8
Larry Warner looked up at the balloon swaying overhead and decided that it was about as inflated as it would ever be. He nodded to the man standing beside him.
“Okay, Murphy.”
Ben Murphy raised both hands. “Let go the top rope! Second crew, heave away!”
Five men at the foot of one fifty-foot pole let go the first line and stepped back. At the foot of the second pole on the opposite side of the hot-air balloon, five more men started pulling. The rope slipped through a ring at the top of the first pole, then a loop at the top of the balloon, sixty feet above the ground. Finally it slipped through the ring at the top of the last pole and fell on top of the men pulling it. From the way they were laughing and cursing, Warner didn’t think anyone was hurt.
He folded his arms on his chest, hoping for Murphy to give the next order on his own. Ben would be taking the First Balloon Squadron (one balloon and about forty men) on campaign against Flaminius Caesar in another three or four ten-days. It would have been simpler for Warner to go himself, but Captain Rick’s orders were strict: nobody from the University faculty into combat. Murphy and Reznick tossed for it, and Reznick won. Or had Murphy? Warner knew better than to ask.
It didn’t matter much anyway. Larry Warner was happy not to be shot at. Besides, he’d been first up, the first aeronaut anywhere on Tran! That had impressed everyone, including all the girls and even Gwen Tremaine. There were rewards to be gained from heroism—
But all in all, the life of a university professor was better. Especially in this University, where the faculty was in full control.
The balloon swayed a little more with the overhead rope gone, but the men on the ground lines had it firmly under control. The overhead rope strung between the poles had held it up while the hot air from the fire under the launching platform flowed up the inflation tube underneath and filled the balloon. Warner had figured that one out himself, and was quite proud of his invention.
“Draw the neck rope!” shouted Murphy. A team of men pulled on the rope which tightened the neck of the tube hanging down from the balloon. Now the balloon looked like a gigantic mushroom with a large misshapen head and a very short stem. Warner checked his gear and walked toward the platform. Murphy could finish the job on his own now, except for the last order to “Let go.”
“Cover the fire!” The men who’d tightened the tube pulled a brass plate over the hole in the platform. Warner climbed up onto the platform as the men wrestled the observation basket on to the brass plate. When the balloon rose, it had to lift the observation basket and crew straight up. Dragging was a real danger at launch and landing times, which was why the balloon needed such a large ground crew.
But the benefits! “Your turn next, Ben,” Warner called.
“Right. Sure you don’t want me this time?”
“No, I’d better check things out.” Not that Murphy couldn’t do it, but that would be bad for Warner’s image. And there was the new telegraph system, a thin wire stretching from the balloon along the tether; the only Morse operators in the University were Larry Warner and two of his crewmen, and they didn’t speak English . . .
Warner checked the observation basket and its gear even more carefully than he’d checked his own. Today was supposed to be an endurance test, to see how long the balloon could stay up with extra ballast and fuel in place of a second man. There were extra bricks of the resin-coated straw they used for fuel when aloft tied to the netting above the basket. If sparks from the brass firepot in the floor of the basket reached them, they could be cut loose before they set the reed basket itself afire. Around the rim of the basket were hung sandbags for ballast and two skins of drinking water.
All improvised, all Warner’s inventions. Well, with a little help from the others, but not much. And he’d got it all done before Gwen came back from Benevenutum.
Everything seemed to be all right. Some of the men in the Squadron believed that Warner was a wizard and the balloon was his familiar spirit, which would tell him of any negligence on their part in preparing it for the flight. He was supposed to discourage superstitions, and he would—eventually. Just now it was handy for them to think that. It was a long way down if anything went wrong.
Warner climbed into the basket and braced himself, legs spread wide and the fingers of one hand twined in the netting. The men on the ropes slacked off a little and the balloon lifted a few inches clear of the platform. Warner grinned. He had a lot of excuses for taking this flight, but one he didn’t admit was simple enough. He liked it. The nearest thing to flying . . .
Except for the length, this flight should be almost routine. It looked like there might be too much wind up high, but here in the lee of Ben Hakon he should be safe enough. Idly he wondered who the hill had been named for.
The men who’d moved the basket and handled the overhead ropes now took their places on the handles of the winch. If Campbell had been allowed to make gears for the winch, it wouldn’t have needed twelve or fifteen men. However, that was another of Captain Rick’s orders—“I don’t want it perfect, I want it Thursday!” So the winch needed a dozen men on the handles when the balloon was full, and the balloon itself had no ripcord or top vent. It rose or fell with the air inside it and the sheer strength of the men on the winch.
That, though, was the Mark I, and his crews were already at work on Mark II. They might have it finished by the time Murphy took it to battle.
He made one last check. “Looking good,” he called. “Let it play out some.” Murphy nodded. The balloon rose about three feet above the platform, before the winch crew caught it. It was crude, but as long as it was the only balloon on the planet, who cared?
Warner took a deep breath and began to sing as the winch crew let the balloon rise. He’d sung on the first ascent, to keep his teeth from chattering from sheer blue funk. Some of his crew thought it was a hymn to Yatar Skyfather, and now they expected him to sing every time the balloon went up. He wondered what Murphy would do. Oh, well.
Off we go, into the wild blue yonder,
Flying high, into the sun. . . .
As the platform dropped away below him, he saw Gwen standing by one of the poles, trying not to laugh. Was it the song, or his singing?
✧ ✧ ✧
Therrit had planned to do his work while the balloon was still rising. Lord Corgarff had said this would do the most damage. However, Lord Corgarff didn’t know how many men were around the winch while the balloon was going up. Therrit did not trust Lord Corgarff to pay the promised gold to his family if he was caught before he could even do the work.
So Therrit stood well back, until the balloon looked no larger than his fist held out in front of his nose. Then the men on the winch pushed a long wooden rod in under the drum, to stop its turning. The rod could be put in place and then pulled out again quickly, without anyone having to reach in under the drum and risk getting their hands broken.
More than half the drum was still covered with rope when the balloon stopped rising. Therrit realized that if he could pull out the rod, the balloon would probably start rising again, just as Lord Corgarff wanted. It would be harder to make pulling the rod out look like an accident, but if there was enough smoke no one would see him, and they would never know. The crewmen thought the balloon could talk, but Therrit knew better. Warner had told him many times.
It was too bad that Professor Warner had to die. He was a gentle master, considerate of his servants. But Warner had no gold to keep Therrit’s sisters from starving. They could enter Warner’s service, but the Star Lords had no understanding of what was fit for the daughters of yeomen and what work was fit only for slaves or freedwomen. He might—he might loan Therrit’s sister to the Lord Elliot, as he did with his own Sara!
No. The only safety for his family was the protection of his clan. Lord Corgarff would not order this without the consent of Chief Dughuilas, and Dughuilas could protect anyone!
Therrit waited a little longer, until he saw the lady Gwen walking back to her tent. Corgarff did not seem to care if the lady was hurt or not, but Therrit did not want to make war on women, particularly this one. She treated the sons and daughters of yeomen as if they were the children of knights.
Therrit waited so long that he became aware that Corgarff was looking at him, rather than up at the balloon like everyone else. The lord’s patience must be running out. Therrit walked cautiously toward the platform, pulling a brick of sky fire out of his pouch. It looked like any other brick from the outside, but it was only a thin layer of straw and resin pasted over a leather lining. The leather was filled with firepowder and other things to make smoke. Therrit walked until he was within easy range of the banked-up fire under the platform. Then he tossed the brick underhanded on to the coals.
The firepowder made all the smoke he’d expected, also a noise like the time when lightning struck his father’s barn and a smell like the hot spring behind the University. Everybody except Therrit was caught by surprise. All those near the platform scrambled up, and a few ran. Therrit threw in a second brick, there was more noise and smoke, and it looked like everyone was running.
He couldn’t wait to see better. He ran up to the platform, drawing his knife as he did so. Having gone this far, he had to be ready to cut the rope if everything else failed.
The locking rod came out at the second pull. He saw the winch handles begin to move and jumped aside. The winch rattled, the handles whirled fast enough to break a careless man’s bones, and the rope on the drum shrank. Therrit pulled away the bronze lid over the firehole, cursing as it scorched his fingers, and tossed in the last two bricks. The noises made the platform shake and the winch creak, and the smoke came up so thickly that Therrit could barely see or breathe. Choking and holding the rod out in front of him like a blind man’s stick, he groped his way to the edge of the platform and jumped down to the ground.
✧ ✧ ✧
Warner knew something was wrong when he saw the smoke swallow the platform and winch and heard the explosions. He didn’t know what until the balloon suddenly started rising. Even then he was more interested than frightened. The winch getting out of control was something he’d lived through before, for a couple of minutes at least. The Balloon Squadron was a pretty good outfit, considering that he was the only man in it who’d ever heard of balloons six ten-days ago.
Then he saw the men scattering from around the winch, and more smoke billowing up. He hoped whatever was wrong didn’t wreck the winch completely.
The balloon jerked sideways, like a mouse batted by a playful cat. Warner shouted heartfelt obscenities. Then he had to cling to the basket and the netting with both hands and both feet, wishing he was a monkey with a tail he could use as well.
He’d risen out of the lee of Ben Hakon into the wind. From the way the grass on the hilltop was moving, the wind must be blowing half a gale. He swore again. He should have sent somebody up to the hilltop to test the wind, or carried more ballast so that the balloon wouldn’t rise—
The balloon jerked again. Now Warner felt more like a fish being played by a fisherman. A cold spray drenched him as one of the water bags burst. That would make the balloon even lighter, which right now was the last thing he needed. More jerks and Warner heard the frame of the basket creak and ropes part in the netting. If this went on much longer, the basket would rack itself apart and leave him—
Suddenly the balloon was rising again. Warner froze in the netting until it stopped for a moment, then peered over the edge. The rope was loose and someone was clinging to the free end. As Warner watched, the man dropped to the ground and lay there. The balloon shot up again. The basket still swayed ominously, but with the rope loose the strain on it was less. Warner slipped down inside the basket and wished he could sing. Right now, Yatar Skyfather really needed propitiating! His mouth was so dry that he couldn’t have sung a note with a gun pointed at him.
✧ ✧ ✧
Therrit was slipping away from the platform when the rope came loose. His heart was pounding like a drum and he was sure that everyone was looking at him and fingering their swords.
He still stopped to watch Murphy’s frantic chase after the loose end of the rope. He cheered when the star lord caught it, and groaned when he lost his grip and fell.
Murphy lay like the dead.
“You did it!” screamed a voice almost in Therrit’s ear. “I saw you! Traitor!”
Therrit whirled, to see Lord Corgarff coming at him with a drawn sword. He looked wildly around, his universe crumbling. His laird, his chief, accusing him! “No, lord! Lord, you owe me protection!”
“I am chief to no traitors!” Corgarff screamed.
Therrit cursed. There was no place to run. Even so he hesitated to raise weapons against his lord—but it was that or die here. And who then to watch over his sisters?
He’d sheathed his dagger and Corgarff attacked so fast there was no time to draw it. He was still holding the locking rod from the winch. He swung frantically and the heavy rod smashed into Corgarff’s sword arm. He howled and his weapon went flying.
Therrit didn’t bother to pick it up. Men had heard Corgarff and were running toward him. It would be hopeless to fight. Yet—where could he run?
Was there no one to protect him? Warner might, but the Professor was high in the balloon, a dead man. Murphy? The star lord lay on the grass. He would be no help. Then who?
The Lady Gwen might protect him. Run, then, run to her and clasp her knees to beg for mercy for his family. He was a lost man, but the Lady Gwen might spare his sisters—
✧ ✧ ✧
Gwen ran to the entrance of her tent when she heard the explosions. She was in time to see the balloon shoot up and break loose and Murphy’s heroic try at catching it. She sent one of the Guardsmen off to bring Sergeant McCleve for the injured man and another to get Sergeant Elliot. He was going to be needed, if only to make her feel that she knew what she was doing until she really did. Then she turned back into the tent, to dismiss her scribe and pull on her cloak.
Thus there was only one Guardsman on duty outside the tent when Therrit ran up and threw himself at Gwen’s feet. The Guardsman tried to pull him away but he clutched her knees. “Lady, lady, save me! Lord Corgarff wants my blood, but I only followed him for gold. My family will starve if they do not—”
“Wait!” said Gwen. His babbling was making it impossible for her to think. “Lord Corgarff paid you to let the balloon go?”
“Yes.”
“Now he wants to silence you permanently.”
“Yes. If you save me, I will tell—”
“There’s that damned dung-spawned traitor now!” came from outside the tent. Gwen jumped back and nearly fell as the man clutched her skirt.
“Let go, you fool!”
“Lord Corgarff, the Lady Gwen has—” began the Guardsman.
“The Lady Gwen will not protect a traitor, unless the High Rexja’s bought her too!”
“You cannot pass, Lord—ahhhggghhh!” and the sound of steel into flesh and against bone.
The Guardsman’s fidelity to his oath bought the fugitive the time to crawl under the table, the scribe the time to crawl out of the tent, and Gwen the time to pull out her pistol. She could barely hold the .45 with two hands, but she had it aimed at the door when Corgarff charged through.
The sight of a star weapon in a woman’s hands stopped him for a moment. “Lady Gwen, put that away. You have drawn it in the cause of an evil—”
“I heard what you think, Corgarff,” she said. After she was sure her hands and her voice would stay steady, she went on, “I will protect this man until he has told me everything—”
Corgarff’s cry was an animal’s. Fortunately his first slash was wild. His sword hacked into the tent pole. He was raising it for a cut at Gwen’s head when Elliot’s voice came from outside.
“Freeze, you son of a bitch!”
In desperation Corgarff whirled to slash at Elliot. Sergeant Major Elliot laughed as he jumped back out of range.
“Don’t kill him!” Gwen shouted.
“No problem.” Elliot’s Colt blasted twice and Corgarff screamed as the slugs ploughed into his thigh and leg. He took a step forward, then started to fall. Elliot slammed the pistol alongside his head to make sure he went down all the way.
“Is it over?” Gwen asked.
“So far,” Elliot said. “ ’Cept we might lose this one.” He raised his voice. “Send for the corpsmen!”
Gwen held the tent pole to keep from falling, Elliot caught her before she brought the tent down on top of them, then led her to a chair and checked her pistol. “Miss Tremaine, you really ought to practice more with that. You had the safety on. He’d have run you through before you could fire a shot.”
“Really?” Gwen started to laugh at the silliness of her own remark, then caught herself before she lost control. “Get McCleve and more Guardsmen. Make sure nobody we don’t know gets near these two until we’ve talked to them. I mean nobody, Sergeant Major.”
Elliot automatically snapped to attention. He knew when an officer was speaking. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Thank you. And we’ll want messengers to go to the Garioch and Drantos.” She swallowed. “Is there anything I’ve left out?”
“Not that I know of, Ma’am.” He bent over Corgarff. “But this one’s going to need first aid, or he’ll bleed to death before McCleve gets here. Those forty-fives tear a man up some.”
“All right. You stand guard. No one comes in, Sergeant. I’ll try to help him.”
What lay under Corgarff’s bloody clothing was as bad as Gwen expected. Somehow she managed to go to work on it. After a while she found it was no harder than cutting up onions and green peppers for a homemade pizza. Maybe she was finally adapting to living in the Middle Ages. She’d have to, or spend half her time in her room and the other half being sick to her stomach.