by Lyndon Hardy
“The countess and I will gladly follow,” Kestrel said quickly. “But consultant Astron’s time is perhaps better spent in evaluating more of what takes place here. Pair him with someone who talks well and fast. He is the best of listeners.”
Astron opened his mouth to speak, but Kestrel grabbed him by the arm. “There, the man with the pen and quill—perhaps you will be amused by learning more of these calculations. Or even the sculpturing—see, look at that scaffolding going up on which they are hanging those foils of lead. Surely those will be of more interest than standing around listening to the countess and the master exchanging pleasantries.”
“The calculations and the structures, why yes,” Astron said. “The sculpturing is akin to what I call weaving and, for one who cannot do that, it would be interesting indeed. I need feel no guilt. While I wait I can no better serve my—”
Kestrel squeezed Astron’s arm tighter and the demon stopped. He nodded and slowly started to move in the direction Kestrel had indicated. Kestrel whirled to catch up with Celibor and Phoebe as they walked to the hut. The alchemist had his arm around her waist while he pointed out other aspects of his foundry. Curse it, Kestrel thought. She permitted it just as he had instructed her to.
Kestrel watched Phoebe try to shield from her eyes the afternoon sun streaking into the hut through a low window. He shifted uncomfortably on his stool, kicked at cracked and discarded parchments that cluttered the floor, and looked out the doorway into the foundry yard. He saw Astron with some sort of sextant sighting the top of the huge lead spheres and then the pylons at their side. Throughout the yard the bustle of the activity continued as if the border blockade did not exist. The bellows whooshed. A blistering heat radiated from the openings of the anthanar.
Kestrel frowned at the lengthening shadows. Despite Celibor’s other interests, his first concern turned out to be for his profits. For most of the day they had argued, and no agreement was yet in sight. Soon the sun would be setting, and they would have to come back the next day, something that Kestrel definitely did not want to do. He would have to play through the last part of his plan, whether the alchemist gave him an opening or not.
“But do you not see?” Celibor waved his hands around the confines of his hut. “This is no palace with rich furnishings paid for by the profits of my trade. Iliac across the way has seen to that with his low prices and inferior products. I need the coin to pay the workers as the effort is done. I cannot afford to await until the order is complete no matter how alluring is the bounty I would receive.”
The alchemist looked at Phoebe slyly. “Besides, I cannot really believe that a few moments aloft is the primary reason you are so anxious to do business with me. Why the concern, my lady, about pretending you are a bird?”
Kestrel became immediately alert. Celibor’s statement was what he had been waiting for. “You drive a hard bargain.” He laughed. “And this day grows long.” He looked at Phoebe. “With your permission, my lady,” he said.
Phoebe nodded slightly. Kestrel watched Celibor lean forward from where he sat.
“There is the matter of the new mine,” Kestrel continued smoothly. “One not in the mountains of Procolon to the north, but in the very hills of Ethidor itself.”
“There are no such mines,” Celibor scoffed. “Our own hills have been scoured many times over.”
“But not from a height, not from a vantage point no other has taken.” Kestrel lowered his voice to a whisper. “And not with a sketch of what to look for drawn by a sorcerer while under a far-seeking trance.” Kestrel pulled a tightly rolled parchment from his belt and waved it quickly in front of Celibor’s face.
The alchemist reached for it but Kestrel pulled it away with a nod. “You understand how critical it is that word of this reach no one else. Your craft can ill-afford a repetition of what has caused the impulse to the north to occur.”
Kestrel waited for Celibor to withdraw his hand and then continued. “Of course, our original plan was to find the location and then keep it from all, offering our ores to the highest bidder.” His smile broadened. “But you deal with such skill that a direct share might be more in order. Enough perhaps so that you see the raising of the balloon as much in your interest as in ours.”
Celibor glanced at Phoebe and then back to Kestrel. “How do I know that these are not more words, perhaps as empty as the rest?”
“You do not.” Kestrel shrugged and rose. “There is a risk here that must be taken—a single balloon ride for half share in what may be the only source of ore while the blockade continues. Perhaps those across the street would indeed be more receptive.”
“No, wait,” Celibor said. “In good faith, I have made investments as well. Come outside and see what I have instructed the workmen to do while we talked. If we can agree on a fair price, then even today the deed can be done.”
Kestrel looked over to Phoebe and she tilted her head slightly a second time. He shrugged and turns his palms upward to Celibor. “Evidently, she likes you,” he said. “A few hours more she has graciously granted.”
Celibor grunted and scurried past where they sat into the afternoon sun. He squinted his eyes against the harshness and motioned for them to follow over into the testing area.
Kestrel and Phoebe left the hut with regal slowness and stepped out into the daylight. They walked past the cooling lead ingots, lattices, and polyhedra and through the shadows cast by the great spheres and pylons. Astron looked up from what he was studying and motioned but Kestrel waved him away. The hook was nearly set and he could not afford to be distracted.
Kestrel noted the contents of other huts as he passed. One on the left was piled high with cured animal hides and beyond it were seamstresses lashing them together into a growing pile of balloons not yet used. On the right, knot makers tied lengths of braided hair into canopies that would fit over the balloons when they were inflated and tether them to the ground.
When they caught up with Celibor, he was pointing at a long row of bottles all connected to a hose of some rubbery fiber. Like a giant centipede the construction wandered through the open area where the tests were performed.
“More than one bottle will be needed to remove enough air so that the three of you can be borne aloft,” Celibor said. “My craftsmen have labored long and hard to connect all of these bottles in parallel so that the evacuation can quickly be done.”
Kestrel looked down the snaking line. “Then we are almost ready,” he said. “Why haggle over details when we can be at the task right away.”
“It is not quite as you make it seem,” Celibor said. “Two more bottles must be connected to the chain. That is no easy matter if one wishes not to lose all the vacuum in the process. Then we have to bind a valve to the balloon itself, one that will not leak once it has been removed of its air.” Celibor waved to one of the leather spheres resting on the ground. It was partially inflated and tugging slightly against the beginning of a breeze. “And the heating arrangement I have not yet contemplated. Much air will be extracted for this ride, not just a little amount. Heating what remains to regain the original volume is an intriguing challenge all in itself.”
Kestrel studied Celibor’s expression, trying to judge the truthfulness of his words. He resisted the impulse to grab the end of the hose nearest him and hurry the process along. Then suddenly as he wrestled with what to say next, there was a loud pounding on the metal doors that led to the street.
“Open the gates,” a voice sounded over the fence. “In the name of the wizards of the Brythian hills. You house the ones we seek.”
Celibor glanced at his gateman in annoyance and then back in the direction of his hut toward a pile of shields and swords. Kestrel spun around to look at Astron and saw the demon pointing frantically into the air. Though it was not yet dusk, a swarm of lights could be seen dancing along the fence line in a confusing buzz. The demon had been right; the wizards had caught up with them and far sooner than Kestrel would have thought. Now there was no
time left for subtle maneuvers. Every second would count.
“Defend your property rights,” Kestrel shouted at the puzzled alchemist. “A direct attack from your rivals across the way. They strike in desperation to prevent the ascent of the countess into the air.”
Celibor continued to hesitate and Kestrel turned his attention away. He had to get the foundry workers to act. “You, and you with the sextant,” he directed. “Back to the weapons store and arm yourself against the entry. Delay them as long as you can.” He waved at the apparatus directly in front of where he and Phoebe stood. “Never mind the last two bottles. Quickly affix the valve.” He looked at the blank stares of the workmen and tried not to think how much more must be done.
With a sudden crash, the doors sprang inward and a squad of men-at-arms burst into the foundry yard. Behind perhaps twelve warriors, each clad in mail, came a quartet of wizards, shaking their fists and urging those in front forward.
“Benthon and Maspanar,” Phoebe said, “and others of my council. What you said was true. They pursue me with great vigor.”
“To the weapons.” Celibor evidently shook off his indecision when he saw the men-at-arms. He picked up the hems of his master’s robe and ran for his hut. “The visitors speak truly. Iliac seeks to get my share of the mine for himself.”
Kestrel looked from the gates and back to the master’s hut. Perhaps eight of Celibor’s workers would arm and provide some resistance. He glanced at the two struggling with the valve and saw that they were now working as fast as they could.
“What of the devils?” he asked Phoebe quickly. “Where are the ones bigger than the imps on the wall?”
“Benthon is quite conservative,” Phoebe said. “He will use demons of as little power as he can. Perhaps the imps are all that they have under their spell.”
“Then help with the balloon,” Kestrel decided. “I will aid in the defense to give us as much time as I can.”
Kestrel bolted to Celibor’s hut and pushed two of the slower workers aside. He reached for one of the shields and grabbed the sword that was closest of the lot. The blade felt heavy and not balanced to his liking but there was no time to choose.
Swinging his arm back and forth in what he hoped were menacing arcs he advanced with Celibor and four others to meet the first of the attacking men-at-arms. Six of the wizards’ men raised their shields to meet them. With a ringing clang, steel crashed onto steel. Kestrel lunged forward, trying to get around his opponent’s guard, but the man who faced him was skillful and dodged nimbly to the side. The rest of the wizards’ men moved quickly behind the first and spread to outflank Kestrel and Celibor on both sides.
Kestrel retreated a step backward and darted a look back to the gate, sucking in his breath at what he saw. Another dozen men poured through the opening, lancemen and archers who fanned out across the yard. The limp balloon that was to be passage over the border made an ideal target and in a heart beat three arrows pierced the hide as if it were paper. The sphere crumpled and sagged to the ground. The lancers ran to the ore heaps and glassworks, pushing all resistance in front of them into a disorganized retreat.
“Another balloon from the storage hut,” Kestrel shouted in desperation. “Start the bellows while there is still a chance.” He tore his gaze away from the scrambling workmen at the shouts to his adversaries and barely ducked a swipe at his unprotected neck.
Kestrel retreated another two steps and stumbled backward over a fallen workman, trying to block out the growing sense of futility that hammered at his thoughts. He heard a crash behind him and then a clatter of metal. A hot blast of air roared from the anthanar and almost blistered the back of his head. Flames shot up from the glassworks. Globs of molten slag arced over the yard, starting small fires in the debris wherever they landed. One hit the stack of uninflated balloons, and Kestrel groaned. In a moment, their remaining means of escape burned along with the rest.
Kestrel looked around for Phoebe or Astron, but acrid smoke was beginning to obstruct his view. He saw one of the pylons fall and then a second. The huge lead sphere seemed to lumber from its pedestal and lurch his way. Kestrel staggered backward and felt the wall of Celibor’s hut. The alchemist had dropped his sword and was on one knee begging for mercy, a trickle of deep red running from his forehead.
The smoke thickened. Kestrel took a deep breath, plunging into where it was densest, just missing another swipe at his side. The fumes hurt his eyes. He squinted into the dirty grayness, just barely able to make out the menacing forms pursuing him and the indistinct objects toward which he ran.
Kestrel staggered a dozen steps forward and burst back into clear air. Tears clouded his vision. He shook his head in surprise, trying to understand what he saw. Almost directly in front were Phoebe and Astron, standing in the gondola Celibor had planned to couple to the balloon. Frantically the two were waving their arms and beckoning him forward.
Kestrel took one step, puzzled. The gondola was made of straw. Soon it, too, would be in flame. It was better to run as best one could. But while he pondered, the box lurched in his direction, scraping along the ground. A shadow passed over Kestrel, and he looked up, astonished. The gondola lifted from the ground and started to climb over his head.
Stunned, Kestrel watched Astron reach out over the edge of the box while Phoebe held him by the waist.
“Grab my hand, mortal,” Kestrel heard Astron shout. “This is no time for your stembrain to assume command.”
Kestrel nodded blankly. He raised his arm and felt a surprisingly strong grip about his wrist. Then, with a stab of pain in his shoulder, he was lifted clear of the ground, just as a man-at-arms made one last stab at his dangling feet.
Kestrel looked down at the foundry. With gathering speed, it seemed to move more and more rapidly away. He heard the ping of an arrowhead on metal and glanced skyward for a second time. There was no mistake about it. The gondola was tethered to a sphere of lead.
CHAPTER TEN
The Magic Bottle
“WHAT wizardry is this?” Kestrel said as he climbed into the basket. “Balloons of lead cannot fly.”
“There was no other choice,” Astron said. “The ones of animal hide were all rendered useless by the minions of the wizards.”
“It is not a matter of choice.” Kestrel shook his head, still slightly dazed by what had happened. He looked over the edge of the gondola and saw the foundry yard shrink into toylike smallness. To the north, the camps of the two armies began to take shape into recognizable forms. The green wetness of the border marsh faded into the dark shadows of the setting sun. The low hills that led to the mines of Procolon grew closer with each passing moment. The onshore breeze was pushing them in exactly the direction Kestrel wished them to go.
“It is not a matter of choice,” he repeated. “The metal is too heavy to be borne aloft.”
“The calculations shown to me by the alchemist were most interesting,” Astron said. “It seems that the force carrying a balloon aloft is proportional to its volume. The greater the size of the sphere, the more it can lift.”
“One need not study one of the five arts to understand such a fact,” Kestrel said. “The key point is that the weight of the balloon itself must be included in the total.”
“And so it is,” Astron said. “The mass of a balloon increases as the square of its radius while its volume and lifting power increase with the cube. Regardless of the density of the material, eventually there is a size large enough that it can be buoyed aloft.”
Kestrel watched Astron pause, and what might be a smile of pleasure crossed the demon’s face.
“I was fascinated by the concept of the vacuum,” Astron continued. “And once I understood the principles, it was easy to perform the calculation for the lead sphere to which you directed my attention. Not only was it large enough to carry the skeletal structure inside which gave it shape but, as you can see, the three of us as well. I connected the gondola harness and the bottles of emptiness as soon as I saw
that it was the last balloon remaining.”
“It never was intended to be a balloon.” Kestrel started to protest again, but then he stopped. Of course, he understood finally. For him, or any other man for that matter, connecting the vacuum bottles to the lead sphere would never have occurred as a possibility. But Astron was not blinded by the obvious. The demon merely thought it fortunate that the great ball was large enough to carry the three of them. There really was nothing of the five arts involved at all. Kestrel let out a deep breath and looked groundward. They were safely away and soon would be visiting the archimage.
But as he scanned the scene, a twinkle of light near the foundry wall caught Kestrel’s eye. The feeling of relief immediately vanished. He studied the dancing pattern until he was sure, a scowl deepening on his face all the while. He pointed the light out to the others, and Astron nodded in confirmation. The cloud of imps that had tracked them to Menthos still pursued their flight. The buzzing sprites would have to be dealt with immediately, or they would have gained only a little respite from the wizards’ wrath.
“Perhaps a magic bottle.” Phoebe pointed at the trailing swarm. “Others of my council have spoken of them frequently. They use them to confine the imps that they summon through the flame. If we can capture them all before any returns to report where we are, then we will be cleanly away.”
Kestrel stared out at the imps and pondered what Phoebe had said. His thoughts raced, pulling together the elements of another plan. “I think the wizard is right,” he said after a moment. “We certainly have nothing to aid us in this empty gondola. And there are so many that we must find a way to deal with all of them at once. Let us land while there is still a bit of light and continue on the ground.” He looked to the north, trying to judge their rate of motion. “If we are lucky, it will be far enough north that we quickly can reach a guild that I know of which specializes in the making of those magic jars. Perhaps, if we can intercept a single magician on the road, the odds might not be all that great.”