The Reformer g-4 Read online

  The two Islander merchants winced; that was the rate for a bottomry loan, with no premium for risk.

  "If the weapons are satisfactory, I will reward you richly; and they shall have the interest doubled from the royal treasury, as well as my favor, of course."

  He beamed at the Emeralds and the two Islanders as well. Unspoken went the fact that if the weapons failed to satisfy they would get nothing, and the Lowissons could try as best they could to get satisfaction from their penniless guests.

  Casull clapped his hands. "This audience is at an end!"

  * * *

  "By the Dog," the mercenary officer said. "Has the King sent us a pretty boy for a party?"

  "The King has sent me here to command," Esmond said. "Name and rank."

  The mercenary turned crimson. "I'm Donnuld Grayn, and I command here now that Stenson's dead, by the Dog!"

  Esmond rested his hands on his sword belt and looked the man up and down. By his accent he came from Cable, ancient enemy of the Solingians-not that that mattered much, these days-and by his looks, scars upon scars, he'd been in this profession most of his thirty-odd years. And from the look of his bloodshot eyes. .

  "Are you usually drunk this early?" he said. "Or are you just naturally stupid?"

  "Ahhhh," the man said eagerly, his hand falling towards his sword hilt. "I'll see your liver and lights for that, you mincing Solingian basta-"

  The growl broke into a yelp as Esmond's thumb and forefinger closed on his nose and gave it a powerful, exactly calculated twist. As he'd expected, the mercenary forgot all about his steel and lashed out with a knobby fist.

  Esmond's own hand slapped it aside, and his right sank its knuckles into his opponent's gut with the savage precision of the palaestra. As the man doubled over, the Solingian stepped to one side and slammed another blow with the edge of a palm behind his ear. The mercenary dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut and lay wheezing at the victor's feet.

  The victor looked up; there were a crowd of Strikers looking on, together with some of the camp followers and children that crowded the barracks. Some were smiling, some glaring, most wavering between the two.

  "You!" Esmond said. "Name and rank, soldier."

  The man stiffened. "Eward, sir-file closer, second company."

  "Eward, get Captain Grayn to his quarters-he needs to sleep it off. Trumpeter," he went on, "sound fall in."

  That took far too long, and he had to detail some of his own men to push the noncombatants out of the way. When it was finished there were about four hundred men standing on the pounded clay of the parade ground; it was surrounded on three sides by barracks, and on the fourth by a wall. Esmond paced down the ranks of the sweating, bewildered men, pausing now and then.

  Not bad, he thought. About half-and-half javelineers and slingers. They all had linen corselets with thin iron plates sewn between the layers of cloth, shortswords, and light open-face bowl helmets. Most of them looked to be in reasonable condition, and King Casull certainly wouldn't be wasting his silver on deadbeats. From what he'd heard, a lot of them would be men who'd left the Emerald cities for reasons of health, or on their relatives' urgent advice; but war and the Confederacy had left a lot of broken men in the southern lands.

  "All right," he said at last, standing in front of them with his left hand resting on his hilt and the cloak thrown back from his shoulder. "My name is Esmond Gellert."

  A slight murmur. He noted it without the pleasure it might have brought him a few months ago. He'd always been proud of the fame he'd won as a competitor in the Pan-Emerald Games-if not for undying fame, why would men go through the rigors of the palaestra? Now it was like his appearance, something he noted with cold objectivity, a tool to be used. And some of them will have heard about the war on the mainland, too.

  "You know-or you should, if you're paying any attention to anything besides booze, dice and pussy-that there's war coming. Probably with the Confeds." Another low murmur. "I've fought them myself, not too long ago; so have these men with me." He indicated his own followers with a toss of his head. "They're tough, yes, but they're not ten feet tall, and they bleed as red as any man when you stick 'em. The King wants this unit ready to fight, and by the Gods, it will be-or we'll all die trying."

  He nodded at the last murmur. No use saying anything more; they'd be waiting to see if he was real, or all mouth.

  "For starters, we're going on a little route march. Fall out in campaign order in twenty minutes. Dismissed!"

  * * *

  "Faugh, this stinks," Enri Lowisson said.

  "Think of it as the smell of money," Adrian said, chuckling with delight.

  The cave was halfway up the side of Gunnung Daberville, the main volcanic peak that loomed over the port of Chalice. From the entrance you could see down past jungle and orchard to the city itself, the bastioned wall, the near-circle of the drowned caldera that made up the harbor, and over miles of sail-speckled water beyond. It was what lay within that interested him, however, down into the depths of the fumarole that twisted like a frozen intestine into the depths of the mountain.

  Thirty feet overhead the ceiling of the cavern was not of the same pockmarked gray-green rock as the rest of the cave. It was brown instead, lumpy. . and it moved as the chitterwings nesting there for the day stirred uneasily at the light and heat of the party's torches. A soft pattering left gloppy white stains on the floor, adding to a layer that was probably four feet deep at least. That was the source of the rancid, ammonia-harsh stink that had several of the party breathing through pieces of their tunics.

  "The stuff we need, the saltpeter, will be concentrated in the lower levels of this," he said, kicking at the hard dried surface of the chitterwing dung that covered the ground. "We'll dig it out, cart it down lower, then leach out the saltpeter in a system of trays and sluices."

  "That will cost," Enri warned.

  He looked backward, and Adrian nodded. The way down was near-as-no-matter roadless; if it had been easier, farmers would have come to dig the dung out for fertilizer, as they had with several caves lower down. The chitterwings went out in huge flocks at night, to feed at sea on tiny phosphorescent fish. At dawn they returned, to sleep, and to breed and nest in season-most of the females had tiny young clinging to their belly fur with miniature claws right now.

  "It'll be worth it; there's more here than we'll need in a generation." He looked downslope as well, and suddenly a tracery of drawings was overlaid on it.

  so, Center said. and so.

  Adrian started and came back to himself, conscious of the curious stares Enri and his men were giving him.

  "There's a way to make it easier," he said. "See how this ridge curves away down to the foothills?"

  "Building a road?" Enri said. He shook his head. "I don't think that's practical."

  "No, what we'll do is build a trackway," Adrian said. The words tumbled over themselves at the series of silent clicks just behind his eyes; suddenly Center's drawing made sense. In fact the principle. . Why haven't we thought of this before? he wondered. It would make so much easier.

  The problem was he knew the answer to that. "Thought was not to be sullied with the base, contemptible concerns of men whose lives were warped away from virtue by cramping labor. ." Which, in effect, means anyone who isn't an absentee landlord; not something that would have come to him before Raj and Center took up residence in the rear of his mind, but it was his own thought.

  "We'll lay down two rails of hard wood, spiked to cross-ties," he said. "Carts will run down it, on flanged wheels. When they're empty, they can be hauled up easily."

  Enri winced. "Oh, that will cost. Sawyers, carpenters, the metal for spikes, all that cordage. ."

  "No, it'll turn a profit," Adrian said. "What we extract will still leave the sludge good for fertilizer, and think of what that fetches in the gardens around the city."

  Enri brightened. "And, of course, the King will pay. . eventually."

  * * *<
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  "Interesting!" the blacksmith said.

  Well, thank the Gray-Eyed Lady for that! Adrian thought to himself. At least I'm not getting "but such a thing was never done in the days of our fathers" so often here.

  The smithy occupied the lower story of a house near the docks, with the quarters of the smith's two wives, his children, the two apprentices and the three slaves to the rear, on the other side of the courtyard. It held a large circular brick hearth built up to about waist height, the bellows behind that, and a variety of anvils. The front entrance could be closed by a grillwork that was now hauled up, a little like a portcullis; the walls held workbenches, racked tools, vises and clamps, and more anvils of different shapes and sizes. It was ferociously hot-the smith wore only a rag-twist loincloth under his leather apron and gloves, and the slave working the bellows less than that. The smells were of hot oil from the quenching bath, burning charcoal, scorched metal, sweat.

  "Interesting, the Lame One curse me if it isn't," the smith said. "This tube you want, now, it's to be sixty inches long?"

  "Sixty inches long, and an inch and a quarter on the inside. I thought you could twist the bar around an iron mandrel, red-hot, and then hammer-weld it."

  "Hmmm."

  The smith went over to a workbench and brought back a sword. It was nearly complete except for the fitting of the hilt and guard; a curved weapon with a flared tip, more than a yard long, the type of slashing-scimitar that the Royal bodyguards carried. Adrian whistled admiration as he peered more closely at the metal; it had the rippled pattern work of a blade made from rods of iron and steel twisted together, heated, hammered, doubled back, hammered again. . and repeated time after time until there were thousands of laminations in the metal.

  "Look," the smith said.

  He braced the point of the blade against the floor, placed his foot against it, and heaved. Muscle stood out like cable under the wet brown skin of his massive, ropy arms and broad shoulders. The blade bent nearly double. . and then sprang back with a quivering whine when he released it.

  "That's good steel," Adrian said sincerely; tough and flexible both.

  The smith gave him a quizzical look, out of a face that looked as if it had been pounded from rough iron itself, with one of the sledges that stood all around the big room.

  "You're not the common run of fine Emerald gentlemen," he said. "Never a one of them I've met who thought how a thing was made."

  Adrian smiled. "I have unusual friends," he said. "Can you do what I ask?"

  "Oh, certainly: Lame One be my witness. The thing is, friend, it'll take time. Three weeks to make a good sword blade-not counting grinding, polishing, and fitting; I contract those out. I'm not one for fine work with brass and ivory, anyway. . say the same for one of these. . what was the word?"

  "Arquebus barrels," Adrian said helpfully.

  "One of these tubes, then. And it'll cost what a good sword blade does, too."

  "If I paid you extra, to take on more labor, could you do more?"

  A decisive shake of the head. "No, sir. Guild rules." At Adrian's expression he went on: "But see here, sir, I like gold and silver as much as the next man, and I like to do something new now and then. What I can do is contract out. There are dozens of mastersmiths in the Brotherhood; not many as good as I am, if I do say so myself, but nearly. And there are plenty of journeymen we could hire away from their regular work, and who could do the simpler parts. Say. . thirty in three weeks, with as much again every week after that. It'll go faster once we're used to it."

  Adrian sighed. "Well, if that's all that can be done. ."

  the artisan is not being entirely truthful, Center pointed out. An image of his face sprang up, with pointers indicating temperature variations and the dilation of his pupils. mendacity factor of 27 %, ±7. i suspect that he is merely establishing an initial bargaining position.

  Oh, Adrian thought. He was the son of a merchant, but most of his life had been spent among the Scholars of the Grove. What should I do?

  Well, I wasn't a trader either, Raj's mental voice said, amused. But I did do a fair bit of dickering with sutlers. I'd suggest you say that's not enough to make the project worthwhile. He'll scream and modify his terms; then point out that he and his friends will be able to sell the muskets elsewhere, too. .

  * * *

  "What is this, a flowerpot?" the brassfounder said.

  "No, it's a weapon," Adrian replied, biting back the first words that came to mind. "The one the King has commanded me to build," he added.

  "May the King live forever!" the artisan said, without taking his eyes off the model Adrian had had carved from soft wood.

  The Emerald's hands trembled slightly as he pulled on it. Not enough sleep, he thought to himself as the model split down the middle.

  "This is a-" He paused, frustrated. What's "cross-sectional view" in Islander? he thought.

  Lad, there's no word for it. There's no word for it in your language either, Raj said.

  "— what it would look like if it was cut down the middle?" Adrian said. Have I changed so much in a year?

  He shook aside the obscure sense of instability that lay like a lump of cold millet porridge below his breastbone for a moment. The reasonable man did not doubt that he himself was, the School of the Grove taught.

  The brassfounder was in a bigger way of business than any of the smiths; he was a merchant, as well as the manager of a workshop. Iron was much more common than copper, vastly more common than tin. You had to have long-distance contacts to deal in bronze. Hence the warehouse attached to his house, and the courtyard with its ruddy tile and fountain, that Islander symbol of status. The man's turban was of plain cotton, though, and the eyes below it were shrewd and dark.

  "Like a tube closed at one end, then," he said, tracing the model. "You know, this trick might be useful for making preliminary models of castings of many types. . and the metal outside the tube grows much thicker towards the closed end. What's this, though?"

  "It's a thin hole going from the outside-this depression-into the tube at the breech end. The closed end," he added, at the man's frown.

  "Hmmm. Well, with bronze, it would be simpler to drill that afterwards. And what are these little solid tubes at right angles to the main one for?"

  "You'll find out," Adrian said, smiling slightly.

  Good. We don't want too much getting out too early, and I'd be surprised if some of these people aren't for sale, Raj said.

  Or all of them, Adrian replied.

  * * *

  "Well, you make pumps with close-fitting pistons, don't you?" he said.

  "Of course, honored sir," the metalworker said. "By lapping-you use the piston head to do the last little bit of boring out, covering it with naxium-emery is your Emerald word, I think. That will give you a very close fit."

  "Well, then, that's how we'll make this engine work," he said, forcing cheerfulness into his voice.

  "Yes, but I really don't think it can be done with iron," the metalworker replied. "Iron is too hard-and too hard to cast, honored sir. By the Sun God, I speak the truth."

  Adrian sighed and let his head drop into his hands. My back hurts, he thought; he was never, never going to get used to sitting cross-legged on cushions.

  "All right," he said. "We'll start off by using bronze for the pistons. We want two, to begin with, six inches in bore and four feet long. But the piston rods will have to be made of iron-wrought iron."

  "Hmm-auhm," the Islander-his name was Marzel, a plump little man with a snuff-colored turban-said.

  He picked up the model Adrian had had made by standing over a toycrafter. It showed a single upright cylinder, with a piston rod coming out of its top. The rod connected to one end of a beam; the beam was pivoted in the middle, and the other end had a second rod that worked a crank, that in turn moved a wheel with paddles.

  "I've seen wheels like this used to move grindstones," Marzel said. "This is the same thing in reverse, isn't it?"

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sp; Gray-Eyed Lady, thank You, Adrian thought. Finally, someone who understands what I'm talking about!

  "Exactly!" he said aloud. "The steam pushes the piston, the piston pushes the beam up and down, the crank turns that into around and around, and the wheel pushes the ship-one on each side."

  "Hmmm-auhm," Marzel mused again. "You know, honored sir, one could use this to move a grindstone, too."

  A hecatomb of oxen to you, Lady of Wisdom. Aloud: "Yes, it could-think of it as a way of transforming firewood into work, the way a man or a velipad converts food into work."

  Marzel laughed aloud. "Ah, you have a divine wit, honored sir!" He returned to the model. "So, let me see if I have grasped this. The steam goes through these valves here, at each end of the cylinder. As the piston moves, it uncovers these two rows of outlets here at the middle of the cylinder, letting the steam escape."

  At Adrian's nod, the artificer turned back to the plans, tracing lines across the reed-paper with a finger and then referring back to the model.

  "Honored sir," he said at last, "I love this thing you have designed-so clever, you Emeralds! Yes, I love the thought of making it. But I am not sure that it can be made, in the world of real things. In the. . how do you Emeralds say it? In the world of Pure Forms, yes, this will work as you say. But it has so many valves, so much piping, so many joints, you see. Holding water in such a thing, for say the fountains and curious metal beasts in the Garden of Curiosities in the King's Palace, that is difficult. Holding hot steam. . can fittings be made precisely enough? Even with the finest craftsmen? And these parts will be large."

  Adrian nodded in respect for the man's honesty; and his courage, expressing doubts here in the palace rather than telling the royal favorite whatever he wanted to hear.

  "I am certain that if any man can do it, Marzel Therdu, you can," he said. "And I am certain that it can be done." He spread his hands and smiled. "And my head answers for it, if it cannot, not yours."

  Marzel rose and made the gesture of respect, bowing with palms pressed together. "Perhaps. . Perhaps we would be well advised to try first a model of this thing, this. . hot water mover?"