There hadn't been time to develop a way to aim the steam-cannon. Still, John thought that most of the boiling water would clear the Malachite mirror to fall on the sailors amidship.
Giving the crank a measured turn, feeling it pull water into the gun, John waited ... and waited .......................
Nothing. No surge of heat. No stream of boiling water out the barrel.
Why?
There was a ragged cheer! From the Malachites? No. From John's people.
Looking up from the gun, staring over the back rail, John realized his crew was rejoicing because the Malachite ship had turned back, its sailors rowing furiously to catch the lip of the spinning circle of water that would have them headed home.
Again, why?
"There," said Golden. Turned to face John, Golden was looking over John's shoulder.
Pivoting to the front, John saw what had happened: six Realgar cruisers, coming out of the Claws, headed straight for John's boat, the lone Malachite ship no match for odds like that.
John looked up, then down, to see that the sky above and ocean below had turned bright orange. They were in Realgar waters.
They'd been saved, all cheering!
All cheering, except for Platinia who was ... crying.
"It's alright now, Platinia," John said, going over to the little girl, Platinia turning away from him, walking off to sit by herself in the ship's prow.
She'd had a scare. Best to leave her alone to get over it.
* * * * *
Platinia had planned well. She had thought and thought. Had decided that the thing to do was let the Malachite ship catch them. Yes. That was the thing to do. She was a Malachite herself -- at least she was born there. Golden was a Malachite, though he had traveled to other Bands to entertain. Golden even said he was king of Malachite.
If the Malachite ship caught up to them, Platinia and Golden would speak to the captain of that ship. They would say that John-Lyon and the sailors were good men, the Malachite captain listening because Platinia and Golden were Malachites. The Malachite captain would take them all on his big boat, back to Platinia's home Band. There, Platinia and John-Lyon would become lovers. Ellen would no longer make a difference. She would not be there.
The only trouble was that John-Lyon's little boat might outrun the Malachite ship, no one but Platinia seeming to know how close they were to Realgar, to that place called the Claws. Orange was in the sea. Orange was In the sky. Everything orange. She felt ... strong, even though she was so small. She also felt ... cooler. Because the Realgar Band was a cooler Band.
The men were all looking at the ship coming after them, not at how close they were to Realgar. So close that Platinia feared they would reach the Claws.
But Platinia could do something about that. On the trip, she had learned that it was the hot fire stones that made the little boat go forward. Without fire stone heat, the boat would ... stop.
So, little person that she was, she had done her best to "think" the fire stones to go cold.
No one was watching the fire stones. All the men were at the back of the boat looking out at the ship coming up behind them.
Platinia looking at the men to make sure they didn't see her do it, she thought and thought to make the fire stones cold.
And it had worked. She could feel the stones getting colder and colder, until they were no longer hot.
What she had not understood was why the ship had continued to putt-putt its way forward. Was that because of the Mage's magic? Had she been wrong about the fire stones? Was it Mage Magic alone that kept the ship going?
Then, too late, she saw the mistake she had made. Facing the men at the back of the boat, thinking cold, cold, cold, she had stopped the heat of the wrong fire stone pile. She had cooled the stones that were heating the back of what the Mage called his "gun." If she had faced the other way, she would have cooled the stones making the ship go. But she had made that mistake, the little boat going and going until, seeing it come, the Realgar ships had rowed out of that Claw to drive off the Malachite ship.
Everyone else was happy. Golden was happy. Admiral Coluth was happy. The sailors were happy. John-Lyon was happy. Everyone was happy, except for little Platinia, who was feeling sad.
"It's alright now, Platinia," the Mage said, smiling very much.
Meaning that, for Platinia, what she needed was a secret place to go.
Where she could cry.
* * * * *
Chapter 20
Mage Castle.
At last.
After bathing with his sailors in the hot water pool, Platinia doing the same in the woman's bath, John felt as human as anyone could in the "light-pulling" Band of Realgar. There was such a thing as being too strong, every step he took threatening to bounce him into the air.
At least, toweling off, he was warm again, Realgar a cooler Band that Stil-de-grain because the daylight, shot skyward from the center of the world, lost its strength when reflected from the outer edge of this iron-domed land. Or so the locals believed.
If Realgar was cool, its waters were cold, nothing like crashing the steam ship into a Realgar dock to prove that point.
Had it been seven days since the boat smashed into the mole, the little craft split in two, its engine and gun sunk to the bottom of the bay? An accident that was partly John's fault for paying so little attention to docking procedure, the mishap also attributable to John's crew who, with oarsmen's mentality, didn't think to wave the fire stones cold as they approached the dock, the ship ramming the outer pier, the boat sinking, John-and-crew thrown into the water. (Not a personal disaster since each of them weighed so little that everyone popped to the surface to float high on the water. Rather, John imagined, like people bathing in the great Salt Lake at home or in the Dead Sea beyond the Eastern Mediterranean, the high salt content of those bodies of water making people "unsinkable.")
Realgar dock workers fishing them out, John had apologized profusely for damaging the pier, John not as concerned about the accident as he wished to seem. For win or lose in his efforts to catch Pfnaravin, John no longer needed the boat. Going further, one of the principals he thought was a good one -- derived from the original Star Trek series?? -- was not to pollute this medieval world with the modern world's technology, steam engines, no matter how primitive, a technical wonder here. (John supposed his boat's fire stones -- scorching hot until thought cold -- would continue to boil water where they'd sunk by the wharf. Wondered what the locals would make out of that eternal "hot spot" in Realgar's waters.)
A stevedore escorting them from the central Claw where they'd crashed, they found lodging in an inn servicing traders.
A late afternoon snack, and they'd bedded down in clean, but crude rooms, all inns in all Bands providing the same, basic services, John remembering to remove his Mage disk and coins before surrendering his robe to be cleaned, everyone's clothes washed and dried by the next up-light.
Breakfasted on fried eggs and boiled meat -- deer, squirrel?? -- they'd hired a leather clothed hunter to escorted them over trails leading through overgrown vegetation -- bushes, trees -- this Band's plants growing larger than normal because of weak gravity.
Five more days and as many inns took them to a stone pile complete with drawbridge, the hunter telling them this was Mage Castle.
Saying goodbye to their guide, they crossed the overbridge, a fat, shades-of-green-dressed courtier (who seemed to know who they were), taking them inside to whisk them down window lighted passageways to what seemed to be a meeting room, the table-with-chairs chamber dressed up with marble, walnut, and gold leaf trim.
down-light coming soon, tunic clad slaveys brought fruit, sliced meat, and glasses of honey flavored wine.
Finished eating, a ribbon bedecked dignitary took them to a dormitory room down the hall, the palace functionary assuring them the governing authority would see them after up-light.
Exhausted, more from uncertainty about their fate than from the six day hike they'd undertaken
, they choose beds along parallel walls, collapsing on what, in John's world, would have been called King sized mattresses.
John thought about asking the sailors to set up a watch schedule, but decided that if Tauro meant to murder them, there was nothing John's few men could do about it. (John did manage to hide his money and disk behind a loose dado board.)
Slaveys awakening them after up-light, the parties' clothing again clean and folded for them, they were served a breakfast of boiled eggs, mixed fruit, and a hot drink that would never replace either tea or coffee.
Breakfast concluded, two armed soldiers conducted them, first to "wash up rooms" down the hall, then through corridors and more corridors, the attendants breaking trail through a highly curious crowd of castle personnel, John and his party presumably on the way to meet this Band's king.
As John had noticed -- even at the seediest of inns along the way -- everything in Realgar was built on heroic proportions, the ceilings higher than anywhere he'd been in Bandworld, the halls wider, done to accommodate the considerably taller people of Realgar, was his guess. Taller, also fatter, though he didn't see how obesity could be blamed on low gravity. It was lack of gravity, not slimness of body, that had John's party bouncing along like balloons half filled with helium, John first noticing this "light" feeling on the trip from his world to Stil-de-grain. He hadn't felt this buoyant though ... since the last time he'd been in The Claws, John with so many worries at that time he'd been able to ignore this "floaty" feeling. Get used to feeling airy of course, and it would be a "drag" when returning to Stil-de-grain. To say nothing of how weighted down he'd be after making the "jump" to his own, heaver gravity planet.
Coming to the end of an even wider corridor, their chaperons pulled open the end wall's twelve foot doors, John and company bowed into what had to be the King's main room -- the chamber adorned with marble columns, walnut paneling, and alabaster sculpture.
Sagged into an elevated seat at room end was another of this band's big men, his body bulging through a tent-like robe, tangerine light streaming from high windows illuminating the room.
The military men flanking them, they were marched toward the fat man, to be halted at the foot of the dias on which he sat.
He looked ... feverish.
No ... John realizing they all had an apricot cast to their skin.
Realgar. The orange Band; it's burnt ocher "sun" light coloring everything below.
What did you do when brought within the presence of Realgar's King? Take a step forward and bow, John guessed, though kowtowing to authority went down hard for Americans.
"Welcome," said the fat man in a voice too small for his flabby body, the man of considerable age, though no wrinkles lined his baby-fat face.
"Thank you for your hospitality, King Tauro" John responded, straightening.
"You are mistaken to address me, thus. King Taruo is in his capital."
"Excuse me, sir," John apologize. "Apparently, there has been some mistake." John turned to Golden, the rest of John's little band a step further to the rear, John gesturing for an explanation.
"The capital is Orpiment, sir," Golden whispered. "I assumed you knew ...."
"And where is that?" John cut in, feeling the need to at least look in control in this foreign place.
"Half way around the band, near Beak Island."
"I thought when we left Xanthin harbor we were headed for the capital."
"I did not realize that, sir. At any rate it would have been impossible since it would mean going toward Malachite, instead of away."
Just the kind of mistake John was apt to make in this confusing place where countries formed complete circles.
Turning again to the dignitary, John explained. "Forgive me. I fear that, in the boating accident I may have had a concussion ...."
"You wished to have an audience with King Tauro?" The fat man could also interrupt to show authority.
"So I thought."
"Here at The Claws, I speak for the king. For I am Helianthin, Mage of Realgar."
"I see." John didn't see.
"And who, might you be?"
He didn't know? What kind of game was being played here? One where the power at the moment was clearly on the other side, John's job to discover the rules and learn how to win by them. "I am the Mage of Stil-de-grain, John Lyon."
Helianthin leaned forward, his elaborately carved chair squeaking angrily. "Are you, so?"
"Show and tell" time. Reaching into his pocket, careful to avoid touching the Crystal, John dragged out the Disk-on-chain. Held it high, the fiery window-light sparkling the gold gem.
"You do not wear the Crystal?"
"No."
"Nor do I wear mine -- until the appropriate time."
Was that a threat? Not up on the customs here, John was unable to read the Realgar Mage's "thoughts" by tone of voice.
"Very wise, Sir," John said, striving for tact. Where this conversation was going was anyone's guess.
"And the reason you are here, in my Band?"
An odd thing to ask since, according to earlier messenger birds, the king of Realgar knew of John's mission. Had invited him to come. Did this mean there was little or no communication around the Band? For that matter, what was this "my Band" business?
"I was under the opinion we would be welcomed here."
"Possibly. Possibly." The man settled back. "There is the difficulty."
"What? I've apologize for hitting your wharf. A navigational problem with an experimental ship. An unintended error, I assure you."
The grossly fat Mage waved off John's explanation. "I refer to the known fact that, as there cannot be two kings in any band, there cannot be two Mages."
What was he talking about?
"I have no wish to be a second Mage in Realgar, nor have I ever thought of such a thing."
Again the wave of nullification. "I refer to the other Mage who journeyed to this land, the first Mage of Stil-de-grain, calling himself Pfnaravin."
So, that was it. Time -- past time -- for the truth. "Pfnaravin is a Mage. But not, as he may have claimed, of Stil-de-grain. Did you see his Mage-Disk?"
A nod. At least John thought it was a nod -- the man's neck buried in all that blubber.
"If you will remember, Pfnaravin's Disk was green."
Again the almost nod.
"Pfnaravin is Mage of Malachite, sometimes pretending to be Mage of Stil-de-grain. As you have seen, my Disk is the gold of Stil-de-grain. If a messenger bird could be sent to your King, I am sure any confusion on this point can be eliminated."
"And the reason you venture into Realgar? It could not be trade, I think."
"No. We seek this same Pfnaravin. And his woman companion."
"True, there was a woman with him. Under Mage restraint, so not accompanying him willingly."
The fat man wasn't a dummy.
"Pfnaravin is a criminal. As proof, has stolen the woman. We are here to right a wrong and desire your help in doing so. Hearing by Messenger Bird that our interests and yours correspond, we ask for supplies to continue our search for this evil Pfnaravin. We also need directions so that we may hunt him."
"What you ask presents difficulties." The man sighed a great, fat jiggling sigh. "For recently, again by messenger bird, we have been required by the king of Malachite, to detain the one he has described as the false Mage of Stil-de-grain."
"It was my understanding, that it is Pfnaravin who has proved himself to be a false friend of your King. That, wherever he goes, treason is ...." John almost said in the wind, wind a meaningless concept here, as elsewhere in this world. "...in the air."
"There is some truth to what you say. And I would order done what you suggest: provide you with supplies for your continued journey. Willingly so, had the difficulty between the two of you affected none other than yourselves ..... But there has been this change ...."
"If I may ask, what change?"
"I have been told that ships were attempting to intercept
you, your reaching Realgar waters with our help."
"Yes." Where was this going?
"Even now, Malachite troop transports approach our shores in The Claws, demanding, by messenger bird, that we apprehend you and your party. As for that request, as for your own, we wish nothing but to avoid entanglements."
So that was it. The fat Mage wanted to duck out of what he saw as other people's problems. Though the King might have been of more help, it was clear that his second in command wished, above all else, to maintain the status quo.
"The Malachite problem is not yours, but mine. I agree. So let me make a suggestion. Provision us, as you surely did Pfnaravin, then show us the way to go to arrest this evil Mage. Do this immediately before Malachite soldiers threaten your Band. In that way, the struggle remains between two, foreign Mages, Pfnaravin of Malachite and John Lyon of Stil-de-grain. Treating combatants equally is the only way Realgar can claim neutral status."
"A wise suggestion -- had not the Malachites sent so many troops."
"You allowed Pfnaravin to travel through your Band ...."
"More across than through."
"And did you supply him for this trip?"
The almost imperceptible nod.
"All I ask is for the same support. Let me summarize. Currently, the band of Stil-de-grain and that of Malachite are in conflict. It is also my understanding that Realgar wishes to remain a neutral Band."
"You have stated my meaning with these many words."
"Neutrals are ... neutral. If a privilege is granted to one, it should be given to the other."
"And that would be?"
"Allow us to take the same road as Pfnaravin."
"That would be the silk road," said the Mage, casually, as if he said something of little importance. "And when the Malachites arrive?"
"Tell them both Mages slipped away before you knew of Malachite's request that you intervene."
"If, as you say, you are here to pursue Pfnaravin, will the Malachite troops not demand to follow you?"
"Let them."
"Wise advise from one so young. I will make your request known to our King, who will make the decision about what to do.
Ellen Under The Stairs Page 16