“And what are you going to tell them?”
“That Caelor needs to wait until he’s as old as Kriege.”
“And Elissa?”
“I think lessons in handling a weapon would be good for her. It’s a skill she may need one day.” He put the knife back in its box, closing the lid. “You don’t agree?”
It’s one of many skills she’ll need, she might have retorted, remembering Mavel cu’Kella, who was by now on her way to relatives in Miscoli. Brie was certain that Jan knew what had happened, and who had sent her away, though neither of them had spoken about it. Jan had come to her room last night, which told her that no one had shared his bed last night. “Sometimes,” she said to him, “you can’t have everything you want. Even the Hirzg.” His gaze rested on her more sharply with that, and she added: “Or Hirzgin. If that should be her fate.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Still, I think it might be good for her-and for her to take those lessons with Kreige. They might start getting along better.”
He lifted his head. They both heard the pounding of feet in the hall, the nursemaid calling sleepily and futilely after them (yes, she would need to speak to the woman, and perhaps replace her), and Elissa’s voice: “Vatarh! Where are you, Vatarh?”
Jan sighed, and Brie put her hand on his. “She’s your daughter,” she said. “Like you, when she wants something, she finds a way to get it. You can’t blame her for that.”
He might have answered, but Elissa came bursting into the room through the servants’ door in the next breath, with her younger brother Caelor trailing behind. “Vatarh, it’s not fair!” she exclaimed, stamping a foot.
“I’ll leave you to answer that one,” Brie told Jan, chuckling. “I’m going to call the domestiques de chambre to help me dress. I need to have a chat with the nursemaid…”
Varina ca’Pallo
“ Here it is,” Pierre Gabrelli said handing the device to Varina. “I hope this works for you,” he added with a wry grin.
She took the device in her hands, marveling. “Pierre, this is gorgeous…” His grin widened.
She’d put together most of the experimental versions of the piece herself, scrounging bits and pieces from here and there in the city and cobbling them together. Her own devices had been functional but ugly and clumsy in the hand. Pierre was a metalworker and artisan as well as a Numetodo. What he had given her wasn’t a crude facsimile of the idea in her head, but a piece of artwork.
She turned the “sparkwheel,” as she’d decided to call it, in her hands to examine it from all sides, marveling. The device was deliciously heavy and solid, yet well balanced enough for her to wield in one hand. A straight, octagonal metal tube-thicker this time than the last-extended a hand’s length out from a curved wooden handle. Varina’s barrels had been plain and unadorned; this one was incised with curling lines of vines and leaves, the metal burnished while the lines were stained a satin black. Where the barrel met the wood, the leaves flared out, fitting neatly into niches in the wood carved to receive the leaf pattern. And the wood: Pierre had taken several different woods, laminating them together, the varied grains creating a lovely, warm pattern under hard, gleaming varnish. The pan that held the powder was no longer a crude device screwed lopsidedly onto the top: here it nestled into its own niche in the handle, and Pierre had added a metal door to keep out the weather and enclose the pan. The finely-ridged steel wheel protruding slightly into the pan was chromed and polished; the small clamp above the pan reflected the leaf-and-vine pattern on the barrel, with a fine piece of iron pyrite grasped in its jaws. A trigger guard-also in the shape of a leaf and chromed-enclosed the firing mechanism.
Staring at the piece, she for a moment forgot the grief that had lain over her like a dark shadow for days. For a moment, there was light in her world.
“I’m afraid to try this,” she told Pierre. “I’d hate to ruin it.”
“It’s all to your specifications, which were, I must say, ingenious; I just added decoration to make it look pretty. Go on-pull the clamp back. Put your thumb on that leaf and press it back…”
Varina did: she heard mechanisms click smoothly as the pyrite lifted away from the pan, heard the spring attached to the wheel purr as it was extended, felt the trigger slide forward and lock. She curled her finger around the trigger and pressed it: the trigger snicked back cleanly; the wheel spun madly; the pyrite clamp slammed down against the rim of the wheel, and she saw sparks fly into the pan.
She could imagine the rest: the sparks setting off the black sand in the pan; the explosion propelling a lead ball from the round hole bored into the barrel…
At least, that was the theory. Her last, far cruder, version had nearly worked, as she’d told Karl. Nearly-she still bore the scars from that experiment. The barrel of the device had been too thin or the metal flawed or her hole bored at a slight angle. The explosion of the black sand had caused the barrel to rupture, spraying the room with metal fragments, one of which had cut a deep gash in Varina’s arm-two hands higher and it would have hit her face, a hand to the side and it might have penetrated her chest. She could’ve been blinded or killed-that’s what she hadn’t told Karl.
With the thought of his name, the pall threatened to return, and she forced herself to smile at Pierre and pretend. “Pierre, I should have had you craft this long ago. This is far more elegant than the contraptions I was making myself. All this lovely work. It’s just.. . What if it breaks like the last one?”
“Then you can tell me what I need to do to make the next one work better, eh?” He grinned again. “Go on. Try it. I’m dying to see.” His eyes widened suddenly as he realized what he’d said. “A’Morce, I.. .”
Varina smiled at him, touching his hand. She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she told him. Until now, she’d conducted all her experiments alone. The other Numetodo knew that she was experimenting with some kind of device to deliver black sand, but no one-not even Karl-had known the specifics. “Pierre… it’s dangerous. If…” Excuses. That’s all they were. She didn’t want him to be there; she could see from the way the lines of his face fell that he understood that.
He frowned. Shrugged. “Whatever you wish, A’Morce,” he said. He moved to the door of the room; almost, almost she called out to him, feeling guilty, but the lethargy that had wrapped her for the last several days made her sluggish and slow, and she did not.
The door closed behind him.
She was in a basement room of the Numetodo House on the South Bank, one of the several laboratories there. Her laboratory. It was here that Varina, years ago, had ferreted out the formula for making the Tehuantin black sand. It was here that she had worked on developing the Westlander magic as well: the physically-demanding ability to enchant an object to hold a spell. She had spent many long hours here. Too many, she thought sometimes. It sometimes seemed that her entire life had been spent here. Alone, most of that time. Every mark, every scratch on the furniture, every stroke of paint on the walls reminded her of the past.
Varina had set the room carefully: at the longest end stood a fabric-filled dummy, wearing a set of old, battered plate mail Commandant cu’Ingres had given her. At the other end, she’d placed a table with a heavy wooden vise. One of the things she’d learned in the course of this experiment was that the device would recoil when the powder was set alight. During one of the experiments, she’d injured her wrist when a version of the sparkwheel had slammed hard against her hand when fired. Since then, she’d used the vise to hold the various incarnations of sparkwheels, using a string tied around the trigger mechanism to set them off-it was that arrangement that had probably saved her from further injury when the barrel had shattered on the last one.
She took Pierre’s sparkwheel over to the table. Gently, carefully, she filled the pan with black sand. She’d prepared paper “cartridges” with more black sand and a lead ball; she tamped that into the barrel. She folded a cloth around the barrel-“It’s so beautiful I don’t want to scratch it in the vise,” she would have told Pierre, had he been there-and clamped it down, making certain it was aimed directly at the dummy’s chest. She cocked back the pyrite clamp and tied a string to the trigger. She moved behind the table, holding the string.
The barrel of the sparkwheel pointed ominously at the mail-clad dummy. She tugged the string.
The wheel spun, sparks flew. There was a loud bang and white smoke poured from the end of the barrel and the pan. From the other end of the room, she heard a distinct, metallic ping.
Varina waved at the acrid smoke. She peered at the dummy: in the middle of the chest plate, a dark hole had appeared. Varina shuffled over to it as quickly as she could, leaning over to examine it. There was a hole as thick
