Well, U'len was the best cook in the valley, although her tongue was just as sharp as her kitchen knives. Karl was secretly pleased with her irritability; U'len had come a long way from the cringing wretch in the slave markets of Metreyll.
Sitting on Riccetti's left, Thellaren brushed a few stray crumbs from his black robes and smiled as he reached for a piece of pie, his hands seemingly immune to the hot drops of bubbling blueberry filling.
"You seem to collect irritating people around you, Karl Cullinane." The fat Spidersect priest shook his head. "One would think that you like it that way." Thellaren broke off a crumb and blew on it before feeding the tarantula-sized spider on his shoulder. The creature grabbed the morsel in its mandibles, then scurried away, hiding itself somewhere inside the priest's ample robes.
"True enough." Ahira grinned slyly. "After all, look who he married."
The dwarf had timed that just right, just as Andy-Andy had lifted her goblet and begun to drink. Water spurted out of her mouth and onto her plate.
Riccetti flashed a brief smile. "Two points, Ahira."
Andy-Andy glared at both the Engineer and the dwarf, then broke into a fit of giggles.
Karl sighed happily. He hadn't heard her actually giggle for years.
After a brief glance at Ahira for permission, Kirah joined in the general laughter. Walter's wife was still, even after all this time, reserved, almost silent, around Karl. The dwarf was a different case; since Ahira lived with her, Janie, and Walter, she had come to take him for granted.
Karl pushed his chair back from the table and folded his hands over his navel. "So? Where do we stand?"
"Which?" Riccetti downed the last of his water. "Politics or powder?"
"Dealer's choice."
Ahira bit his lip. "It's the politics that worries me. Even if the locals—"
"The slavers."
"—even if the slavers have figured out how to make powder, we have quite a few tricks in reserve. Nitrocellulose," Ahira said with a sigh. "If necessary."
Riccetti snorted. "Fine. You figure out how to keep it stable."
Karl raised an eyebrow. "How's the research going?"
"Not well. It's still averaging around ninety, ninety-five days before the damn stuff self-detonates." He threw up his hands. "It could be that I've got to figure out a better wash—or maybe just bite the bullet and admit that I can't do it with the kinds of impurities we're getting in the sulfuric. Or maybe I should just tell you to find yourself another jackleg chemical engineer."
"Hey, Lou—"
"Don't heylou me, dammit. If I had wanted to major in chemical engineering instead of civil engineering, I would have. You know how I was taught to procure explosives?"
"Well—"
"I was taught to order them. Out of a catalog. You get a license, you fill out the forms, you write a check . . ." He chewed his thumbnail. "And really pure chemicals—"
"Wait." Ahira held up a hand. "Lou, with all due respect, do we have to go through this again? We all know that you're going to keep working on guncotton, and everybody in this room believes that you'll lick the self-detonating problem, eventually."
"Sure I will. Ever read that Verne book about a trip to the moon?"
"The one where they shot them out of a cannon? No. Why?"
Riccetti spread his hands on the table. "Observe—at no time do the fingers leave the hand. I like it that way." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Most of the book was nonsense. But ol' Julie had one thing right. Most of his characters—people who spent a lot of time dealing with explosives—were missing a few body parts. If I had to start making explosives in quantity, God knows what'd happen."
"So don't make any quantities until you're ready to."
"I guess I should have studied chemical engineering. Or brought along a few pounds of PYX, maybe."
"There is a . . . nastier alternative." Andy-Andy's face grew grim. "I could put in the work to learn transmutation of metals, instead of just doing this agricultural kid stuff. How many pounds of uranium would it take to—"
"Forget it." Riccetti shook his head. "Three problems. First, without good explosives for the lenses, setting off a fission bomb isn't easy. Second, it isn't only uranium you need, you need uranium that's ninety-seven plus percent U-two-thirty-five. Third, you won't live to get good enough to do any kind of transmutation. It's not like rainmaking. Aristobulus wasn't far enough along for transmutation, and you're still not half the wizard . . . he was."
"Delicately put." Ahira raised his eyes to heaven. "But Lou's right, although for the wrong reasons. We're not taking that route."
Thellaren raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask. "Mr. Mayor, what do you think we ought to do about the political situation? You are not willing to consider Lord Khoral's new offer?"
"New offer?" Karl asked. "Something I don't know about?"
"Yeah." The dwarf shook his head. "We've got another emissary from Khoral due between now and the town meeting, and I expect he's going to up the ante. More serfs; titles enough to go around—how would you like to be Karl, Baron Cullinane?"
Karl snorted.
"All he wants is your fealty, Karl. And, just maybe, he wants Lou to give him the secret of gunpowder."
"What he wants, Ahira, is both Lou and a bargaining chip to bludgeon the Slavers' Guild with."
"It's not the bludgeoning that bothers you. It's the possibility of not bludgeoning. C'mon, now, there's never been a human baron in Therranj," the dwarf teased. "Wouldn't you like to be the first?"
"No, thanks." It was partly a matter of ego, partly a matter of dignity. But mainly it was a matter of independence.
Karl didn't like the idea of being told what to do by anyone, and he most particularly didn't like the idea of becoming a second-class Therranji. Elves had ruled in Therranj forever; the present Lord Khoral claimed to trace his ancestry back for thousands of years. Humans were second-class citizens in Therranj, and though most of them were as native-born as the elves, descendants of immigrants from the Eren regions, humans were forbidden to own land, ride horses, or practice half a score of professions.
And despite the fact that Khoral had already offered full Therranji citizenship to everyone in the valley—humans, elves, and dwarves alike—Karl was more than sure that that wouldn't quite take. Racial prejudice was different here, but still every bit as firmly entrenched on This Side as back on the Other Side.
Maybe worse, in a way; here, there was a sound basis for at least some of it. While Karl didn't have anything against dwarves or elves, he wouldn't want Aeia to marry either; any children would be sterile, mules.
And then there was the matter of the Slavers' Guild. Western Therranj was a prime raiding ground for the slavers, and certainly that was a common interest between Home and Therranj for now—but that could change. There was no doubt that Khoral wanted to hold the threat of Karl Cullinane over the slavers' heads, promising to restrain him if the guild would lay off the raids on Therranj.
What bothered Karl was that Khoral just might persuade the guild. The spreading war in the Middle Lands increased the supplies of slaves in its wake; it was becoming increasingly easy for the guild to trade in Bieme and Holtun rather than raiding into Therranj.
There was an even darker side to it. What if Khoral was sincere? What if he really would make Karl some sort of baron?
That was a trap for both ruler and ruled. Karl's authority over his warriors flowed from respect and choice—both theirs and his. There might come a time when he could give up that authority and what went with it, when he'd be able to say that he'd never again have to see friends' intestines spill onto the grass.
But that could only happen as long as he remained free. Not trapped by a title.
"The town meeting is the problem," Karl said. "At least for now. It might get a bit dirty—"
"Karl—" Andy-Andy started.
"—politically," he went on. "No bloodshed. I'll handle it. Just make sure that the envoy's kept busy until th
e meeting. Give him a full, in-depth tour, excluding Reserved caverns. Hell, you can have Nehera discourse for a couple of hours on alloys. Hmmm . . . I don't see any need for the envoy to be muttering with the Joiners—so be careful." He turned to Lou. "Anything outside of the caverns that shouldn't be seen?"
"Well, nothing critical, but yes," Riccetti said, frowning. "There's a charcoal heap still smoldering—that's no problem. But we've got a few pots boiling over wood fires. I'll draft Ellegon to hurry the job, but getting them inside before they cool will be a problem. Andrea, would you levitate them for me?"
"After that crack about how easy rainmaking is, I shouldn't— but I will." She wrinkled her brow. "I hope they're covered, though. You did know I'm rainmaking tonight?"
"I knew," Riccetti said. "The pots are under flies. As for getting it out of sight . . . I can have everything inside by tomorrow night if you'll come over after school and give us a hand."
"Sure."
He didn't say what was in the pots, but Karl assumed it was dirt from the cave floors, saltpeter being crystallized out of the bat guano as an ingredient for gunpowder. There was no need to be overly secretive. Everyone in the valley either knew or suspected that the making of gunpowder involved boiling something. Exactly what would be hard to guess, but there was no need to take extra chances.
Karl nodded. "Sounds good. As far as the emissary goes, he can say what he wants to; I just want the last word. Both with the elf and before the voting."
"Karl, you're treating this too lightly," the dwarf said, shaking his head. "I really think you ought to go around and talk to people."
"Too obvious. The Joiners will be expecting me to do some politicking for you."
"Hell, I'm expecting you to go around politicking for me."
"Guess again." Karl shook his head. "You're thinking like a politician."
"Which you're not."
"Precisely. We living legends do things differently." Karl blew on his fingernails and buffed them on his chest. "By now, it's common knowledge from here to the caverns that I'm back because you sent for me. And since I've always hated to do the expected, I'm going to do nothing political, say nothing political, until the town meeting."
"And then?"
"And then I . . . transcend the political."
Ahira chuckled. "The last time I was around when you 'transcended the political,' you beat the hell out of Seigar Wohtansen. Hope you don't end up as unpopular around here as you are in Melawei."
"Don't mention Melawei." Karl slammed his fist down on the table, sending plates and silverware clattering. "Ever." It wasn't just that Melawei was where Rahff had died; Melawei was also where the sword of Arta Myrdhyn lay waiting in a cavern beneath an offshore island, clutched in fingers of light.
It's not waiting for my son, you bastard. You keep your bloody hands off Jason. He rubbed his fingers against his eyes until sparks leaped behind his eyelids. "I'm sorry, Ahira—everybody." He opened his eyes to see Lou Riccetti standing, his fingers clutching the apprentice's wrist. Chak stood behind her, one hand gripping her hair, his eating knife barely touching the wide-eyed girl's throat.
"Easy, Chak," Karl said. "Let her go."
Eyeing the apprentice suspiciously, Chak let go of her hair and took his seat again, carefully examining the knife's edge.
"Ranella," Riccetti said quietly, releasing the girl's arm. "We have discussed this. You may pull a weapon on me before you threaten Karl. Understood?"
"But I was just—"
"An excuse? Did I hear an excuse?"
"No, Engineer."
"Am I understood?"
"Yes, Engineer."
Riccetti held out his right hand; the apprentice laid the pistol gently in it. "Report to the officer of the watch as quickly as possible, and ask him to send me a pair of decent bodyguards; I'll remain here until they arrive. You won't need to use your horse; the run will be good for you. Begin now. Dismissed."
"Yes, Engineer." Her face a grim mask, the girl spun on her heel and sprinted from the room.
Riccetti turned to Karl. "I . . . understand about some things making you angry, but I really don't want you to ever force me to do that again. Ranella's a good kid; I don't like having to punish her."
Riccetti was right. At Karl's original insistence, Engineers were trained always to be careful of Riccetti's safety, and anything that might dull that training was wrong.
Karl raised a hand in apology. "Sorry, Lou—you, too, Ahira. My fault, again. I've been out too much lately; I really should spend more time at Home."
Thellaren cleared his throat. "I believe we were discussing the political issues?"
"Right." Karl smiled a quick thank-you at the cleric. "There's two sides to the problem: the Joiners and Khoral's emissary. We've got to pry enough votes away from the former to make sure you stay in office, while letting the latter know that Therranj is better off with us as a friendly neighbor than they would be if they decide to get nasty. So . . ."
"So?"
"So, trust me."
The dwarf sat silently for a moment. "Done."
Karl picked up the handbell from the table and rang it. Footsteps sounded on the stairs; Ihryk stepped into the room.
"Hell, Ihryk. I didn't know you were working." Ihryk worked part-time for Karl and Andy-Andy as a houseman, using the income to supplement his work on his own fields. He could have expanded his fields and supported himself and his family entirely by farming, but he seemed to like the variety almost as much as the pay.
"We finished planting my wheat two days ago; I start my tenday tonight."
"It's good to see you. How are things upstairs?"
"The children are fast asleep."
"Good. Aeia, why don't you say goodnight to everybody and let Ihryk tuck you in."
She frowned. "But Karl—"
"Enough of that," Karl said. "If you don't get enough sleep, the kids'll run you ragged tomorrow."
"Uh, Karl?" Andy-Andy raised a finger. "With all due respect, buzz off. While you were on the road, Aeia and I decided that she's old enough to pick her own bedtime."
"Right. Sorry, Aeia." Karl added another entry to his ever-lengthening list of things to do. He'd have to get Aeia married off. Not that he could force her into anything. God knew where she'd picked up that stubborn streak, but she had.
One way to do it might be to pick someone appropriate and forbid Aeia to see him. But who? Karl couldn't see turning her over to some ex-slave farmer who didn't know one end of a sword from another, but the idea of Aeia ending up as a warrior's widow didn't thrill him, either. Besides, Andy-Andy wouldn't stand for that.
Maybe an engineer. He'd have to talk to Riccetti, have Lou keep an eye out for someone who might be right for Aeia.
Well, I'm not going to solve that one tonight. Karl turned to Kirah. "It would be a shame to wake Janie. Why don't you let her spend the night here?"
It wasn't just that he liked having Janie around, although he did. Mainly, he was thinking of the morning; Jason thought of Jane Michele as a sort of younger sister who required a good example in order to stay out of trouble, and that tended to suppress Jason's natural inclinations to get himself into trouble.
She nodded.
"Good," he said, standing and stretching. "Sorry to interrupt the party, people, but I've had a long day, and I've got to turn in."
Andy-Andy rose. "Ahira, Lou, Thellaren, I'll give you enough time to get home before I start the rain."
Riccetti frowned. "Do you have to do it tonight?"
"I promised. Ihryk isn't the only one who's planted in the past few days; a good rain will give those fields a nice start." She smiled at Karl. "I'll help them all on their way. Why don't you go up and stretch out?"
* * *
He opened the door slowly. Karl stepped into Jason's room, moving quietly, softly, like a thief in the night.
Barely visible in the dim starlight that streamed in through the open window, the three children slept together, Mikyn's a
nd Janie's bedding rumpled, but empty.
Janie was snoring, as usual. How a cute little girl like Jane Michele had developed such a snuffling snore was something that escaped Karl.
Mikyn huddled on his left side, curled into a fetal position, his breathing shallow, ragged, as though he didn't dare relax, not even in his sleep.
Maybe I let Alezyn off too lightly, Karl thought. Well, if so, that would be easy to fix. Then again, killing somebody just because he was a bastard was probably not the best way to handle things—the world was so damn full of bastards.
He had to chuckle at the way Jason slept between the other two children, stretched out flat on his back, one little arm thrown protectively around each of the other's shoulders.
Karl seated himself tailor-fashion next to the bed as the rain began, falling softly, a gentle benediction on the ground outside. He reached out and gently cupped the back of Jason's head with his hand. Jason's hair was fine, silky . . . and clean, for once.
Little one, he thought, I don't see nearly enough of you. That was one of the troubles with this damn business. It took Karl away from home too much, and left his nerves frazzled too much of the time that he was home. Normally, it wasn't as bad as it had been tonight; usually, the trip back gave him a chance to decompress. But riding Ellegon back had cut that time short. Too short.
Slowly, gently, Karl bent over and carefully kissed Jason on the top of his head. Arta Myrdhyn, he thought, you're not going to get your hands on Jason. Not my son.
He heard Andy-Andy's footsteps on the stairs, and waited to hear her walk to their room, and then, seeing that he wasn't there, turn around and look for him with the children.
She surprised him; she came directly to Jason's room. She stood in the doorway, the light of the hall lantern casting her face into shadow. A stray breeze touched the hem of her robes, swirling it around her ankles.
"Everything okay in here?" she whispered.
"Fine," he answered, rising. "Come take a look."
"No." She touched a finger to his lips. "You come with me." She blew out the hall lamp and led him down the hall to their room.
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