The Silver Crown

by Joel Rosenberg

  Yeah, Lou? And how am I supposed to bring a murdered baby back to life? But he didn't say that. "Any progress on the slavers' powder? I know you'll need help from Andy and Thellaren, but—"

  "Guess again." Riccetti smiled. "Nope. It's all done. I stayed up part of the night, doing a few simple experiments. I finally figured out how they were doing it this morning. I'm going to have Andrea check my results, but—"

  "What? And we've been sitting here making idle chatter for—"

  "Take it easy, Karl. I'm sorry. It's just that . . ." Riccetti's voice trailed off.

  Karl nodded his understanding. It was lonely, constantly dealing with people who were subordinate to you, even when some of those people were friends. Riccetti rarely could make the time to visit Ahira or Andy-Andy at the south end of the valley; last night had been an exception. "Sorry. So, what is it? Some sort of explosive?"

  "Nope." Riccetti set down his own beer mug and rose from his chair. "Just let me show off for a minute."

  He walked to the worktable and took down a small glass vial and a stone bowl. "This is slaver powder." He uncorked the vial and tipped about a quarter-teaspoon into the bottom of the bowl. "And this," he said, taking down another vial, "is distilled water—about the only really pure substance I can make. Stand back a second." Riccetti tilted the bowl to point against the naked wall, then dribbled a careful drop of water onto the bowl's lip. "It'll take a moment for it to work its way down to—"

  Whoosh! The backblast of heat beat against Karl's face.

  "Just plain water did that? What the hell kind of compound—"

  "No, idiot, it's not a compound, it's a mixture." Riccetti poured more powder on a marble slab, then beckoned Karl to come closer. "Take a good look at this—and don't breathe on it; it's already sucked up some water from the air."

  Karl looked closely. Mixed among the white powder were tiny blue flecks. "Copper sulfate?"

  "Yup. Heat it up, and it becomes cupric sulfate—plain white. Add water—even let it pick up some from the air; it deliquesces nicely—and it sucks it right up; turns blue. Which is what it's in there for."

  "Now, wait a minute. Copper sulfate isn't an explosive. You use it for—"

  "—blueing rifles. Right. But in this, it's a stabilizer. It's there to absorb the water, and prevent the real stuff from being exposed to too much. Visualize this," Riccetti said, cupping his hands together. "You've got a hollow iron sphere, filled with water. Got that?"

  "Yeah."

  "Okay, now, heat it over a fire, a damn hot one. What happens?"

  "The water starts to boil."

  "Right. But since it can't escape?"

  Karl shrugged. "If it gets too hot, it blows up, just like a pressure cooker does if it isn't vented right."

  "Right." Riccetti frowned. "But what if you're cheating? What do you get if you're using some sort of spell to hold the iron sphere together?"

  "Huh?"

  Riccetti snorted. "Pretend that the sphere is absolutely, unconditionally unbreakable—doesn't break, doesn't bend, doesn't stretch, doesn't warp. Nothing. What does the water become?"

  "Superheated steam?"

  "Right—maybe even a plasma. Now, imagine that someone puts some sort of preservation spell on the contents of the sphere, forcing what's inside to remain as is. Let the sphere cool, remove the protection spell so you can cut it open, and what do you find inside?"

  "Something that's very hot, but isn't." Karl's brow furrowed. "That doesn't make any sense. What would it be like?"

  "This." Riccetti pursed his lips. "That's what they did, I think. Some sort of preservation spell, with a built-in hole: If the stuff gets in contact with too much water, the spell fails, and what do you have? You've got superheated steam—lightly salted with copper sulfate—which wants to expand, and fast."

  "And if the only direction to expand in is along the barrel of a gun—"

  "—pushing a bullet ahead of it . . . you've got it. There's nothing special about the water that their guns use—doesn't have to be."

  Karl buried his face in his hands. "Then we're in for it. If they can do it—"

  "Hang on for a second, Karl. You're not thinking it through. Look at the brighter side. These aren't easy spells. They're a hell of a lot more advanced than anything your wife can do—and she's not bad. They're even beyond what I used to do, way back when."

  "All of which means what?"

  "I just build things." Riccetti shrugged. "That's your department. I can tell you that it takes a very heavy-duty wizard to do this, and that there aren't all that many of them, and that they won't work cheap. My guess is that this powder cost your slavers one hell of a lot of coin.

  "Take it a step further. Even in Pandathaway, there aren't more than a handful of wizards capable of something this difficult."

  "So? Even, say, five or six of them, working full-time—"

  "Never happen. I can tell you that from personal experience." Riccetti shook his head. "Magic is like cocaine, Karl, assuming you have the genes that let you work it in the first place. Anyone who does can handle a bit now and then, but everybody has his limits. Once you get beyond those limits, you're hooked. All you're interested in is learning more, getting more spells in your head. Drives you a bit crazy."

  That sounded familiar. That was the way Riccetti had been, back when he was Aristobulus, back when the seven of them were first transferred over to This Side. The only things that had mattered to Aristobulus were his spell books and his magic.

  Come to think of it, it was reminiscent of the crazies who hung around the Ehvenor docks. Being around Faerie too long drives some crazy, Avair Ganness had said. Maybe it wasn't just Faerie—maybe it was magic itself.

  "Now," Riccetti went on, "look at it from the point of view of whoever got the Pandathaway wizards to make this stuff. It's going to be hard to pull the wizards away from their studies to do it, and it won't be possible to do that very often. This slaver powder is going to stay rare—unless they start producing it in Faerie."

  Karl nodded. "That'd do it."

  "Damn straight. If the Faerie were to line up against us . . ." He shrugged. "You may as well worry about Grandmaster Lucius deciding to take us on, or somebody bringing an H-bomb over from the Other Side." He waved at the door. "In any case, compare their production of this with our production of real gunpowder. You notice any shortages?"

  "No."

  "Exactly."

  There was something Lou was missing about all of this; it hovered on the edge of Karl's mind.

  Andy-Andy! "But Andy—she's a wizard. She could—"

  Riccetti threw his hands up in the air. "Of course. Idiot. Do you want more beer or would you like a whiskey?"

  "But—"

  "Shh." Riccetti poured each of them some whiskey. "Drink up. And for God's sake have a little faith in your wife."

  Karl sipped the whiskey. "You've got a lot of respect for her, don't you?"

  "Damn straight. You lucked out, Cullinane." Riccetti nodded. "But, if you'll notice, she spends most of her time teaching school, and almost all the magic she does is agricultural, bug-killing, glowing steel, the occasional levitation when somebody runs across a boulder when trying to clear a new field. It's all baby stuff; she has almost no time to learn more.

  "Hell, she only picked up the lightning spell this year. She hasn't had the chance to push herself as far along as Aristobulus did. And in my opinion, deep down she's even more strong-minded than . . . he was." He shook his head. "Relax. In order for her to push her skills to the addiction point, she'll have to have years of leisure time—just as Pandathaway wizards do."

  Or as Arta Myrdhyn must have had, at some point. He was a wizard powerful enough to turn the forests of Elrood into the Waste, to charm a sword to protect its bearer against magic, then set up a watch-charm to hold it for its proper user.

  Not my son, bastard. Karl shook his head to clear it. No more time to waste, not with Riccetti having figured out what the slaver powde
r was. The question was, what was going to happen in Enkiar? And how were Ahrmin and the Slavers' Guild connected with the powder?

  Riccetti cleared his throat. "If you don't mind, I have to get back to work. I've got a few things going, and I'd better go chew out that idiot apprentice who tried a quarter-charge of powder in a new rifle. Quarter-charge—I told him to use a quadruple charge, but his English isn't as good as it's supposed to be."

  Karl shrugged. "Quarter charge? What's the problem?"

  "He hung the bullet, that's what the goddamn problem is. He has to take the lock off the gun and the barrel off the stock, then clamp down the barrel and unscrew the breech plug—and then shove the damn thing out with a rod—" Riccetti caught himself. "But I was forgetting!" he said, brightening. "Got a present for you."

  He walked to one of the shelves and pulled down a plain wooden box, holding it carefully but proudly as he opened it.

  Inside were six iron eggs, a seam running across their equators, each with a small fuse protruding from the top.

  "Grenades?"

  "Yup. They break up nice—jagged pieces, about the size of a dime. Cast iron does that." Riccetti took one out of the box and held it up, flicking a bitten fingernail against the three-inch fuse. "Slow fuse, burns for just about five seconds. Then, whoom. Use them a bit sparingly, eh? They each contain enough powder for a signal rocket." Riccetti closed the box and fastened the lid.

  There was a rap on the door.

  "Enter," Riccetti said.

  A teenage apprentice opened the door and stepped inside. "Message from the Mayor, Engineer: The emissary from Lord Khoral has arrived, and seeks an audience with Journeyman Karl Cullinane. The Therranji are camped just outside the customs station."

  Karl sighed. "Back to work. Both of us."

  "See you before the town meeting tomorrow?"

  "Probably not. Can I count on you, anyway?"

  "Always, Karl. Always."

  Chapter Eight

  An Acquaintance Renewed

  Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free! They touch our country, and their shackles fall.

  —William Cowper

  "I don't like it. Don't like it at all." Daven shook his head, his hairless scalp shining in the sunlight. He was probably the most battered human being Karl had ever seen. His left eye was covered by a patch; half of his left ear and three fingers of his right hand were missing. Long scars ran down his face and neck, vanishing into his tunic.

  "Your opinion wasn't asked, Daven," Chak said.

  "Be still, Chak." Karl shook his head and switched to English. "Don't irritate him, understood?"

  "Yes, Karl." Sitting astride his gray gelding, Chak glared down at Daven. It was possible that he naturally had little liking for Daven, but more likely Karl's own distaste was infectious.

  Karl didn't particularly like the former Nyph mercenary, not the way he enjoyed the company of Aveneer, the third raiding-team leader.

  Still, Karl had to admit that Daven had a certain something. A year or so back, after a raid on a slaver caravan, one of Daven's men had gotten the bright idea of selling some slaves instead of freeing them. Daven hadn't returned Home for advice or instructions; he had hunted the bastard down himself and brought the charred bones back.

  "The Mayor agreed to allow an emissary," Daven went on as though Chak weren't there, "but they've sent more than two hundred—and I wouldn't swear on my life that the only soldiers among them are the fifty wearing armor."

  "Can't blame them," Karl said, fitting his boot into Carrot's stirrup and pulling himself up to the saddle. "There've been enough slaving raids into Therranj; traveling without military escort would be asking for trouble."

  Daven smiled. "So why are we here?" He gestured at the log cabin that was officially Home's customs station, and the grassy slope below the cabin, where fifty warriors from his team waited, guns loaded and horses saddled.

  "Because I don't like to take chances."

  "No, not you." A snort. "I believe that. How many of my men do you want to take with you?"

  "None. You're here for show. Period. I'm just going over to chat. I don't care what you hear, all of you stay here until and unless I send for you." Karl jerked his thumb skyward. "Ellegon covers me on this." He pulled on the reins and turned Carrot away, Chak following on his gelding.

  Daven shrugged. "You have all the fun." His laugh followed Karl and Chak over the rise.

  * * *

  The Therranji had camped on the plain, almost a mile from the ridge that overlooked the valley. Khoral's emissary traveled in style; the encampment reminded Karl of an old-time circus, the several dozen tents ranging in size from three barely larger than a typical Boy Scout Voyageur to a mammoth red-and-white silk one that could almost have served P. T. Barnum as a big top.

  Near the entrance to the main tent, a team of cooks attended to a side of beef, turning it slowly over a low fire. The wind brought the scent to him; it smelled absolutely wonderful.

  Mounted elven soldiers in chainmail and iron helmets patrolled the perimeter. Three of them approached Karl and Chak as they rode toward the camp.

  *Don't make any unnecessary enemies.*

  Karl looked up. High overhead, Ellegon circled.

  "Since when do I go around making enemies unnecessarily?"

  Chak laughed. "How about the time you drew on Baron Furnael? That could have turned bloody. Or when you beat Ohlmin—"

  "Enough. It was necessary, or I wouldn't have done it."

  *That's what they all say.*

  Karl ignored the jibe. Tell me, Kreskin, what are the elves up to?

  *My name is Ellegon. And they're all shielded. Sorry. But you might want to get on with this; your wife is already inside—*

  What?

  *—with Tennetty to keep her company. Not my idea, Karl; I told her you wouldn't like it.*

  Karl quelled the urge to spur Carrot past the horsemen, then forced himself to pull her gently to a halt. This was a time for negotiation, not violence.

  *Just keep it that way. I can recall a time or two that you've turned—*

  Enough. Don't you ever forget anything?

  *Nope. Just think of me as a many-tonned conscience.* A gout of fire roared through the sky.

  Chak shook his head. "I don't like it."

  "Neither do I." Karl bit his lower lip for a moment. "When we dismount, hand the nearest elf your falchion—don't wait for him to ask—then go inside, quietly. When I call for you, I want you and Tennetty to bring Andy out. Move slowly, but get her on a horse and over the hill."

  "And what will you be doing?"

  "That all depends on them. But I don't want any potential hostages clogging the negotiations." Karl wound his reins around his saddle horn and folded his arms over his chest. He didn't even have a pistol with him; SOP was to avoid letting any foreigner see guns, although he had made several exceptions to that rule in his time.

  "Greetings," the foremost of the soldiers said, in an airy voice. In full armor and padding, he looked almost fully fleshed, if exceedingly tall; elves always looked like regular people, stretched lengthwise in a funhouse mirror. But the appearance of fragility was deceptive; pound for pound, elves were stronger than humans. "You are the human called Karl Cullinane?"

  I'm called Karl Cullinane because that's my name—and what do I look like, a dwarf?

  *Temper, temper.*

  "Yes, I am Karl Cullinane."

  "You are expected. You and your servant will follow me."

  I just might have to teach you how to say please, but this isn't the time—not quite yet. Karl unwound his reins and nudged Carrot into a walk. The speaker took the lead, while the other two rode beside Karl and Chak.

  *Can I trust you to keep out of trouble for a while? I have a patrol to fly, and I've got to see that Aveneer's supplies are packed.*

  Go ahead.

  *I'll be back.* The dragon wheeled across the sky and flew away.
r />   The soldiers led them toward the large tent, then stopped their own horses, waiting for Karl and Chak to dismount first.

  Nodding at Chak to copy him, Karl levered himself out of the saddle.

  While Chak surrendered his sword to the elven armsman and was ushered inside, Karl dug into his saddlebag and removed a carrot for Carrot. He slipped her bit, dropped the reins to the ground, then stepped on them before feeding it to her, running his hand down her neck. "Good girl."

  The soldier cleared his throat. "They are this way."

  Karl turned and started to follow him into the tent; one of the other soldiers reached out a hand and grasped Karl's arm.

  "I'll have your sword, human."

  Karl didn't answer. On the other hand, maybe this is the time to teach you some manners.

  He looked down at his arm, then up into the elf's eyes, and smiled. He had put a lot of practice into that smile over the years; it was intended to frighten, to suggest that the bared teeth were going to be sunk into a throat.

  The elf dropped his hand. "I will need to take your sword before you enter," he said, his voice a touch less arrogant.

  "Guess again." Moving slowly, Karl walked back to Carrot and tied her reins around the saddle horn, then let her nuzzle his face for a moment before turning her around and slapping her rump. "Go home, Carrot. Git!"

  He turned back. The three soldiers had been joined by six others; mounted troops were gathering around.

  Good.

  "Why did you do that?"

  "I don't want my horse to get hurt." He raised his voice. "Chak!"

  "Yes, Karl," came the distant answer.

  "Get Andrea out of there."

  "Understood."

  I'd damn well better be doing this right, he thought. He turned back to the elf who had demanded his sword. "Now, you were going to try to take my sword away from me?" He stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, beckoning to all the elven soldiers in the area.