“I have word,” the young man said.
“Of the brothers?” Gylain hesitated.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And?”
“The answer is affirmative.”
“Then we have them,” cried Gylain, and he rushed back to the desk, grabbing his sword from its top, where he kept it while he sat.
“My lord,” the youth hesitated, “The Fardy brothers have been found, in theory, but I fear they will not be so easily taken.”He stammered as Gylain looked on him, his eyes as bare and cutting as the sword he held. “I do not doubt the strength of the army, or the cunning of its officers, but the Fardy brothers have something on their side.”
“Which is what?” Gylain grew angry, and the page’s words stumbled on his lips and fell forward disorganized.
At last, he conjured the courage to blurt, “They have stolen the Marins!”
Disbelief struck them on the head and left them stupid. Gylain fell backwards a step, physically distraught at the news. Yet his was a dynamic evil, not by passion but by plan, and carried out systematically. In an instant, his plans were revised and he turned his maniac vigor toward their fulfillment.
“Arm yourselves, for we ride!” and he put his own sword into his belt.
Montague and de Casanova were already at the passage and when Gylain reached them the three men dashed headlong down the narrow stairwell. Soon they reached the outer courtyard. Gylain signaled the Elite Guard, who mounted their horses as the three did the same. The drawbridge was lowered by the time they were in the saddle. The troop galloped over it and toward the Floatings.
They soon reached it and the three of them dashed into a lighthouse that bordered the harbor. It was used mainly by guards and customs officers observing the business of the bizarre bazaar. The tower was made from a white marble – mined from the mountains to the north and cut into wide, cubic blocks. Its insides were narrow and empty, with nothing more than a winding stairway that led to the top. There, however, a circular room was built with a deck or extended platform that overlooked the harbor. Three telescopes were mounted on the wall that skirted the platform, equipped with swiveling bases that allowed a close inspection of the traders below. Gylain took the middle and his companions the flanking telescopes.
The three were silent for a moment as they scanned the horizon, but it was clearly evident that the massive Marins were missing. Montague was the first to break the silence, “So it is: they are gone,” and he looked up from the glass to see the others, and the captain of the post who stood solemnly behind them.
De Casanova also looked up, “Did you not see them to be missing? For they could not be removed but with an hour’s hard work.”
“Both of them were gone at daybreak, yet that is not unusual,” the captain said. “They sometimes leave the harbor to mine beyond its reaches.”
At this Gylain also looked up, “And yet you sent word in relation to my orders? I said to remain silent, but to watch for the Fardy brothers.”
“The harbor fleet was sent to find their coordinates, but they could not be found. As this is unusual, and the Marins connected with the Fardys, I sent word. More than that I do not know.”
Gylain looked out over the watery market, his thoughts disguised by his firm and unchanging countenance. “The crews of the Marins have been replaced, as I ordered when they were seized, have they not?”
“The captains were, sir, but it is not possible to replace an entire crew in two day’s time. We were working on training replacements when the Marins disappeared.”
The tyrant smiled slightly, looking over the harbor once more with his naked eye. “Close the Floatings,” he said, “Allowing no one in and no one out; and do the same for the city. We are now at war.” He paused. “Bring me the harbor’s depth chart.”
The captain disappeared into the room, returning with a map in hand. Gylain took it and spread it out on the table to the left, with de Casanova and Montague at his side. He looked it over and the others looked him over as he did, until his extended finger came to rest above the section of the harbor that was shaded the darkest – the deepest point in the Floatings.
“If the Marins are not in the Western March, they are there,” he said, to the surprise of the others, “And where they are, so are the Fardy brothers. Come, we will soon see!” and he dashed down the stairs with the same vigor with which he had dashed up them.
Chapter 59
“I have never met a man who denied my patience,” said the brown Fardy, “But I threaten to cease my virtuous life altogether, if those guards do not cease to stand there, preventing our entrance! While they loaf here, there are criminals fancying mischief elsewhere in the city.”
“Yet we are those criminals fancying mischief,” returned Clifford, “And it is only their loitering that prevents us.”
“True, but still I would punish them, for I dislike their look. What type of man raises his arms against his fellow countryman?”
“A soldier is a soldier. Besides, what is the difference between an Atiltian and a Frencher?”
“A bed and a good meal, these days. But look, they are moving. My patience is proved!”
As he spoke, the small company of guards standing atop the city wall began to walk southward. The four rebels – the Fardy brothers and Clifford – were sitting at the edge of the forest, hidden by the shadows of a monstrous tree. With the guards out of sight, they crept to the wall and knocked: thrice loud and once quiet. A section of the wall swung open – along cracks cleverly hidden in the pattern of the bricks – and revealed a narrow tunnel, which led in turn to a small chamber under a stairway in a house adjacent to the wall. The black Fardy carefully resealed the door behind them, while in front of them a gaunt man with a week’s beard lifted the staircase and peered into the chamber. His head pushed into the hole. When he opened his eyes he found himself nose-to- nose with the blond Fardy.
“At last!” he said with out removing his face, “What held you?” He continued without pausing to breath, “We are ready, but the night is short. Follow me,” and he turned, stepping onto the stairway above. The others joined him. The stair was closed behind them.
The house was narrow and long, since it was squeezed between the crown’s road and the crown’s wall. It was, therefore, only the next room over that opened onto the crowded streets. The house itself was also a brewer’s shop, with all the associated equipment – even a wagon with a giant barrel mounted on the rear for the purpose of transporting the wares. The windows were covered with heavy curtains and the room dimly lit by a lantern on the table beside the wagon. A stable stood to the left of the room, connected to the brewing hall by a large, wooden door.
“Get in: we are late already,” said the gaunt brewer, pointing to the wagon.
“A giant beer barrel?” cried the blond Fardy. “My brothers – as patient as they are – have seen enough of the insides of barrels. Could you think of nothing else?”
“I am a brewer, so I have a brewer’s wagon. As for your
“What if someone tries to turn on the tap?” Clifford asked.
“There is a latch on the inside, and the trap door cannot be opened against its will,” the other returned.
“I did not mean that,” and the old man smiled, looking to the shadowed corners with a probing eye. “I have heard it said that guards do not let a brewer’s wares pass, without ensuring its quality. What if they should try this tap while we are inside?”
He followed Clifford’s eyes to the wall, where a dozen bottles of Atiltian Scotch were stacked. He sighed, “Very well,” and Clifford hurried to the shelf, returning with each of them cradled like an infant in his arms.
“If a soldier should try the tap, it will flow as if it were full.”
“But what soldier needs twelve bottles to inspect?”
“A thirsty one,” Clifford winked, and was inside the barrel before the brewer could respond. The man closed and sealed the trap door, then jumped into the driver’s seat and was off, nodding to the servant boy who stood by to open the door.
