by Ian Irvine
‘Days,’ said Chissmoul, who had flown all over Lauralin during the war. ‘It’s two hundred leagues away. I can’t go much further today, surr; I get aftersickness too, you know.’
‘I know. We’ll fly over the range and hide for the night,’ said Flydd, ‘but first I’ve a mind to show Taranta the sting in our tail, if you can manage it.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Nish.
‘We have to. They nearly destroyed us, but we can’t allow them to think we’ve fled in panic. We’ve got to strike back and leave with our heads high.’
‘How?’ said Nish, uneasy at the thought of returning to a place they had been lucky to escape from.
‘You’ll see,’ said Flydd mysteriously. ‘They go to bed early here. Chissmoul, head back towards Taranta, high and slow, so we make no sound.’
She did so, which took the best part of half an hour.
‘Now,’ he added, ‘circle over the peasant quarter. Stay high.’
It was nearly nine in the evening and the square where they had been attacked now lay in darkness. The night was cloudy, the city dark and still.
Flydd was looking towards the main city square, half a league away. ‘The governor’s palace and the seneschal’s mansion are still lit,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘They’ve got a lot to talk about,’ said Nish.
‘Go down slow and quiet, Chissmoul, and make for the alley where they had the stampede.’
‘You’re not going to do something terrible with those bodies, I hope?’ Nish said suspiciously. The old Flydd would never have demeaned the dead, but Nish could not always predict how the renewed man would react.
‘Certainly not!’ said Flydd in high dudgeon. ‘What do you take me for? I’ve something far better in mind.’
Nish was scarcely relieved. What was the old scoundrel up to?
‘Careful now,’ Flydd whispered, as Chissmoul crept the air-sled down. ‘There’s bound to be a few sentries about. Go low over the rooftops; I wouldn’t want any wisp-watchers to pick us up. Head along the alley to the building there, with the flat roof. See it?’
‘Isn’t that where one of the javelards was sited?’ said Flangers.
‘It is,’ said Flydd.
‘The one that fired the chain-shot and exploding tar balls?’
‘Precisely,’ said Flydd. ‘We’re going to teach the seneschal a lesson. Quiet now.’
The air-sled nosed silently across the tightly packed rooftops until, ahead, Nish made out the top of the javelard, still pointed towards the square. ‘It’ll be guarded,’ he whispered.
‘Of course,’ said Flydd. ‘The God-Emperor won’t let any rebels arm themselves at his expense. I need a few volunteers.’
Every able-bodied man and woman put up their hands.
‘I’ll take Flangers, and you and you,’ said Flydd, going down the back and selecting militiamen in the near-darkness. ‘Chissmoul, set down on this roof.’
She did so, and momentarily the roof timbers groaned under the weight of the air-sled. ‘What about me?’ said Nish.
‘I thought you were worn out?’ said Flydd.
‘I am, but if there’s a chance to tweak the enemy’s nose, I’m taking it.’
‘Thought you might,’ Flydd said complacently.
How easily Flydd had manipulated him. Having checked his sabre, Nish followed across one flat roof, then another. The javelard loomed ahead and he made out a shadow pacing back and forth. A single guard was rarely effective; there were bound to be two, or even more.
‘No need to kill the guards, unless they’re trying to kill you,’ said Flydd. ‘Knock them out and tie them.’
They were climbing across onto the roof, trying to make no noise, when there came a low, harsh cry. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Scrier!’ hissed Flydd. ‘Cut him down before he gives the alarm.’
The scrier turned and ran, his gown billowing, towards a wisp-watcher mounted on the side of the javelard. If he reached it, every scrier in Taranta would soon know.
Nish sprinted after him. He could have tracked the scrier in the dark by the sulphurous pungency of his breath, a side-effect of the herbs they chewed to enhance their vision, but he was too far ahead. Nish sent his sabre spinning through the air. The flat side of the blade struck the scrier in the back and drove him to his knees, but he rose and scrambled up towards his wisp-watcher.
Nish launched himself through the air and tried to drag the scrier off the javelard. He wriggled free, jumped into his seat, touched something in the darkness and a little speck-speaker slowly came to light. He was leaning towards it when Nish threw himself at the scrier’s back, driving him against the wooden frame. Ribs cracked but he twisted like a snake in Nish’s arms, bringing a knee up for the groin.
Nish blocked it with his own knee but the blow to his kneecap was so excruciating that he dropped his guard. The scrier’s left hand flashed into his coat, emerging with a knife whose blade might have been made from ice, save that it shone with the same bile-green light as the rat-neck noose of a loop-listener.
The knife flashed for his throat, but stopped with the point pricking through the skin under Nish’s chin. ‘The son of the God-Emperor!’ the scrier said hoarsely, then grinned in triumph. ‘You’re mine, and all the reward – ump!’
Nish had kneed him in the groin and, when the scrier doubled over, brought a fist up from ankle level in an upper-cut that slammed him into the side of the javelard. The knife went flying, the scrier’s head struck a beam, and he collapsed.
All was quiet now save for Nish’s heavy breathing. ‘Xervish?’ he said softly.
‘We’ve finished them. You?’
‘The same; I don’t think he got a warning off, though he did recognise me. Let’s get what we came for and go.’
Flydd made a double hooting sound; the air-sled appeared and hovered beside the javelard. They loaded on one round of the double chain-shot plus a number of the large spherical objects that Nish deduced were the exploding tar balls.
‘What are you going to do with them?’ whispered Chissmoul.
‘Let me guess,’ said Nish. ‘He’s planning to attack the governor’s palace.’
‘I would, were he the man who really gave the orders in Taranta,’ said Flydd. ‘We’re after the seneschal’s mansion.’
‘Better pray that my scrier didn’t get a warning off, or our welcome might be warmer than you expect.’
‘If you’d done your job properly we wouldn’t have a problem,’ Flydd said equably. ‘Shut up and give me a hand with these.’
They laid the heavy, clanking chains out across the deck, then tied two of the exploding tar balls to each end and the last two to the bar in the middle. ‘How do you set them off?’ said Nish.
‘Fuses. I’ve got them in my pocket. I won’t put them in until the last minute, because the least spark can set them off – and then we’ll all be sent to oblivion, coated in burning tar.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Nish. ‘Are you sure this is worth it? The seneschal’s guards will be on alert.’
‘He called us liars. If we run now, it will be seen as proof that we are.’
‘The commander will soon discover that Taranta’s army has been destroyed and we were telling the truth.’
‘Seneschals are professional manipulators, Nish.’
‘Like scrutators?’ said Nish, smiling.
Flydd ignored that. ‘He’ll give a dozen plausible reasons why the army was lost – fever, flood, avalanche – and none will have anything to do with us. Besides, if we don’t strike back it will prove that we’re gutless, and no one would trust cowards with the leadership of the empire and the defence of the realm. We made – I made – a bad start, and we’ve got no choice but to put it right.’
‘What can this little attack do?’
‘It’s symbolic. It’s a public act of defiance. The seneschal might cover up the annihilation of an army in the wilderness, but he can’t conceal our attack in a
public square in front of thousands of witnesses, many of them rich and powerful people. If we succeed, everyone will know we thumbed our nose at the God-Emperor’s seneschal and got away with it, and that’s worth as much as the defeat of an army. More!’
‘All right,’ said Nish, ‘though I don’t see how we are going to get away with it.’
‘We can’t fly around the mansion without being seen,’ Flydd mused. ‘We’ll have to con the area on foot first, and find out the best way to attack.’
‘No!’ said Nish.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Flydd said coldly.
‘I said no. If we get into trouble, there’ll be no way of getting out of it.’
Flydd’s eyes glittered and his jaw was tight. He did not like being challenged, but Nish wasn’t going to give in, and finally Flydd turned away. ‘Flangers, what do you say?’
‘Nish is right; getting off the air-sled is too risky. If we’re caught, we lose everything. What if we fly in at top speed, chuck our tar balls through the nearest windows, then scarper?’
‘Chissmoul?’ said Flydd. ‘Have you got the strength for it?’
She was slumped on her chair, head on her arms. ‘As long as it doesn’t take too long, but it’s not going to work.’
‘Why not?’
‘You won’t be able to throw those heavy chains as far as I can spit.’
Flydd cursed. Evidently he hadn’t thought of that practicality, and neither had Nish.
‘It’s a stupid idea,’ came Aimee’s high little voice from the rear. ‘We should be doing something really outrageous – surr,’ she added unconvincingly.
‘I’m happy to listen to any sensible suggestion you’ve got to make,’ Flydd said with an underlying air of menace.
‘Mount the javelard on the air-sled, then stand off the front of the mansion, out in the square where everyone can see, and fire your black balls and chain through the front door.’
Flydd stalked down the rear and Nish was afraid that he was going to explode. Clech was looking anxious, until Flydd shook Aimee’s little hand.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he hooted. ‘How better to humiliate the seneschal than by attacking his mansion with his own weaponry?’
‘The javelard is too big and heavy,’ said Chissmoul. ‘The air-sled will never lift it.’
‘Load it on,’ said Flydd. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’
It required the strength of every able-bodied man and woman straining at the ropes to raise the javelard and inch it onto the air-sled, and they would never have managed it had it not been for Nish’s long-neglected skills as a prentice artificer. It took ages, and they had to stop every time Aimee, the lookout, alerted them that a patrol was moving along the street below them.
‘This is taking too long,’ said Nish, sweating in the hot night. ‘What time do they change the guards?’
‘How would I know?’ said Flydd. He thought for a moment. ‘Every eight hours, as a rule, so probably at midnight.’
‘It can’t be far off midnight now.’
‘Then you’d better work harder.’
‘Any sign that the guards are changing, Aimee?’ Nish whispered.
‘I’ll tell you if I see them.’
Finally they had the enormous javelard loaded dead-centre and roped down. Its base was almost as long as the air-sled and half as wide, and the top was a span and a half high, while the horizontal, crossbow-like mechanism stuck out over either side.
Flydd began to fit the fuses to the tar balls, and six troopers lifted them carefully, along with the linked chains, into the leather firing bucket of the javelard. Once everyone had piled on, Chissmoul took the controller.
‘Someone’s coming,’ hissed Aimee.
‘Do we wait or go?’ said Nish.
‘Go,’ said Flydd. ‘We don’t want to get in a fight now.’
‘I’ll try to take her up to knee height,’ Chissmoul said anxiously.
The air-sled shuddered violently, and Nish thought it wasn’t going to lift at all, but eventually it rose in a series of jerks. Through the hole cut in the deck he could hear the mechanism rattling.
‘Hoy!’ someone called from the street. ‘What’s going on up there?’
‘Get going,’ said Flydd, ‘before the bloody thing shakes itself to pieces.’ He cursed under his breath. ‘At this rate, they’ll hear us coming half a league away.’
‘Keep still, everyone,’ said Chissmoul. ‘She’s so top-heavy, she could roll over at any time.’
After offering this comforting thought, she lifted the air-sled at a shallow angle and it began to shudder across the rooftops. Nish made out several faces staring up at them, trying to work out what was happening in the dim light, then they were lost to sight.
‘I’d love to see them explain this to their superior officers,’ said Nish.
‘We haven’t succeeded yet,’ said Flydd. ‘You’re our only experienced javelard operator, Nish. Get it ready.’
‘Can I climb onto it, Chissmoul?’ said Nish.
‘As long as you don’t make any sudden movements,’ she said in a strained tone.
He checked the javelard by feel, making sure that nothing had slipped out of alignment during loading. The air-sled was shaking more wildly than before, and he was drenched with sweat. One misstep could cause the craft to roll, dumping everyone off, and the javelard would tear free and come down on top of them. How the seneschal would crow then.
Somehow, Chissmoul’s genius kept them in the air, even while he climbed up and began to wind the huge cranks that tensioned the steel firing cable. When they were fully wound, he pushed in the safety rods so the javelard would not go off if jolted.
‘It’s ready.’
They were approaching the seneschal’s mansion from the rear. Most of the lights around the square had been extinguished, though lanterns still burned in front of the governor’s palace and the mansion.
‘There’s a barracks right at the back, and after that a walled garden,’ said Aimee, who was still keeping watch. She was seated on Chissmoul’s right, looking out from below the javelard’s firing bucket. ‘Then another high wall, with a lawn between it and the rear of the mansion. Windows run across the rear but it’ll be difficult to get near them with all those trees.’
‘Left side, or right?’ said Chissmoul, who sounded exhausted.
‘The trees are close by on either side. We’ll have to attack at the front.’
‘I want to attack the front,’ said Flydd. ‘That’s where the staterooms and audience chambers will be. It’ll be a much more public show, and a bigger insult. Go over the roof, Pilot.’
The air-sled drifted over the high roof, jerking and lurching, and out to the centre of the square, where it hovered in the darkness some distance above the paving stones.
The square was well-lit in front of both palace and mansion by street lamps reflected downwards, and the mansion had a pair of gigantic front doors, broad enough to admit the air-sled, though they were closed. There were bay windows to left and right, equally grand, and Nish could see shadows moving behind the filmy curtains to the left. Though the stateroom on the right appeared larger, it was dimly lit and did not appear to be occupied.
‘There’s no one about at this time of night,’ said Flydd, sounding vexed.
‘The patrolling guards will see us as soon as we move down into the light,’ said Flangers.
‘I’m not doing this for their amusement! Stay at this height, Pilot,’ whispered Flydd. ‘I’m making a slight change to the plan.’
‘What are you going to do now?’ said Nish, alarmed.
Flydd untied one of the canvas-wrapped tar balls and hefted it in his arms. ‘I’m waking everyone up; we’ve got to have an audience. Have you picked your target, Nish?’
What was he up to? ‘Er, yes,’ said Nish. ‘I’m going to aim at the front doors and smash them down.’
‘If they’re iron-reinforced, they might not break,’ said Flydd. ‘If our attack isn’t
spectacular, we’ve failed.’
‘What if I fire through the right-hand bay window into the stateroom?’
‘Sounds good. Get ready.’ Taking a flint striker from his pocket, Flydd snapped it at the fuse of his tar ball, which caught at once, burning with a fizzing sound and the smell of sulphur. He studied the speed of burning, counted to five under his breath, then tossed the tar ball over the side into the centre of the vast square.
The fuse sparked once or twice as the tar ball hit the paving stones and rolled, but that was all.
‘Damnation,’ said Flydd. ‘Has it gone out, or not?’
‘Fuses are perilous things, in my experience,’ said Flangers. ‘Sometimes they burn fast, sometimes slow. And sometimes you think they’ve gone out, when they haven’t. Even if you wait five minutes, or ten, it could go off in your face.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Flydd, ‘but I’ll have to go down and relight it.’
‘You could throw another tar ball,’ said Aimee.
‘We can’t afford to waste them. If the attack is a fizzer, all Taranta will be laughing – but at us. Take us over it, Chissmoul.’
Chissmoul, now so exhausted that Aimee was holding her steady, wobbled the air-sled over the tar ball, about six spans up.
Flydd tied knots at intervals in a line, fixed it to the side, shinned down and snapped the flint striker at the fuse.
‘Hey, you!’ a man bellowed from the darkness. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
It was a guard on the far side of the square. The air-sled hung above the level of the lanterns and would be just a huge shadow to him, but Flydd was clearly visible.
‘Get a move on!’ Nish muttered.
Footsteps sounded, running across the square.
‘Put your hands above your head or we’ll shoot,’ the first guard shouted.
TWENTY-FIVE
Flydd kept snapping the flint striker and finally the fuse began to spark. A crossbow bolt whined above his head, another glanced off the paving a little to his left. He leapt for the rope and was up to the third knot when the spark faded again.