Early next morning Sulun stood in line with the other yawning and bleary-eyed servants, awaiting the audience of accounting with Master Entori. Omis stood behind him, the apprentices in a cluster beyond, after them Vari and the children. They'd all been up long after dinner, rehearsing their lines. Sulun and Omis carried waxed tablets scribbled with lists and figures, Vari would rely on her excellent memory, the apprentices and children would merely look respectful and nod agreement with their elders. The other servants apparently used a similar method, for Sulun noted all three of the house-guards entering the master's office together, just ahead of him.
Given his own gang's agreed tactics, Sulun didn't know whether to hope the guards would stay closeted with Entori for a brief while or a long one. Meanwhile, he pored through his notes one more time.
The guards' interview proved to be a short one, and they came out together looking bored. A good sign, Sulun dared hope. The door remained shut for a few moments more; then the small bell sounded from beyond it, summoning the next in line. Sulun drew a deep breath, pushed on the heavy door, and entered.
Entori sat at his littered table, just as Sulun had seen him first, save that he wore a different dark, heavy robe. He raised his eyes from his pen and freshly marked ledger to acknowledge his latest servant and demanded, simply: "Well?"
Sulun bowed formally, lifted the first of his tablets, and began. "Tools for workshop: nearly assembled save for forge-bellows, estimated at five coppers; double-span tongs, estimated seven coppers; twenty-weight of brazing flux, eight coppers two irons . . ." Sulun carefully made his voice a soothing drone, the reading of the list reminiscent of a prayer-chant.
Entori began fidgeting with his pen, but his eyelids refused to droop.
No, best not to ask for too much new iron today.
Sulun switched to the second tablet. "Now, concerning the first try at a full-sized engine, a small cargo vessel should be used. No sense buying more brass than we need before we've determined the proper ratios and balances . . ."
"I can obtain the loan of a fifty-tonner," Entori cut in.
"Hmmm, so . . . It will not be necessary to take the ship out of service at once, not until we have the engine ready for testing. We need only measure and chart the ship before then, which may be done in a few days. We shall need carpenters to assemble the paddle wheels also. I have here the design, with tentative measurements that can be revised after we've inspected the ship." Sulun handed over another tablet. "We assume that building the engine shall require some five tons of brass, at—"
"Five tons?" Entori sat up, jowls darkening.
"Er, one tenth the weight of the ship, we presume." Sulun managed to keep his voice calm, philosophical, unruffled, despite the sweat gathering on his back. "Sure no more than that, possibly less, but we must be sure—"
"Five tons!" Glowering, Entori pulled a short whip up from his lap.
"Master," Sulun bowed low, shivering. "This engine uses forces of great power, and we must take great care to contain them. Better to make the parts too strong than too weak, lest they break—disastrously."
"But five tons?" Entori fingered the thongs of the whip.
"In the event that lesser weight is required, the excess brass will, of course, be applied to the building of the next engine. If Master has any brass already in store, naturally that could be used first."
"Not five tons."
A muffled sneeze sounded nearby.
Entori gave Sulun a sudden, hard look. The two of them were quite alone in the room, and neither of them had sneezed.
"Damned sneaking servants!" Entori sputtered, clambering to his feet. He came fast around the table, giving Sulun barely time to jump out of his way, ran to the door, and threw it wide.
No one stood there but Omis and the rest of the line, looking puzzled, a respectable ten paces away. Entori glared at them. "The lout must sneeze as loud as an elephant," he muttered, settling into his heavy chair.
Sulun said nothing, but thought much. Omis, he knew, did not sneeze as loud as an elephant. Neither had the sneeze come from beyond the door. He could have sworn the sound came from somewhere toward the left wall, where nothing stood but stacks of parchment-laden shelving.
"Enough of this," Entori grumbled, reaching for his pen. "Just leave me your lists there, and get on with work."
Sulun bowed again, set his pile on the least littered corner of the table, and bowed his way out, closing the door behind him.
Omis tossed him an enquiring look as he passed, but all Sulun could give him was a shrug. He paced carefully down the corridor, trying to measure the walls. There had to be a room on the other side of Entori's study, but who would be in there at this time of day? And why? And why so close to the wall that a sneeze might be heard right through it?
An intriguing mystery, that sneeze. What a pity he had really no time to solve it.
Omis with his mercifully short list of requirements, had better luck with the Old Man; Entori curtly gave him leave to use the canvas in stores to make his workshop pavilion, as well as all the charcoal he could find.
The little company was just putting up the canvas when Arizun came scampering up with a short note from Zeren. Sulun read it quickly, stuck it in his robe without comment, and went on with the business at hand.
At lunch hour he warned the others to keep to the courtyard, retraced his way through the house, and headed out the front door. The ancient porter demanded to know why he was leaving, where he was going, for how long, and had the Master been informed? Sulun restrained his annoyance, remembering that the porter really bore him no ill-will and was most probably just following the Old Man's orders.
"I'm off to the coppersmiths' street," Sulun replied pleasantly, "to consult with some smiths there about present prices and qualities of brass. I'll return at the end of the lunch hour, and you can inform the Mistress for me."
"Oh, the Mistress?" the porter cackled. "Aye, I'll tell her and none other, right enough. Heh-heh!"
Sulun shook his head and walked out the door. The whole house appeared to run on petty intrigue. Where did the Mistress fit in?
He did not, of course, go to the market. A few minutes' walk brought him to Zeren's house, where the housekeeper let him in and took him at once to the small dining room. A small meal waited there, and so did Zeren, who had already started on the white wine. He had loosened his working armor, dumped his swordbelt unceremoniously on the floor, and looked distinctly morose.
"Welcome, friend philosopher," he greeted Sulun with a raised cup. "Come, honor my humble table, and we'll trade sad stories. How are you and yours faring in House Entori?"
"Gods!" Sulun dropped into the empty chair and reached for the wine. "It's unbelievable." He gulped down half the cup before he caught himself.
Zeren laughed coldly. "You knew the man was a miser when you went to him. I told you I could do no better for you."
"I know, and rest assured I'm utterly grateful." Sulun set down his cup and dug into the dish of olives. "What I didn't know, couldn't have expected, was how terribly the man's stinginess warps the character of his entire household. One simply can't live there without resorting to theft and intrigue. Oh, let me tell you—"
"In detail," Zeren murmured, pouring himself another cup.
Sulun told, in detail, at length, until the food was gone. Zeren listened quietly, eyes wandering to distances again, until his guest ran out of words.
"So," he said finally, "how long, think you, before you can finish the Bombard Project?"
Sulun stared at him for a moment. "I haven't even mentioned it to him yet. Good gods all, I daren't suggest a new project before the Old Man's seen some profit from this one, and the gods alone know when that will be. Perhaps if you come visit him with more suggestions he'll show interest, but otherwise—"
Zeren heaved a sigh that seemed to come all the way from his boots. "My dearest philosopher friend, I greatly doubt that I could play the same trick twice with Entori the Miser. Quite right, he'll make no new speculation until he's seen profit from this one. Give him his wretched engine soon, I pray you. Soon."
Sulun ran his fingers through his hair. "But there's so much I don't know. I'm only guessing at the proper size for a ship's engine. I've some idea how to keep the steam flow steady, but how can the engine be started and stopped on command? Or reversed? How much fuel will it need? How long to heat enough water? How should it be attached to the ship? How to keep the fire pot from scorching the deck? I should experiment with the model first. . . . Oh, it may take years to learn everything!"
"And the bombard?"
"Friend commander, unless I can steal the money supplies out from under Entori's nose, I have no idea when we can build a workable bombard."
Zeren rubbed his eyes hard, then took a deep breath and sagged back in his chair. Sulun saw that the man's eyes were red. With an oddly slow sense of shock, he realized that Zeren was either very morosely drunk—at noon, on a working day—or else that he was fighting back tears.
"Sulun, my beloved philosopher." His voice was perfectly calm and level. "You have less than a year, perhaps only half that, to bring me a reliable bombard and the skills to make more. After that, nothing will matter. Nothing."
Sulun shivered, and felt obliged to whisper. "Why?"
"Because I've read the latest reports from the frontier patrol officers. Because I know what they foretell, even if the emperor himself can't. Because I've seen this happen before, and before, and before—"
"What?" Sulun snapped, hoping to the gods that Zeren was only drunk.
"Another fall." Zeren fixed him with perfectly sober eyes. "What remains of Jarrya is being overrun. Within less than a moonspan, the Ancar will be at Sabis's northern borders. With what army and supplies Sabis has now, we can last no longer than a year."
"A year?" Sulun set his cup down on the table, very slowly, as if it were made of thin glass instead of good, sturdy bronze. He knew Zeren—his skill and wit and knowledge—too well to doubt this. The unbelievable could happen. Sabis could be invaded. The queen of cities could burn. He must make himself think about this, try to understand it, believe it.
"No more than a year," Zeren repeated. "Unless the gods open the sky and grant us a miracle. Or unless you give us a weapon that can stop an uncountable invading horde. The bombard. Do you understand?"
"Gods!" Sulun gripped a double handful of his wiry hair and tugged hard enough to hurt. "How? How, when I have to sneak every copper piece past this wretched miser? Tell me how!"
"Steal," said Zeren. "Cheat. Intrigue. Find another patron in secret. I wish to all the heavens and hells that I could do it for you, but none of the nobles, not even the City Guard Commander, will listen to me. Be as ruthless as you must, Sulun, for worse is coming. Worse than you or I or even Entori could ever be. I know. I've seen it. So many times over—"
"Gods, I must . . ." Sulun scrambled away from the table. "Must go back, before I'm missed. I'll find a way. Less than a year, perhaps only half . . . Gods!" He hurried to the door, too distracted for proper farewells, mumbling to himself about sulfur and saltpeter.
Zeren watched him go, then turned to study his almost empty winecup. "Vozai, my patron god," he murmured. "Why are wise men enslaved to fools? Why do the fates of a hundred thousand innocents rest upon one wretched servant? Why do you play such insane games with us?"
The cup didn't answer.
Zeren sighed, and drained it.
"Not enough." Omis sighed, peering again at the figures on the wax tablet. "I can get the iron, tomorrow maybe, but this just isn't enough for the flux and the firepowder ingredients."
"I know, I know," Sulun groaned, tugging absently at his hair. "And before you ask: no, there's no point asking Master Entori to take on the Bombard Project openly. I've tried hinting delicately, tried asking the other servants for advice, and no luck to it anywhere. He's a little man with big fears and big resentments; he hired us to do one project for him, and he won't take risks on anything else. No money for anything more, not until he sees some profits on the engine."
"We could always make haste slowly. I won't have the new iron for a few days anyway. We could put off getting the flux until next moon, then—"
"No, no time!" Sulun ran his gaze around the room as if looking for omens in the cracked plaster. "The bombard can't wait. We must start it as soon as possible. There must be more money, some way—"
"I know of one." Vari leaned over to trim the oil lamp, almost catching her long untied braids in the guttering flame. "The -Mistress."
"Eloti?" Sulun sat up, pulling back his ragged sleeves. "How could she help? And why?"
Vari peered out the door, making certain they weren't overheard, before answering. "I've heard she has some money of her own, often funds quiet little projects of her own, without Entori's knowledge. It's a legend among the servants. The difficulty lies in persuading her, and it's said to be worth one's neck to try and fail."
"Worth all our necks anyway," Sulun muttered. Then aloud: "How do I approach her?"
"She takes evening promenades alone in the courtyard, every night. But, Sulun—"
"Every night? Would she be there now?"
"Why, yes. But Sulun, why the haste? This is dangerous!"
"Everything is dangerous now." Sulun stood up, straightened his robe, and made a quick study of his appearance in the mirror. "Third courtyard, you said?"
"Yes." Vari stepped back, watching him. "But are you so sure you can persuade her?"
"Of course." Sulun marched determinedly to the door, and out, and off down the corridor.
Behind him, Omis and Vari stared at each other in dismay.
"What," Omis asked feebly, "has got into the man? Does he realize what he's risking?"
"Something's frightened him," Vari concluded, "Frightened him too much to reveal it to us. And that, love, frightens me."
The third courtyard was small and swept clean, containing only a small central fountain and narrow rows of herb beds, circled with a cobbled path. In the lights of the sickle moon the surrounding walls and path and fountain shone dull white, the herb beds and pooled water and shadows dead-black. Eloti in her dark dress was likewise a sketch in faint white and black, passing almost automatically around and around the pool, eyes distant and expression blank.
She could almost be a sleepwalker, Sulun considered, watching from an archway. Best to approach with dignified slowness, let her see him as soon as possible, give her time to travel back from her unguessed mental distance. He waited until her round brought her almost facing him, then stepped out into the open air.
She saw, and stopped, and awaited his approach with no change of expression.
Courage, Sulun reminded himself. "Lady," he began quietly, "may I walk with you?"
"Why do you disturb my evening walk?" she asked calmly, the faintest ghost of a frown creasing the inner edge of one eyebrow.
"I mean no disturbance, Lady Entori. I've come to bring an urgent warning to your ears alone."
"Walk with me, then." The ghost-frown vanished. Eloti resumed her stately pace about the fountain, allowing Sulun to match her stride. "What warning, sir?"
Sulun drew a deep breath. "Within five days, Lady, news will come that the north riverlands have fallen to the barbarians. Sabis will be shaken to its rooftops, trade will be shaken also, and I have no doubt that many of the wealthier families will begin fleeing south across the straits."
Eloti did not so much as slow her steps. "So? And is there any more?"
"Indeed there is." Sulun marveled at her composure. "The Ancar will sweep down the river valley and take Sabis within the year, unless some great change comes to halt them."
Eloti flicked her vision toward the sky, then back to her path. "You are telling me only that the sun will rise tomorrow," she said, "and set, also."
"And set indeed," Sulun murmured, watching her. "Do you care nothing for these things? Would you wish to live in a city while it is sacked by the Ancar?"
Eloti paced on, implacable. "When life becomes insupportable, there is always the quick knife, the quiet poison." An ironic smile touched her lips, ever so faintly. "We all die. What changes?"
"Lady, given the chance, I could change this!"
Eloti stopped in midstep. "You?" A slight but distinct tone of interest tinged her voice.
"Yes, I could," Sulun gulped. "I know the means to make a weapon that could defeat the Ancar. Given the equipment to make it, the space to test it, I and my friends could make this weapon within . . . um, one moon's time. My Lord your brother, unfortunately, won't hear of this. He wants his ship engines, and will spare no coppers for anything else."
"Ah, so you come to me." Eloti resumed her pacing, a definite smile on her face now. "You want money."
"Yes, Lady," Sulun answered, unashamed. "Enough to pay the rent on our workshop by the river. Enough to buy the flux for Omis's iron. Enough to purchase the saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal for the powder. Enough for the leather canisters of shot. Not cheap, Lady, I admit—but less costly than the quick knife or the quiet poison, I daresay."
Eloti actually laughed, a low and quiet sound. "You intrigue me, sir, I admit. Yet I've seen that you're honest enough."
"I've no time for anything less, not knowing what I know. I've no wish to endure the fall of the city."
"Nor I, actually." She glanced once at the silver moon. "I've wagered before, the gods know, and for poorer stakes. I shall give you my answer tomorrow."
"Thank you, Lady."
"You may g—Htcha!" she sneezed.
Sulun, already backing away, suddenly remembered where he'd heard that exact sneeze before. He turned and hurried off through the archway, mind rolling with possibilities.
In the morning, after a mercifully brief report of purchases to the master of the house, Sulun chivvied his crew to work with a ferocity that was rare for him. They assembled a small procession of carts and went down to the smeltery to fetch Omis's iron and Sulun's brass, headed home by the emptiest road, and managed to get the whole shipment into the courtyard by lunchtime. Vari was waiting for them there, holding something wrapped in a napkin, looking thoughtful.
"Here." She handed Sulun the bundle. "Mistress came up to me while I was at the scrubbing, handed this to me as quiet as you please, says to bring it to you quietly, and adds that she'll want an accounting later. I haven't dared look. Sulun, what have you gone and done?"
Sulun said nothing until he'd unwrapped the napkin, opened the small drawstring bag he found there, and looked inside. Sunlight caught on the edges of wide gold coins. He stared blankly for a moment, then pulled the bag shut and stuffed it quickly into his robe.
"I've managed to persuade the Mistress," he said, feeling the smile stretch across his face. "How soon can we have those carts ready to go again?"
"An hour! An hour!" Doshi wailed. "Let the poor beasts have their meal—and us, too."
"An hour, then," Sulun agreed, "But no more."
The afternoon passed in purchases of odd minerals and tallows and odd cuts of leather, plus a side trip by Arizun and Yanados to pay the rent on the riverside shop. On all but the latter, Sulun dickered fast and furiously, and kept careful track of the money spent. Not so much as a copper piece went to anything outside the Bombard Project, though Sulun did yield to pressure from Arizun and Doshi and bought some cut-rate sheets of parchment for diagrams. They came dragging the carts home barely in time to unload, no time to wash and dress before supper. They looked a tired and well-worked group at the table, and more than once Sulun caught Mistress Eloti giving him and his crew appraising looks. She must guess, he considered, that they were giving her full value for her money.
After-dinner conversation at the servants' table was unduly full of comments on their industry and devotion to their tasks. Aobi went so far as to growl at them: "Don't work so blazing hard, you lads; you'll make us all look lazy, and the old goat will take it out of our hides."
"It'll go slow after this," Omis predicted, thinking of the days of forging and hammering ahead of him.
"Entirely too slow," Sulun muttered, imaging the gods' hourglass hanging, invisible, over Sabis.
Vari and the apprentices exchanged worried glances, and excused themselves early from the party.