"Sulun!" a fierce whisper, followed by a heavily shoving hand "Sulun, get up! The sun's high, and we've much to do."
Sulun opened one eye, closed it again, and groaned.
"Here, drink the winterleaf tea." Omis's calloused hand shoved a steaming mug close to Sulun's nose. "The wife says it good for wine-head. Drink, and get up."
Seeing that there was no help for it, Sulun drank the foul--tasting stuff and managed to roll himself upright. Omis held out a plain robe, and after a moment's hesitation Sulun struggled into it. "Gods," he muttered. "Remind me never to drink more than four cups at one sitting again. How did you survive?"
"There's more of me to saturate than there is of you. Try eating more. Hmm, do you want breakfast?"
"No!" Sulun pulled on the robe, hauled himself to his feet, and stumbled to the pitcher and washbasin in the corner. "Gods, gods . . . was it worth all that wine? I can't remember."
"Oh yes." Omis sat down on the bed Sulun had just quitted. "We learned a great deal indeed. First, the master leaves all the running of the household to his sister, who manages surprisingly well, but is something of a mystery to everyone. Second, the Old Man resents the noble families terribly; it appears that they don't accept him socially, though they're friendly enough with men not nearly so wealthy. The servants think it's because he's such a mean and miserly sort that he can't possibly amuse them; he thinks it's because he's descended from one of the old Sukkti houses, if you please."
"Sukkti?" Sulun puzzled as he dried his face on a threadbare cloth. "I didn't think there were any of the old race left. How many centuries has it been since the conquest?"
"Six at least. Who cares? One doesn't have to be pure Sukkti to have a bit of the old blood, as surely half of Sabis must. I'm just telling you what the servants say the Old Man believes." Omis cracked his knuckles noisily. "But to get on, Entori is the sort who nurses a grudge. He intends to buy that power which he can't win with his personal charm, and for that he needs money—always more money."
"That, we knew," Sulun grumbled, reaching for his comb.
"It doesn't end there. The Old Man cares not overmuch how he makes his money or who he deals with to get it." Omis leaned forward, making the bed webbing creak. "Nor does he care how his servants are treated, so long as the money comes in. Consider, friend Sulun, that galley slaves on his ships tend to die off at a higher rate than usual."
"The steam engine . . ." Sulun frowned, yanking the comb through his woolly tangle of hair.
"Yes, the steam engine for ships. It gets more interesting still. Entori's business has suffered from the loss of the northern trade as well as from the piracy out at sea. Many of his creditors have gone down, leaving him with cartloads of goods that he has trouble selling. He hopes to make up for this by—listen well—supplying the army and navy. You see where this leads?"
Sulun put the comb down and looked about for his sandals. "Does Zeren know this?"
"If he didn't before, he does now." Omis sat back with a satisfied grin. "I sent Arizun scampering off to him with a message, just after the morning report."
"Morning what?" Sulun asked, fumbling his way into his -sandals.
"Another little custom of the household. Every morning—early, mind you—all the servants are required to show up in the master's office and give brief, concise reports about their work and the condition of the supplies. All the rest of us went this morning, and we had difficulty enough explaining why you weren't present. You'll have to be there tomorrow, and with something to report."
"Report?" Sulun forced his aching brain into action. "By tomorrow morning? We'll be lucky if we have half the shop set up by then. What, in the name of all the gods together, are we expected to report?"
"We'll have to think of something." Omis pulled himself off the bed and offered a hand to Sulun. "Shall we begin?"
Two hours further into the morning, the task seemed just as formidable, even with the help of all four apprentices and two of the interested house-guards. The storerooms and back courtyard of Entori's house contained an incredible amount of hoarded junk.
There were also a few unsuspected treasures.
"Sulfur," Yanados whispered in Sulun's ear while the guards were busy on the far side of the courtyard. "This room, here—Arizun made the map—by the back wall there are five big grainbags full of sulfur. The dust is so thick on them, I'll wager Entori hasn't seen or thought about them in ten years."
"I'll go see them at lunchtime," Sulun whispered back. "Don't let anyone see that map." Gods, the Bombard Project! He'd almost forgotten it.
Yanados nodded, rolled the parchment quickly, and scurried off. Sulun caught Teigi—no, think of her always as Ziya—watching him, and quickly touched a warning finger to his lips. Ziya looked at her feet, frowned, and trudged off after Yanados.
Then Omis came rolling up, looking harried but somewhat pleased. "I've found most of the tools," he reported, "plus some oddments I never used before. Given a half-noon's time, I think we really can assemble a workable shop."
That struck another memory. "Omis," Sulun asked very quietly, "do you think we can assemble enough money to keep paying the rent on that workshop down by the river?"
Omis thought a moment, cast a quick glance around the yard, and whispered back, "Ask Vari, at lunch."
Sulun grinned agreement and took the tools off to the cleared space around his forge.
Next came Doshi, pausing for a moment in the task of clearing the useless bits of debt plunder out of the courtyard. "Master Sulun," he murmured, keeping his voice as low as the others had, "In one of those storerooms I found some old maps—merchants' work, I think—of the north country: Torrhyn, Jarrya . . . lands long gone to the barbarians. I recognized some of the old hills, the streams. . . ." He shook his head quickly, as if fighting off tears. "Beautiful work. I wonder if I might have time and parchment to copy some of them."
"Certainly," Sulun promised. "We'll discuss it at lunch." Money for good parchment? When they might need every last copper to keep the riverside workshop? But it would keep Doshi happy, and everyone's spirits were unsettled now. . . .
Then came Arizun, toting a basketful of oddities. "Master Sulun," he chirped, not caring if the guardsmen heard him, "we've found some good canvas sheeting, enough to make a sun roof over the forge if Master Entori will allow it. And what in the nine hells are these?" He held out his basket.
Sulun looked in, pawed among the glittering assemblies of metal, and stifled a gasp of recognition. "Valves," he whispered, almost reverently. "Good, solid trapdoor valves. The kind used for piping steam into bathhouses. And a ball-and-socket joint. All made of good brass . . ." A genuine inspiration, breathed of smiling gods, settled gently as a sacred dove on his shoulder. He stood up, smiling. "Yes, I think we have something of value to report tomorrow morning."
Lunch was a simple affair of bread, cheese, dried fruit, and thin beer, eaten out in the courtyard under pretext of not slowing down the work. The guards, chuckling at such unnecessary dedication, went inside to eat where the noon sun wouldn't bother them. Sulun's gang huddled together and spoke in low voices.
"A wretched, dusty place," Vari was grumbling. "Nowhere to dry the laundry save up on the roof, and I fear the mildew will get at it. So little light gets in through those miserable, tiny windows, one can barely see to clean. And the dust! Dust everywhere, especially near those storerooms, where cleaning is just impossible. I said as much to Mistress, when she came up on me in the hallway, and she said there was no help for it and I must do the best I can."
"The Old Man seems to like his house dark and musty," Doshi muttered. "I fear to think how we'd fare if plague came through the city. Plague demons could thrive here."
"Keep out in the sunlight whenever possible," Yanados advised. "We've excuse enough, with the workshop here."
"Speaking of workshops," Sulun cut in, frowning over the figures on his waxed tablet, "we'll earn enough to keep the workshop by the river, but that won't leave us much money else."
"None for the bombard, you mean?" Omis laughed bitterly. "Easily answered; add to the list of expenses for the steam engine."
"That, at least," Sulun agreed. "How much iron will you need to make another bombard? How much will that cost us?"
"We can always do a bit of work outside," Arizun offered. "I can go back to telling fortunes in the market, and Yanados could always work as a hired sword." He dodged fast as Yanados aimed a swat at him.
"I don't suppose we could spare a few coppers for parchment," Doshi sighed. "Those beautiful maps . . . I wonder how the old country has changed."
"Just take the damned maps," Arizun snorted. "If the Old Man ever remembers and wants them, he'll send one of the servants to get them—and the folk in this house tell each other if they find anything missing, long before they'll tell him. You'll have plenty of time to sneak them back."
"True." Doshi brightened.
"And we have the sulfur now," Sulun went on, noting how the others pricked up their ears and Yanados grinned. "Five full sacks of it, lying unnoticed in Entori's storehouse for enough years to collect a thick furring of dust. I doubt he even knows what it is, let alone what its properties are."
"Rest assured, he'll notice if any of it goes missing," Doshi commented. "From what the servants tell, he keeps a tally of every ounce of straw in a bale."
"But recall the servants' trick with the wine," Sulun reminded him. "Do we replace any sulfur we take with some other yellow powder, and he can be persuaded that the 'mineral salt' has gone bad—soured, like the wine."
Omis guffawed. Vari shushed him, casting nervous glances back at the near doors and windows.
"So we have sulfur," Yanados agreed. "But how shall we purchase charcoal and saltpeter? Can we pad our budget enough to cover that?"
"And flux, for my ironworking?" Omis added. "Most probably, we can ask for it outright. Do we say we need it for making the steam engines, he'll agree to the purchase."
"In any event," Omis considered, "we'll need to show him good progress on the steam engine. We'll not have the shop ready to work for a few days yet. What shall we tell him tomorrow morning?"
"I'll rehearse my speech tonight," Sulun promised, "rather than stay late after dinner again."
Everyone else chuckled at that.
"Another way to cut our actual expenses . . ." Sulun pulled the two brass valves out of his robe and held them up. "Be certain the Old Man doesn't know what these are. Do we ask for time, money, and good brass to make valves for the steam engine, we can apply it to other things—and then use these."
Doshi and Yanados recognized the objects, and laughed agreement. The others looked puzzled. Omis took one of the valves and turned it over and over in his hands, studying its construction. Sulun handed him the ball-and-socket joint as well.
"If you can drill that out and attach a sizable funnel, we'll have a means to keep the steam engine steadily supplied with water."
"Aha!" Omis caught on, peering closer at the brass joint. "If I need to excuse all my ironworking for the bombard, I'll make the funnel for this out of iron. She'll rust, of course, but the Old Man won't know that until later."
"We can do it, then." Doshi actually grinned. "Entori will have his engine-driven ship and Zeren will have his bombard. How long will it take, think you?"
"Oh, that reminds me," Arizun put in, "I took your message to his house. He should give us some answer by tomorrow."
Vari, Sulun noticed, wasn't listening; she was watching Ziya, hitching closer to her, reaching tentatively for a bowed shoulder. Now that he looked, Sulun saw that the child was crying silently, face hidden under the raised hood of her robe. Sulun recalled, with a twinge of remorse, that he'd barely spoken to the child in the past two days.
"Eh, Ziya," he offered, clumsily patting the girl's nearer shoulder, "I hadn't meant to neglect you. What did you wish to say?"
Ziya pulled a deep breath, which caught and then rushed out again bearing a ragged spool of words. "Ohhh, it's all so -shameful!"
"Huh?" Sulun couldn't imagine what she meant.
"Shameful!" Ziya gulped again. "All of you plotting lies and tricks to rob your master. Did you serve my father so?"
The others gnawed their lips and looked at each other. Yes, in truth they had played a few such games on Shibari. Not many, not so many as this, but they had done it.
"Not at all," said Vari, sounding utterly sincere. "Your father was a good master, not at all like this one."
Ziya hiccupped, rubbed her nose, and sat up a little straighter.
Sulun gave Vari a quick look of guilty gratitude, which she barely acknowledged. He understood. It wasn't the first time, nor would it likely be the last, that they'd used well-meant lies to give the child some hope, some reason not to roll over and die of misery. If ever she learned the truth, would she forgive?
For that matter, Sulun wondered with a shiver, did the gods do the same to men? If so, could mankind ever forgive the gods?"
Then Ziya sniffed and spoke again. "Do bad masters always make their people bad?"
Even Vari couldn't answer that one; she threw Sulun a look of silent appeal. He could feel the weight of everyone else's eyes, and Ziya's question, fall on him.
Well, hang it, couldn't he justify himself in words so simple that a child could understand them?
"No, child. Bad masters only make it difficult for their people to be good."
There. Chew upon that, you gods.
Ziya turned wide, wet eyes up to him. "But not impossible?" she asked.
"No, not impossible. Just . . . difficult."
The child nodded acceptance and went back to munching on her bread and cheese, sorrow passing like a quick summer storm. The others dug into their food, as if determined to finish fast and get back to work.
Sulun pulled up the hood of his robe and glanced suspiciously at the half-clouded sky, wondering why he felt as if he'd just made a pledge before heaven.