"Ask."
"We of yer company, we're all twisted by Faerie. Took me, they did. When I returned, nobody wanted ships such as I'm skilled for."
"I do."
"Master, I always wondered what they did to yerself."
"As they cheapened your skills, so they took my vision, Ivain. I can but focus a handspan from my nose, and must use concave spectacles like Emperor Nero's emerald glass to see at distance."
"They're in yer visor?"
"Yes."
"Hah, that's clever! Elves got magic, but none's so clever in scholarship as yerself, an’ scholarship beats magic any day. Last question?"
"Last answer."
"What's the ship's name?"
"I have dreamed her name to be La Hachette."
"La Hachette? Aht, like that. Pretty name, but strong. I'll paint a battleaxe on the bow."
"The image suits her, Ivain. She will like that."
The Sergeant
Sergeant Renard had decreed that the bombard was to be trial-fired on the flatlands south of Derwentwater. Against the advice of his English crew, he also ordered that the weapon be left on the waggon that had brought it there. A target tower of logs had been erected on the shore of the lake, and the bombard deployed a quarter mile inland. Renard had been expecting Tordral and Sir Gerald to attend the first firing, but not the ox cart that came with them. It was being driven by a priest, and in the tray were four nuns.
Introductions were made. The abbess and three nuns were from a convent north of Bassenwater, and the priest was from Keswick
"We heard of your bombard,” said the abbess, batting her eyelashes at Renard. “We are very curious about it."
Renard noted that she was young, pretty, and vivacious, and suspected that she did not rule her little domain with a rod of iron. An excess daughter of a great and rich family, disposed of into the service of the church, he decided.
"The bombard is a fearsome engine,” the French sergeant warned. “Are you sure that your heart is equal to it?"
"I have encountered my share of fearsome engines, Sergeant Renard. Yours will not affright me."
Neither this nor the other, thought Renard as he gestured to three yards of massive brass pipe bound with heavy bands and clamped to a timber beam between two woodblock wheels.
"It is ugly to behold, but its performance should thrill you to the very core,” he said with an eyebrow raised.
"Many worthy engines are ugly to behold yet give fair service,” she replied, riposting with a sidelong smirk.
Two nuns giggled, the third looked puzzled for a moment, then frowned suspiciously. The priest developed an intense interest in the bombard's breechblock release lever as the two giggling nuns shared some joke about the weapon's shape.
"Why is it wound about with briar roses?” asked the abbess.
"To remind us that even the ugly and powerful may fight for the pretty and frail,” said Gerald, who now began a short introduction to black powder weapons for his visitors.
"Why have them here?” hissed Renard to Tordral.
"There's talk of magic hereabouts. People hear explosions, then whisper that we are magicians trying to harness thunderbolts. I want it known that common black powder weapons are responsible. Come, let us be part of it."
They circled the wheeled gun, while Gerald proudly explained its finer points.
"Bought from the French, but built in Bohemia. It is the finest that bribery may buy, and the best fashioned in all the world."
"It is smaller than I thought,” said the abbess.
"Ah, the eternal complaint of ladies,” sighed Renard, and three of the four women tittered. “Indeed, most bombards have a huge bore and shoot balls of stone. This is a new type, stronger and more finely made. It shoots smaller iron balls, but with very great power and accuracy."
"We should stand upwind of it for the shot,” said Gerald, again competing for the attention of the abbess. “Observe, if you will, the target over yonder."
"The tower on the lake's shore?” asked the abbess.
"Yes. Would you like the honor?"
"Your pardon?"
"Renard has a spear with a burning rag soaked in mutton fat impaled on the point. At the word ‘Fire!’ you need only touch it to that little pile of black powder near the base of the tube."
"Oh I could not!” exclaimed the abbess with a coy gesture.
"I shall help."
"Oh no, really."
"Anyone can do it. Renard, give it here. Now then, take the spear by the base."
"Please, I am too clumsy,” laughed the abbess. “I cannot even be trusted to cut up vegetables."
"I'll help. Renard will call."
Gerald's hands pressed against hers on the shaft of the spear. The flaming rag hovered above the pile of black powder. Being French, Renard was inclined to draw out the moment for the couple's benefit.
"Fire!"
The rag dropped. There was a hiss as the priming powder ignited, then they were assailed by a sound like a thunderclap bursting in a confessional chamber, together with a flash as bright as lightning and a cloud of smoke that reeked of sulphur. The abbess shrieked and flung her arms around Sir Gerald. The smoke billowed aside in time to show something too swift to be seen smash the top of the tower to splinters. Moments later, a plume of water erupted high into the air far out on the glassy surface of Derwentwater.
Renard noticed that one of the nuns had fainted. The other two were fleeing down the road just as fast as their feet could be willed to move. Ahead of them was the priest, although the nuns were rapidly catching up. The ox had not bothered to use the road, but had fled straight over a field. Behind it the cart was disintegrating as it bounced and crashed over the rough ground. The branches of briar wound about the bombard's barrel had lost most of their leaves, and all of their flowers.
"I did not know oxen could gallop,” said Renard.
"I did not know nuns could sprint,” said Gerald.
"I appear to have hit that tower,” said the abbess.
"Nice shot,” said Gerald.
"You have your arms around each other,” observed Renard.
Abbess and knight drew apart. Ward, the yeoman of men-at-arms, put a hand on his biceps, made a fist, and smiled at Gerald.
"Was that a rude gesture?” asked the abbess.
"I—ah, it was a traditional gesture of congratulations,” stammered Gerald.
"It means good shot,” said Renard helpfully, his head tilted at an angle and his arms folded.
"Oh? Indeed!"
The abbess returned the gesture. Ward went bright red. Renard covered his face with his hand.
"Thank you so much for letting me play with your engine,” said the abbess. “I felt as if I were Zeus, hurling a thunderbolt."
"You are so much more fair than Zeus."
"Oh, so gracious of you, Sir Gerald! Is there something I may do in return?"
"I, well, perhaps ... the garden of Keswick Tower and its famous spiral briars have fallen into neglect since my sister departed. My seneschal does his best, but he is old. Perhaps your nuns could work upon it?"
The abbess ran her fingers down Gerald's arm.
"A splendid idea, and we two could watch and supervise from a tower window, to gain a better view."
She now set about trying to revive the nun who had fainted. Gerald and Renard joined Tordral at the bombard.
"What do you think?” asked Gerald.
"I think the lewd baggage fancies you,” replied Tordral.
"Indeed, lordship, I believe a view of your bedchamber's roofing beams would please her far more than one of your garden,” added Renard.
"I meant the bombard!” snapped Gerald.
"Quite splendid,” said Tordral. “But Renard, why did you leave it on the waggon frame?"
"It is a French technique. Letting a bombard disperse its recoil by rolling back is better than chaining it down to a ship's deck. It puts less strain on the timbers when it is fired."
"Then w
e shall do so too. I shall ride to the moorings and have La Hachette rowed here this very day. Have the bombard put aboard, then fire a few shots to refine your skills."
"As you will, Master."
Once Tordral was safely away, Gerald turned to Renard.
"I have been meaning to ask of La Hachette,” he said casually. “Tordral is gone, but perhaps you can help."
"Ask, I shall answer."
"Why a ship?"
Renard gestured north, across the lake.
"Because the enemy is stalking us. They are suspicious of what we do."
"How can you know that?"
"Last night Ivain was taken."
"The shipwright? You mean ... gone?"
"Not so. He was found in the lakeside woods, not long after dawn. All that he could do was rave about an elfin lady of surpassing beauty."
"He was englamored?"
"Yes. Elves are fair to behold, and some minds are more pliant than others. Doubtless some elfin beauty appeared to Ivain with the promise of restored youth, her hand in marriage, and eternity shared in some enchanted palace. Most likely he babbled all he knew. Most likely she giggled, then vanished."
"All he knew,” sighed Gerald. “How much was that?"
"Little of worth. How could Faerie be threatened by a ship with holes to let the water in, a hearth amidships, decking strong enough to take a bombard, a spiral briar in a pot, and a crew of angry, twisted people?"
"Agreed, agreed. In truth, that even tells me little."
"But that is the danger!” hissed Renard conspiratorially. “They are curious, so they will be back."
"I see, I think. But again I ask it, why a ship?"
"While floating on Derwentwater, our work goes unseen by unwelcome eyes. A ship on a lake is not easily spied upon."
"But surely the work is almost done."
"The Master has perfected the parts needed to power a bombard by steam, Sir Gerald. Making them work in harmony, ah, that is still our challenge."
Gerald now set off for Keswick. Renard and Ward stood staring after him.
"He smiles and banters nonsense with ladies,” sighed Renard. “It does me good to see him happy."
"His cheer may be our undoing,” warned Ward. “A happy man is not bitter. His bitterness provides our gold."
"Do you suggest that we keep him twisted like the briar?"
"No, no ... but we need him. Without him there's no gold."
"We are lying to him about the steam bombard. He will work that out soon enough, and when he does, the gold will stop anyway."
"Then what's to do? Are we lost?"
"My friend, we already have the pieces. No more gold is needed to make them work in harmony, just wit. Why not cut Sir Gerald free, to grow untwisted?"
"If the pieces never work in harmony, new pieces will require more gold."
The Clockmaker
Being a master artisan, Guy was not inclined to take orders from peers. Priests, bishops, even great lords had called upon him to build or repair the public clocks that were the pride of many towns and cities. Even though he deferred to Tordral, he was still inclined to little displays of defiance. Walking alone when all others went in pairs flouted Tordral's orders just sufficiently to soothe Guy's pride.
On this night Guy had a message for his master. The war had begun, even though the enemy did not know it. Tordral slept in a small hut a short distance from the barn. Through ill-fitting wooden planks Guy could see a lamp burning within. He had just raised his hand to knock when he felt a knife at his throat.
"Master?” asked Guy hopefully.
"Why are you alone?” demanded Tordral.
"I—I—"
"Never flout my orders. Always walk in company."
"But you work alone."
"I am beyond temptation,” said Tordral, sounding almost amused, “but Faerie's rulers know where your softest and most vulnerable aspects are, my friend. I am a spiral briar, twisted and full of thorns. They do not have the resolve to grasp me, so they reach out for my people. Ivain was first. You may be next."
"My apologies, in full truth."
"Well, why are you here?"
"The footbridge on the Derwent River is afire. You can see it from—"
"Our signal!” exclaimed Tordral. “It is Lammas Eve, a magical night. Yes, it makes sense."
Flinging the hut's door open, Tordral smashed the pottery lamp that was burning within. Bright yellow flames blazed up.
"What does it mean, Master?” Guy asked as they set off for the lake.
"A secret ally has set the bridge afire, trapping an elf lord in this world."
"Trapping him? How?"
"He can only return by the portal he crossed through. A bridge in Faerie parallels the bridge in our world. Destroy one, and the other is useless. Hurry, we cannot even spare the time for a piss."
"La Hachette is not ready to fight,” insisted Guy. “The mechanism—"
"The elf may englamor the folk of Keswick to attack us. We must keep La Hachette safe."
In just a quarter hour, La Hachette was being rowed clear of the landing. Behind them, the barn was blazing fiercely. The little ship moved slowly, even with most of the company at the oars. As they rowed, Tordral briefed the uninitiated about what La Hachette really was. Most were astonished.
"There are several islands on the lake,” Tordral concluded. “La Hachette will not stand out while moored against one of them."
"Master, this is a twenty-yard ship on a three-mile lake. Seen we will be."
"But not straightaway. We can barter a little more time from Lady Fortune."
There was a bright flash to the northeast, and a fireball erupted into the night sky moments before the sound of the distant blast rolled over them. It dispersed its echoes among the hills.
"That barrel of black powder will not dupe anyone into thinking we had a terrible accident,” said Ward. “There's no bodies or boat."
"They may think La Hachette sank with all of us aboard,” said Tordral. “Every moment saved gives us time for trials."
Suddenly Guy felt the full weight of what loomed over them.
"Eighty-six trials of settings and lever lengths remain,” he said as he pulled at his oar. “We manage one trial in the hour, so that is a week. Do we have food for a week, Master?"
"Perhaps. Sergeant Renard, are we beyond bowshot from land?"
"I think it,” replied Renard.
"Then ship oars. Steam warden, light the impeller and patron furnaces, then close the steam gates. The rest of you, we left in haste and packed our stores with no care. Secure everything now. Sergeant, ready your bombard for action. Meg, take the spiral briar, mount her in her frame."
"As said, ‘tis done."
Presently steam began to hiss from the steam guards, announcing that the main sufflator was ready.
"Dexter and sinister gatemen, stand ready,” said Tordral, who was at the tiller. “Steam warden, report."
"Pleased to declare sufflators at strength."
"Commence heartbeat with dexter,” called Tordral.
"Dexter impeller gate closed,” called dexter gateman. “Dexter steam gate open."
"Sinister impeller gate open,” responded sinister gateman.
They chant a spell of a new magic, thought Guy. Iron magic. La Hachette began to move, slowly gathering speed as the steam from the sufflator forced the water in the right impeller pipe down and back, like a piston. After some moments there was a bubbling chuff as the last of the water was driven from the right pipe and the steam began to escape.
"Heartbeat, dexter to sinister!” ordered Tordral, and the gatemen reversed the settings of the water and steam gates. Water poured into dexter pipe at the bow while steam forced water from sinister pipe at the stern.
"Steam warden, call the heartbeats in my place,” ordered Tordral.
"Master, is it wise to run with the patron sufflator not yet steaming?” asked Guy as he joined Tordral.
"La Hachette'
s impeller can take her two miles and a half without the need of new hot water injected from the patron."
"Movement, and from air, water, fire, and earth dancing in harmony,” said Renard dreamily. “Glorious."
"We may be twisted and thorny, but what clever folk are we?” responded Tordral. “A steam impeller, two score times stronger than a sufflator's jet. In all the history of the world, no ship has ever been moved thus. We can reach Faerie ... and we have a bombard."
"Why did we never share this wonder with Sir Gerald?” asked Guy. “We should have told him the truth."
"He was just one of many we lied to. Until just now only the six of us doing the trials knew the truth."
"But he—"
"We told lies to our friends so that they would be passed on to our enemies. I thought they would ensnare and englamor Gerald. Instead, Ivain was first, and he babbled nonsense about a steam bombard to them. Thus they thought us twisted, but harmless. Twisted, yes. Harmless? Not if we can make La Hachette's heart beat of its own accord, with no gatemen."
"Does La Hachette really need her own heartbeat?” asked Guy. “The mechanism functions when gatemen work it with their hands."
"Their hands are vulnerable to Faerie's glamors, Guy. The impeller must function without any hand upon it. We know there is a wide, dead space beyond the portal, both Renard and Jon saw it when they were returned. Without elfin spells to protect us, mortals such as ourselves collapse there, our muscles flaccid. Unless La Hachette can travel the portal's span unaided, she will lose way and stop."
"And then?” asked Grace from the darkness.
"We would be marooned in the borderlands between worlds, unable to move, starving to death."
"Don't fancy that,” said Grace, a veteran of many tavern brawls. “Rather die fightin'."
"Nobody will die,” sighed Tordral. “If La Hachette's heart cannot be made to beat, we shall not assail any portal."
"But then Sir Gerald will surely kill us for deceivin’ him."
"Oh no, I have one last trick for Sir Gerald—but enough gloom, we have a lady who needs a heart. Guy, explain the problem to those new to our secret. Someone may have a suggestion."
"When steam strokes end, the steam gates don't drop with enough force for the tag levers to trip their sister steam gates and the two water gates. Without gatemen, the heartbeat cannot be passed from dexter to sinister and back again."
FSF, April-May 2009 Page 3