by Simon Hawke
"Perhaps it would, if you were to succeed in such an effort," said MacGregor, ignoring the sword held at his throat as he once again raised the tankard to his lips.
"Well, considering that I have you at something of a disadvantage, then perhaps I shall," replied Black Jack with a smile.
"Perhaps not," MacGregor said. He took another sip, then suddenly spat a spray of ale into Black Jack's face. As Black Jack recoiled instinctively, MacGregor slammed his tankard down, pinning Black Jack's blade beneath it to the table.
With a curse, Black Jack jerked back his blade, which gave MacGregor time to send his bench crashing to the floor as he sprang to his feet and drew his own sword.
"You shall pay dearly for that!" snarled Black Jack.
MacGrcgor grinned at him. "Come and collect," he said.
As their blades clashed, Lisa cried out and Black Jack's companions quickly rose to join the fray. However, all this commotion finally awoke the three brothers to the fact that something was going on behind them.
Hugh turned around as MacGregor engaged Black Jack and saw the five men getting up and reaching for their weapons. "Fight!" he yelled out gleefully, and hurled his empty tankard with such force that the man whose head it struck was killed instantly. The sturdy tankard only suffered minor damage.
Dugh took three running steps and leapt up on a table top, from which he launched himself in what would have been a graceful swan dive, except that Dugh was built less like a swan than like a grizzly bear, and bears aren't really all that graceful. In any case, there was nothing graceful about the way he landed, right on top of two of Black Jack's companions, and they all went tumbling to the floor.
Lugh was the slowest to react, which gave the man nearest him time to lunge at him with his blade. Lugh tried to dodge, but he was still a little slow and the blade penetrated his shoulder, missing his heart, which had been the swordsman's intended target. Lugh grunted, grabbed the exposed part of the blade and kicked his attacker in the groin. The man's eyes got all bulgy and he made a sound like a pig being fed into a meat grinder as he doubled up and clutched himself.
"That hurt," said Lugh, pulling the sword out of his shoulder and proceeding to belabor his attacker about the head with its ornate, basket hilt.
That left one man to face Hugh, and he decided on the spur of the moment that he didn't really feel like facing such a large opponent at close quarters. He reached for his dagger, drew it, and flipped it around so that he could hold it by the point and throw it. Unfortunately for him, this rather showy gesture gave Hugh time enough to snatch up a bench and hold it up as a shield just as he threw his knife. The blade stuck in the bench, which Hugh then proceeded to use as a battering ram, running at his opponent with it.
Caught in the act of trying to draw his sword, the fifth man screamed as Hugh slammed into him, benchfirst, and carried him back against the wall.
Meanwhile, without his friends to support him, Black Jack suddenly found he had his hands full. Not that he wasn't a good swordsman, for he was, but Sean MacGregor had yet to meet his match and Black Jack just wasn't it. He retreated rapidly before MacGregor's dancing blade, parrying like mad, and if he'd had time to think, he would have thought that instead of wasting time earlier with all that snappy repartee, he should have simply run MacGregor through.
"What, no more snappy repartee?" MacGregor taunted him as he advanced. With a deft twist of the wrist, he hooked Black Jack's blade and sent it flying across the room. This time, with his sword point at Black Jack's throat, he backed him up against the bar. "Now... about this reputation of yours," MacGregor said.
As MacGregor spoke, Dugh was busily smashing his two antagonists' heads together. They were making very satisfying, thunking sounds, but Dugh had a rather limited attention span and he was growing bored of this game. He decided to see if his brothers needed any help, and so he flung his two stunned antagonists away from him, one in either direction. Unfortunately, the one he flung off to his right happened to strike MacGregor, knocking him right off his feet. Black Jack was quick to take advantage of this fortuitous reprieve by kicking MacGregor as he went down and then bolting for the door, snatching up his sword en route.
"You've not heard the last of Black Jack!" he cried, and men he ran out the door, mounted up, and galloped off down the road.
"Somehow, I knew he was going to say that," said MacGregor, wincing with pain as he pushed himself up to a sitting position.
"How did you know that, Mac?" Dugh asked, giving him a hand up.
"Because that's what they always say," MacGregor replied with a sour grimace. "Oh, and by the way, in the future, when you decide to toss someone around, do check to see which way you're tossing him, will you?"
"I'm sorry, Mac," said Dugh, looking down at the floor.
"Want we should chase him for you, Mac?" asked Lugh.
"I shouldn't bother," MacGregor replied. "He has a fast horse and he's had a good head start." He frowned. "What's making that noise?"
He turned around and saw Hugh still bashing away with the bench. He had his man pinned up against the wall and he would pull the bench back, allowing the man to fall forward just a little bit, and then slam him back against the wall with it once more, which was producing a sound not unlike that made by a washing machine with sneakers in it. (I know, the analogy is out of period, but that's exactly what it sounded like.)
MacGregor walked over to Hugh and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hugh... I think he's dead."
Hugh pulled the bench back and the bloody corpse collapsed to the floor.
"Oh," said Hugh, sounding a trifle disappointed.
"One of the things you'll need to know, Hugh, if you're ever going to be a good assassin, is that you only need to kill somebody once," said MacGregor. "Once is usually sufficient. Now then, I don't suppose any of these chaps are still alive?"
"I think this one's still breathin', Mac," said Dugh, bending over one of the prostrate figures.
MacGregor turned him over with his foot. He grimaced at the sight of the man's face, which had been dramatically rearranged. "Well, I fear this one won't be talking any time soon," he said. "Pity. We might have learned a thing or two."
"I'm sorry, Mac," said Dugh. "Did I hit the fella too hard?"
"Oh, well, it couldn't be helped, I suppose," MacGregor replied. "You see, lads, in the future, if we are ever set upon by unknown assailants, we must try to keep at least one of them alive, and preferably in some shape to answer questions. That way, we can find out who they are, whom they are working for, and how much they know."
"Gee, Mac, this assassin stuff is really complicated," Lugh said.
"Aye, well, never fear, you'll get the hang of it eventually," MacGregor said. "You did well, lads, you did very well, indeed. And, fortunately, we are not left completely in the dark about this situation. We do know that the man I fought, presumably their leader, is named Black Jack, and from what he told me, it seems that they were working freelance, in the hopes of collecting the bounty on the men we seek."
"You mean, they were working for Warrick, too?" said Hugh.
"Not exactly," replied MacGregor. "You see, while Warrick the White keeps me on retainer, he has also offered a bounty for these men he's seeking, which increases the odds of those men being found, since enterprising men such as our friends here will attempt to find them on their own in order to collect the bounty."
"But I thought we were supposed to find them," Dugh said.
"Indeed, we are," said MacGregor, "but we are not the only ones looking, you see. The bounty increases Warrick's chances of having someone find those men, but it does make our job a bit more complicated, in that we shall be competing with everyone else who's looking for them."
Lugh shook his head. "It doesn't seem right to me," he grumbled.
" 'Tis not meant to be right to you," MacGregor replied. " 'Tis meant to be right to the client."
"Difficult work, this," Hugh observed.
"Aye, well, if it
wasn't, then everybody would be doing it, wouldn't they?" MacGregor said.
"Who's going to pay for all this, then?" the tavern keeper asked, surveying the damage to his establishment, which was relatively minor, all things considered. The Stealers Tavern was still undergoing repairs, from the three brothers' last visit.
MacGregor bent down and quickly searched the man lying at his feet. He found the man's purse and examined its contents. "These fellows will, I think," he said. "I'm sure that, between them, they have more than enough to compensate you for your loss."
The tavern keeper grunted and proceeded to relieve the other bodies of their purses.
Lisa came up to MacGregor, her eyes shining. "I thought for certain he was going to kill you," she said. "You were wonderful!"
"I still am," MacGregor replied with a wink. "This Black Jack fellow, I don't suppose you've ever heard of him before? He seemed to think he had some sort of reputation."
"Aye, that he does," said Lisa. "I never knew his name, nor laid eyes on him before, but sure and I've heard of him."
"Indeed? What have you heard?"
"He is a thief, a brigand, and a cutthroat," Lisa replied. "And not above any dubious enterprise that promises to bring him profit. 'Tis said he killed a man once in Pittsburgh, in The Stealers Tavern, merely for breaking wind beside him."
"Mmmm. Well, considering the offal served for food there, I can't say as I blame him," said MacGregor. "So he frequents The Stealers, does he? That must be where he heard about the bounty on those men we seek. And now that his friends have succeeded in delaying us, he's got himself a good head start."
"Not really," replied Lisa with a smile. "He galloped off down the wrong road. The three men you're seeking took the east fork."
"Did they, indeed?" MacGregor grinned. "Well, in that case, there's no great rush, is there? We'll spend the night and take the east fork first thing in the morning. Innkeeper, we'll be needing rooms for the night!"
"Mine is at the end of the hall," said Lisa softly.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mick O'Fallon had no idea what Brewster Doc was up to this time, and he had no idea what this "aluminum" was that they were going to make, but it was shaping up to be yet another mysterious and complicated project. Until he had met Doc, he had never heard the word "project" before. He had heard the word "projectile," which referred to something that was launched through the air as a weapon, such as an arrow fired from a bow or a large stone hurled by a catapult. Doc, however, used this word "project" in an entirely different sense, referring to various alchemical and sorcerous works. Perhaps, thought Mick, it had something to do with the energies projected through the ether in order to bring these works about. In any case, the energy required for Doc's sorcery had to be prodigious, because each time he launched one of his projects, it usually meant a lot of work for everyone, especially for Mick O'Fallon.
Even the brigands who worked with him had to admit that these sorcerous projects of Doc's entailed a lot more sweat than they were used to shedding. Nevertheless, they took part without complaint, partly because there were few people who could boast of participating in sorcerous works, and partly because they were curious to see what wondrous miracle Doc would produce this time.
While Mick worked with a team of assistants at his smithy to produce the metal vessels Brewster required, another team of brigands had been organized to collect the grayish substance Brewster had called bauxite. Much of it they found on the surface of the banks in the ravine, but they also had to dig in order to find more. Brewster had taught them how to recognize it and while one group pursued that task, another worked to grind the bauxite up with mortars and pestles. This ground-up bauxite was then mixed with potash, ground limestone, and water, which produced something Brewster called "sodium hydroxide." For simplicity, Brewster had said that it could simply be called a "caustic soda," but everyone enjoyed saying "sodium hydroxide," because it sounded magical and powerful.
The ground bauxite was then mixed with a solution of this sodium hydroxide in the first of the vessels Mick had made, which Brewster called a "pressure tank."
"In this heated vessel, which is a crude sort of pressure cooker," Brewster had explained, as everyone gathered around, "the ore will be dissolved under steam heat and pressure. The sodium hydroxide will react with the hydrated aluminum oxide of the bauxite to form a solution of sodium aluminate. The insoluble impurities, which will look like red mud because of the iron oxide content, will settle to the bottom. The remaining solution will then pass into the second vessel, the one with the pressure release valve, which is called the blow-off tank, because it lets the steam out, you see. The cloth filters we're using will have to be changed each time, because they're going to get all clogged up, but that shouldn't really present a problem.
"We're actually going to be using a somewhat simplified process," he continued, "but then we're not really making a high, commercial grade of aluminum, so I don't think we'll need a whole series of reducing tanks and heat exchangers and precipitators. We'll sort of be playing this by ear, and we may have to modify the process somewhat, but it should work. Once we have the alumina distilled, we'll scrape it off the sides of the tank and put it into the reduction pot, that's the one we've lined with carbon, you see, and then we'll melt the cryolite in it. That's the white substance I found in Mick's laboratory. Eventually, we'll probably need more of it, but Mick assures me he can get more from the dwarves who work the mines. We'll run electricity through it using the generator and the voltage regulator I've salvaged from my time machine... my, uh, magic chariot, that is. We'll use carbon rods for the anodes and put about 750 volts of direct current through it. That should do the trick. The aluminum will melt and sink down to the bottom, and the impurities will float up to the top. After that, all that's left will be to draw the aluminum off the bottom and pour it directly into the molds. At that point it should be pure enough to work, and that's all there is to it."
They had all simply stared at him, without comprehending a word of what he'd said. It all sounded terribly impressive, but no one had a clue as to what any of it meant.
"Well," said Brewster with a shrug, "if it sounds confusing, don't worry about it. Not everyone can be expected to understand this kind of sorcery, you know. It's a special kind of sorcery called 'science.' You'll see. Once we get all the bugs worked out of the process, it should work just fine."
"Seems like a terrible lot of trouble to go to just to make handles for the knives," said Mick dubiously. " 'T'would be a lot easier simply to use horn."
"Well, you said you wanted something special, didn't you?" Brewster replied. "Besides, aluminum will be a lot more practical, and it'll probably make the knives more valuable, too. It certainly won't be something people will see every day. And we'll be able to use it for other things, besides. You'll see. It may be a lot of trouble, but I think it will be worth it."
Brewster didn't tell Mick the main reason they were doing it was that he simply got caught up in the idea and wanted to see it done. And Mick didn't tell Brewster that his biggest misgiving was that the process would use up all his alchemite, which Brewster had called by the strange name of "cryolite." Apparently, thought Mick, they had a lot of different names for things in Brewster's Land of Ing.
One of the first things Brewster had done, after he moved into the keep, was ask Mick if he could take an inventory of the alchemical laboratory. Mick had agreed without hesitation, because although, in a sense, it was his laboratory, in another sense, it really wasn't. Most everything that it contained had belonged to that unknown, bygone sorcerer who had once lived at the keep at some point in the past, farther back than anyone in Brigand's Roost could remember. And what few things Mick had added to it had not really amounted to a hill of beans. Despite all the things he had mixed together, burned, melted, and reduced, he had come no closer to the secret of the Philosopher's Stone than when he'd started. Doc's knowledge, on the other hand, had been more than amply demonstrated and
it was clearly far more extensive than that of any adept Mick had ever heard of. Perhaps even more extensive than that of the Grand Director of the Guild himself. So Mick was anxious for the opportunity to learn everything he could.
However, although he'd said nothing to Brewster, he had some anxiety about letting him use up all the alchemite. He could, indeed, get more from the dwarves who worked the mines up in the mountains, but it would cost him dearly. In order to obtain the supply he already had, it had been necessary for him to make half a dozen of his finest blades, designed to dwarf proportion, and at that, he'd negotiated long and hard to talk them down from the dozen blades they'd first demanded. Still, he would have paid even that price, had it been necessary, for the dwarves normally sold all their alchemite to the Master Alchemists of the Treasury Department of the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild.
When Mick had found out, quite by accident, that the dwarves regularly supplied this substance to the Master Alchemists of the Treasury Department, he had correctly deduced that alchemite was one of the necessary ingredients in the magical process that was the secret of the Philosopher's Stone, so he had bought some under the table, as it were. Yet, no matter how he'd tried, he still hadn't been able to discover the secret of the spell. He had used up about one-third of the supply he'd bought, and now it appeared that Doc was going to use up all the rest in this aluminum-making project. And Mick didn't even know what this aluminum was.
Nevertheless, he hadn't been able to refuse him. In the short time they had known each other, Mick, never the most sociable of individuals, had developed a greater liking for Doc than for anyone he'd ever known. And his respect for Doc's knowledge increased daily.
Thanks to Doc, he was now making better blades than he'd ever hoped to make, and in time, Mick was convinced that he'd achieve a reputation as the finest armorer in the twenty-seven kingdoms. And thanks to the still Doc had invented, Mick was now making more peregrine wine than he'd ever been able to make before, and it was a superior distillation, easily twice as potent as the wine produced by his old method. Soon, they would be bringing it to market outside Brigand's Roost and Mick had little doubt that he'd be able to sell all the wine that he could make. Doc had expressed the opinion that it shouldn't really be called wine, but that it should properly be called a "whiskey," whatever that was. "It's strong enough to knock you out," Doc had said. "It's a regular Mickey Finn." And then and there, Mick had decided that when they brought the peregrine wine to market, he would call it "Mickey Finn."