The Reformer

'I think you are right, Marzel,' he said. 'If you could bring me the costed estimates, in. .'

'Three days time, honored sir.'

'Three days, that would be excellent.'

They parted with the usual flowery Islander protestations of mutual esteem; this time they were sincere. As the Islander left, Adrian rose to circle the ship model on the table once more. It showed a craft halfway between a galley and a merchant ship, perhaps five times longer than it was wide. The bow ended in a ram shaped like a cold chisel, and there were neither oars nor sail. Instead two great bladed wheels revolved on either side, and the hull was covered over wholly by a turtlelike deck. Octagons covered that in turn like the scales of some great serpent, marking where the hand-hammered iron plates would go. The upper curve was broken by two smokestacks, one to the left and one to the right; between them was a low circular deckhouse, with slits all around for vision.

Esmond rose from the corner where he had been sitting silently. 'Brother,' he said gently. 'Will this really work?'

'I don't know,' Adrian said. 'I think it will. The gunpowder worked. .'

'Yes.' Esmond paused. 'I know I haven't been much help to you. . much help since Vanbert,' he said hesitantly.

Adrian turned and gripped his shoulders. 'Oh, no-just saved my life half a dozen times in the retreat, got us all out alive, got us a ship, rushed around like Wodep would if he had enough sense to listen to the Gray-Eyed. .'

'Brother, I'm worried about you,' the taller of the Gellerts said bluntly. 'I don't. . I've known you all my life. Yes, you're the smarter of us, and yes, you're a Scholar the Grove could be proud of-but all these, these things you've been coming up with since Father died. .'

'These things are our only chance of revenge on the Confederacy,' Adrian said, with a peculiar inward wrench. I cannot tell the truth even to my brother, who is not only the brother of my blood but the brother of my heart, he knew. First, Esmond would simply be horrified that his brother had gone mad. And even if he believed, would he understand? The concepts had been hard enough for Adrian, and he had two disembodied intelligences speaking directly to him.

He thrust aside certain fears that had come to him in the night, now and then. What if I am truly mad? What if these are demons, such as the ancient stories tell of?

Esmond's face hardened. 'You're right,' he said. 'I thank the gods that you've stumbled on these things.' A smile. 'Forgive my weakness.'

'I'd forgive you far more than a concern for me, Esmond.'

The cry was a huge shout, like a battle trumpet. Adrian Gellert shot out of the low soft bed as if he had been yanked out with cords, not fully conscious until he realized he was standing barefoot on cold marble with the dagger he kept under the pillow naked in his hand.

Nothing, he thought. Nothing but the night sounds of Chalice, insects, birds, the soft whisper of water in the fountain that plashed in the courtyard below, a watchman calling out as his iron-tipped staff clacked on paving stones.

Then a woman screamed; that was close, just down the corridor. Adrian was out the door of his bedroom in seconds, feet skidding on the slick stones of the floor. One of the Lowissons' guards was there not long after him, likewise in nothing but his drawers, looking foolish with his shaved head showing-no time to don the turban-but a curved sword ready in his hand. Adrian ignored him, plunging into his brother's room. The door rebounded off his shoulder and crashed against the jamb and Adrian's gaze skittered about. The room was dark-even the nightlight in the lamp by the bed had gone out. Then it grew a bright greenish cast, as Center amplified the light that was reaching his retinas. Even then Adrian's skin crawled with the revulsion that brought, but there was no time for anything but business now.

Esmond Gellert was sitting up in bed, his muscular chest heaving and sheening with sweat. His eyes were wide and staring, and cloth ripped in the hand that held a pillow. An Islander woman crouched naked against the far wall, sobbing.

'He was asleep!' she cried, looking blindly to the door. 'I did my best, I swear!'

'Go,' Adrian said gently in her language, rising from his crouch and letting the dagger fall along one leg. 'Go, now. This is not your fault.'

She scuttled out, scooping up clothing as she went. Adrian moved over to the bedside. 'Esmond,' he said sharply. 'Esmond, it's me. What's the matter?'

His elder brother shook himself like a dog coming out of a river. 'A dream,' he muttered softly. 'It must have been a dream. My oath, what a dream. .'

'What dream, Esmond?' Adrian said carefully.

'Nanya,' he said. 'The fire. .' His face changed, writhing. 'They'll burn.'

'Who will burn?'

'Vanbert. The Confeds. All of them. They're going to burn, burn.'

'Esmond, it's late. Do you think you can sleep now?'

Esmond shook himself again, and something like humanness returned to his eyes. 'What. . oh, sorry, brother. Bit of a bad dream. Yes, it's going to be a long day.'

* * *

'The man will be impaled, otherwise,' Casull said. 'He is a criminal.'

Adrian sighed; it was not something he wanted to do, but on the other hand. . well, he'd rather be shot than have a sharpened wooden stake up the anus, if he had to choose.

King Casull was present, and his eldest son Tenny-a twenty-year-old version of his father, except that there was a trace of softness around the jaw, of petulance in the set of his mouth. There were a scattering of Islander admirals as well, ships' captains, mercenary officers, and an interested score or so of Adrian's own Emerald slingers. Three of them were serving as the arquebus' crew. Adrian squinted against the bright sunlight; the first target was floating on a barge twenty yards away, tied to a stake and with a Confed infantry shield set up before him. Royal guardsmen kept the crowds well away from this section of the naval dockyards.

'These have two-man crews,' Adrian went on. 'They load. . thus.'

He nodded to his men. The weapon was clamped into a tripod with a pivot joint. The gunner pushed on the butt, and the weapon spun around. He seized and held the muzzle, while the loader bit open a paper cartridge and rammed it and the eight-ounce lead ball down the long barrel. Then he spun it again, taking a horn from his belt.

'You see, lord King, the small pan on the right side? That is where the fine-ground priming powder goes. Then this hammer with the piece of flint in its jaws goes back. .'

'Ah, yes,' Casull said. 'A flint-and-steel-the sort travellers use.'

'Yes, lord King. The flint strikes this portion of the L-shaped steel, pushing it back from over the pan-the sparks fall down onto the powder-the powder burns, the flame goes through a small hole into the barrel and ignites the main charge.'

He raised his voice a little. 'Gentlemen, there will be a loud crack, a little like thunder.'

There were alert nods, dark eyes bright with interest. You know, he thought, this Kingdom of the Isles would seem to be a better place to start 'progress' than the mainland. They're a lot less. . hidebound, I think you'd say.

no, Center said. There was more than the usual heavy certainty to its communication. this culture is too intellectually amorphous.

Adrian felt a familiar baffled frustration. Raj cut in: Sure, they'll take and use anything that looks useful. But they're pure pragmatists. Your Emerald philosophers have gotten themselves into a trap- staring up their own arses and trying to find first causes in words, in language. But at least they think about the structure of things; so do the Confeds, when they think at all-they caught it from you. The Islanders just aren't interested; to them, everything you've shown is just a wonderful new trick, to be thrown into the grab bag.

accurate, if loosely phrased, Center said.