrested.”
“Arrested! Who’s going to arrest us?”
“Uncle Felix!”
“The king? I thought we are safe with him. Why would he arrest us?”
“He’s going to send us back to Tamlaght, to Payne and Ferenc.”
“He’s letting them extradite us? That’s impossible! He can’t have any conceivable reason to do that.”
“Payne’s threatened him.”
“Threatened? How? Felix has no reason to fear those two.”
“No, he doesn’t; but he is afraid of the Church.”
“The Church?”
“Yes, it’s threatened to excommunicate my uncle if he doesn’t turn us over to the Tamlaghtan authorities.”
“Can they do that?” asks Gyven.
“There’s no question about it,” replies the baron. “It puts the king in an awkward situation.”
“It certainly does,” Bronwyn says. “Musrum alone knows what would happen here if the king are to be excommunicated; I know he has to put that consideration before all others.”
“Which doesn’t make me feel all that much better.”
“Nor I.”
“What’re we going to do?”
“We have to get out of the country, to Ibraila, if absolutely necessary, or east into Udskaya. Neither Payne nor Felix could touch us there. There are no ties, nor even much love lost between those countries and ours.”
“Yes, but just for those very reasons, why would they give us sanctuary?”
“Why not?”
“Bringing us back, for the present moment, to our present situation,” interjected Gyven, “how do you suggest we leave the city, let alone get out of Londeac?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, um, I’d rather explain as we go. Which, I might add, ought to be immediately.”
“And what’s first on your agenda?”
“We need to get into the city.”
“Into it?”
“And as quietly as possible.”
“There isn’t any reason for anyone to stop us, is there?” asks the baron. “I mean, we’re not fugitives, yet, officially, are we?”
“No.”
“Well, then, I’ve got a splendid idea. Follow me.”
He leads the others through the winding courses of the garden, always taking care to keep as much as possible out of sight of the palace and its annexes. Milnikov and Gyven are carrying only a small bundle apiece, presumably the minimal amount of clothing that Bronwyn had suggested they bring and hopefully a weap
on or two, while the princess herself as well as Thud are more elaborately burdened. Thud is, especially, as encumbered as a pack mule although Bronwyn carries at least a token share, which includes, oddly enough, a length of steel chain whose dangling coils clink with an altogether unappreciated musicality.
The sky is dark, though whether it is moonless or not is a moot point, the darkness is due to a low ceiling of featureless clouds and either of the moons would have been invisible regardless. Whatever the cause, the lack of light is appreciated and the quartet slip through the gardens as undetectably as though they are invisible.
There are no guards posted within the royal enclosure, fortunately. Finally, the baron calls a halt at a small stone building which appears to be his destination. There is a windowless door recessed into the wall and the baron immediately goes to work on its lock. Not more than a minute passes before there is a quiet snick and the door swings open, not without a squeal that makes Bronwyn’s hair stand on end, so certain is she that it must be awakening people all through the palace. In reality it is scarcely more than a cricket-chirp’s-worth of sound. Inside the small building is a large, black mass that Bronwyn’s vision gradually resolves into a carriage.
“Good,” whispers the baron. “It’s here. Thud, go around to the other side. There’s a pair of big doors there. They’re locked with a chain, do you think you could break it?”
“I’ll try,” replies the giant, modestly.
Brownyn circles the big vehicle carefully, feeling her way around it in the dark.
“What good’s this going to do us?” she asks. A carriage is of no use without horses and she is irritated at the waste of time.
“You’ll see in a minute,” answers the baron, which irritates the princess even more.
There is a muffled sound, between a twang and a pop, from outside and a moment later Thud reappears, carrying a loop of broken chain. The baron orders Gyven to swing open the big doors, while he, Thud and the princess clamber into the carriage.
“This is stupid,” mutters Bronwyn.
The baron doesn’t answer her directly, but instead silently fumbles around the black dashboard. There is a click, a satisfied “Ah!” from the baron, and a small red light begins to glow dully. Between him and the princess, who shares the front seat, is a tiller-like handle. The baron grasps this, touches an unseen switch with his other hand, and a faint whine comes from somewhere beneath Bronwyn’s feet.
“It’s electric!” she cries as well as she could in a whisper.
“Yes, indeed!” replies the baron. The whine increases in pitch and the carriage otherwise silently begins to roll backwards into the alley beyond. “All right, then, where are we going?”
“Into the city.”
“And then?”
“I’d rather tell you as we go.”
“Have it your own way,” he replies, and, as Bronwyn detects an odd note of annoyance or exasperation in the baron’s voice, decides to exacerbate it by replying, “I will!”
Once the baron has left the alley and circumnavigated the palace, they find themselves on the same road they had taken into the city a few weeks earlier. The electric carriage rattles metallically as it crosses the bridge into Toth proper. Once they have gotten some distance from the palace, the baron switches on the large brass spotlight mounted on the curved bow of the machine.
“Holy Musrum!” says the princess, at last able to raise her voice. “Do you think we could be any more obvious’?”
“It doesn’t make much difference. Nobody except the very wealthy or very influential own these machines, so no one’s going to be foolhardy enough to stop us. In fact, we’re far less suspicious with the headlight on.”
At that moment they pass a strolling policeman. Bronwyn’s heart shrinks into a small hard ball, like a frightened armadillo, but the man merely salutes the humming, rattling vehicle with his baton and continues his rounds. He’d scarcely looked at them.
“See?” says the baron. “If we’d been on foot, we would’ve been immediately stopped and questioned.”
“Turn here.”
“This is familiar,” he comments as they bumped down the narrow street. “I have an idea where we’re going.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. But why?”
“You’ll see.”
As the baron had expected, Bronwyn guides the machine to the avenue on which is located the National Academy of Sciences. However, to his surprise, she has him drive on past, without even slowing down. They leave the main trans-park avenue and continue along a sinuous road that winds beneath tall, black trees that overhang the path in a manner that must have been calculated to be entrancingly shady in the daytime, but in the hours before dawn create only a gloomy tunnel. The princess orders the baron to stop the carriage at a point that looks no different from any other they have just passed. He follows her as she hops from the running board to the graveled road. Thud and Gyven silently join them.
“Stay with me,” she whispers, “and keep quiet.” The three men follow the girl along a nearly invisible path that winds among the ghostly birches. When they emerge from the woods the baron whispers, “Ah ha!”
Ahead, across a broad clearing, swaying ponderously in the lightly wafting breeze, is the ominous black bulk of the balloon. Beneath it the grass is hidden by shifting tendrils of mist rising from the cool, dank earth; the sphere looks as though it was already hovering above the clouds. Beyond is the enormous domed structure that holds the airship Albatross. To its left is a smaller building. No lights show in any of its windows. Bronwyn draws the baron’s ear near her mouth and says quietly, “Those are barracks and workshops.”
“Are there any guards?”
“I don’t think so, but let’s not take any chances.”
Circling the perimeter of the field, staying close against the background of trees, they eventually arrive, after what seems an interminable passage of time, behind the pyramidal pile of cylinders that had held the gas that inflated the balloon.
They still have seen no one.
“All right,” says Bronwyn, gathering her followers near to her. “Baron, you, Thud and Gyven get into the basket. Take this . . .” she shifts the bag she has been carrying from her shoulder and hand it to Milnikov, “ . . . and wait for me.”
“Wait for you? Where’re you going?”
“I have an idea.”
“It’s going to be dawn soon; there’ll be people showing up any minute!”
“I know it, so hurry up and get into the basket, you’re wasting time!”
She ends the discussion by turning her back on the baron and striding rapidly away, toward the airship hangar. The others are left with little choice but to follow her directions.
To keep from being too obvious, Bronwyn follows the line of debris that occupies the space between the gas cylinders and the airship hangar and the confusion of empty cylinders, barrels, tanks, carts, empty crates, coils of hose and pipe, and metal scraps effectively camouflage her. She has taken the precaution of dressing in dark colors, and wears a practical outfit of corduroy plus-fours and belted jacket, wool stockings, heavy high-buttoned boots, flannel shirt and a cap.
Only a few minutes suffice to take her to the nearest corner of the hangar, its black, curving sides swooping up and away from her like an enormous wave. The front of the building is a vertical wall with a pair of tall doors that stood partially open. There has not been a sign of anyone else, the aerodrome is as quiet and dark as when she had arrived, yet her heart is pounding like a bilge pump and her breathing comes in piscine gulps and gasps.
Gluing herself to the doors, she sidle along them until she reaches the opening. Peering around its edge, into the cavernous interior, she at first can see nothing and for a terrible moment thinks that the aeronef is no longer there. Then she realizes that it is above her, its spindle-shaped nose directly over her head. Slipping into the hangar, she keeps her back to the open door to allow her eyes to become accustomed to t
he darkness.
Just above her is the underside of the gondola, a complex and vaguely insubstantial-looking structure of spidery metal, wickerwork and wood, with innumerable braces and projections. To her dismay, she realizes that it is all just out of her reach, even the nearest part of the gondola is still two or three feet beyond her grasp.
All of her resolve drains from her at that moment, as though someone has just opened a stopcock in her foot; more than anything she can imagine, she want to retreat to the waiting balloon. Added to her fears is the increasing danger of hyperventilation.
Nevertheless, she searches the darkness for anything that looks useful . . . how in the world do the aeronauts get into the thing? There must be a way. Fortunately, the dim glow that comes in through the open door, and which is increasing at a disturbing rate as the moment of dawn creeps nearer, allows her to resolve some of the shadowy shapes that litter the floor around her. Almost immediately she spies a squat stepladder. Dragging it beneath the rear of the gondola, ignoring the chattering noise its legs made on the hard floor, she clambers to its top step. This brings her nose level with a criss-crossed maze of light metal tubing. She unwinds the coil of chain from her arm, finds a fat bolt that protrudes vertically two or three inches and slips the end link of the chain over its head. She allows the remainder of the chain to fall to the floor, where it landed with a clatter that seemed to echo endlessly, each reverberation sounding louder than the last.
In a near panic at last, Bronwyn leaps from the ladder, drags it as far as she can from the aeronef and bolts from the hangar. As she emerges, she throws a glance to her right and sees that half a dozen windows in the barracks are now lit and dark figures are beginning to emerge from the doors. She turns her face toward the balloon, which seems as distant as either moon, and tries to run even faster. A voice shouts after her, puzzled, not yet alarmed.
By the time she reaches the balloon, however, there are more voices, very definitely alarmed. A bell begins to clang.
Six pairs of hands grasp her and haul her over the rim of the basket. By the time she regains her feet and looks back toward the hangar there are a score of men racing across the field toward them.