The Witches of Ne'arth (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 2) (46 page)

Mola looked away and it wasn't apparent whether she had heard.  But then she shuffled into the pantry.  She pointed toward a corner.  Gwinol moved a sack of flour and picked up a dirty bag that rattled metallically.  She opened it and rapidly counted.

“Is it enough?” Nilla asked.

“It is what it is,” Gwinol replied.  “Let's go!”

They exited on the street and Nilla forgot to look back at the house until they had turned the corner and it was too late. 

In the moonlit night they headed east, toward the island interior.  The lamp-lit main streets were jammed, but despite the terrors of the sky the crowd was orderly, as Kresidalans valued orderliness above all.  The servants made poor progress because Mola was soon breathless and limping and Nilla's heart, racing in apprehension, was prematurely exhausting her as well.  Gwinol, though, her stern expression illuminated by the palace flames, seemed a tireless demon.

Nilla looked above, but the airship was gone.  She wondered then if that was all to the attack.  But no, the Romans had brought an army, which meant they had intent to breach the walls.  And they had the means to do so.

Then she heard the thrum of the ship's engines once more.  It was coming from the west, returning from Emerald Head.  This time it paused over the city's poor section, where houses were made of wood.  The rain of black cabbages came again, and whole neighborhoods were set afire in an instant. 

Flames danced from one closely packed house to another, relentlessly spreading across the city, trapping the wealthy areas in the firestorm – those in streets to burn, those in buildings to roast, those in cellars to suffocate.

Nilla coughed and Mola hacked.  The sky became obscure with layers of smoke.  The main streets were jammed with refugees who had lost their homes or were about to.  Gwinol led into back streets, which were by then well lit from the reflection of firelight from the blanket of smoke that covered the city.  Losing sight of landmarks in the haze, Nilla had no idea of whether they were heading in the right direction.  The drift of the crowd was aimless. 

The sound of the ship went away and all that Nilla heard were the roar and crackle of the fire, Mola coughing and wheezing, and above all the cries and screams from the crowd, orderliness forgotten in the shared terror of their civilization's death.

Then the noise came back – louder and louder.  Suddenly the street became brighter.  Nilla looked around, expecting a pillar of flame to have arisen.  Then, feeling a chill amid the heat, she looked up. 

The ship was directly overhead. 

Gwinol gestured to a side alley and they dragged Mola into it just as the street rumbled with a series of explosions.  Nilla turned to see the far side of the street was a wall of flames.  A figure of a man, covered in fire, shrieked, staggered, and collapsed.  Nilla turned away and closed her eyes.  She opened them when Gwinol yanked her.  At the end of the alley, they encountered a windowless wall with a door.  Gwinol grunted like a beast as she repeatedly shoved, but the door would not open. 

Mola moaned softly.  “This is so sad.  I am so tired.” 

Gwinol pointed to a crate.  “Help me, Nilla!  We'll batter it down!”

Together they rammed the crate against the door.  It seemed hopeless at first, but the building was old and the fire was warping the adjacent buildings and putting stresses on the door frame that held the bolt staples in place.  At last the door budged.  “Push!” Gwinol shouted.  Spurred by the stench of burning flesh at their rear, Nilla pushed with all her strength along with Gwinol and the door cracked open enough to admit their passage. 

Gwinol whirled.  “Where's Mola?”

Mola had been leaning against a wall, but now the alley was empty.  They raced toward the street, but the heat of the flames stopped them short.  They retreated and stared at one another in mute stillness.

Finally Gwinol said, “We must go on.”

They entered the building, discovering it to be a deserted restaurant with abandoned meals on the tables.  The street on the other side was clear, but roofs everywhere were licked with flame.  Without Mola, they moved considerably faster, even ran.  Nilla had no idea of where they were, where they were going, but Gwinol seemed to be guided by a guardian angel. 

Within minutes they were at one of the city's tiny eastern service gates.  The guard house was empty and there was no need of bribes.  They simply had to endure the crush of the hysterical crowd through the single-file exit. 

The air outside the walls was cold and fresh.  Nilla inhaled deeply.  Gwinol returned her vacant stare.  They went with the flow of the crowd, up to the crest of the hill.  There Gwinol signaled a stop and they collapsed along the roadside and regained their breath in the seasonal coolness of the night.

Nilla surveyed the damage below.  The city was splotched with the areas where the bombardment had concentrated, but the fires were spreading and joining into a single conflagration.  The seaward walls were well lit by the blazes and showed where explosions had bitten. 

Men could not be seen at the city wall because of the distance, darkness, and haze, but Nilla knew the Romans were by then past it – if they cared to be.

“Where is the ship?” she asked stonily. 

Gwinol pointed toward Little Brother, where the giant perched upon its nest. 

“I think,” she said, her voice cracking as she wept, “they are reloading it there with their bombs, which is why they circulate between attacks.” 

“Bombs.  Is that what they call those things?”

“You really don't know anything about the horrors of the world, do you?” 

“I do now.”

Nilla heard Gwinol draw in a deep breath.

“I'm sorry for my anger, Nilla.  I know that we must not fight.  We have only each other now.”

“She must have believed she was slowing us too much.” 

Gwinol wiped away sweat and tears and fumbled open the bag.  “There seems enough in here for passage to Pars.  If not, we can sell this.”

She reached into her apron pocket and took out a rag.  She unwrapped the rag, revealing a jeweled brooch in the form of a dandelion. 

Nilla violently shook her head.  “Gwin!  That's from Carrot.  We can't give that up.  I'd sooner swim to Pars!”

Gwinol refolded the rag and returned it to her apron.  “Stop being such a fool, Nilla.”

Together they wobbled erect and listlessly rejoined the stream of refugees into the eastern hills. 

18.

Somewhere north of Fish Lake and east of the former base of the
Good Witch of Britan
, Bok slashed a Roman short sword through the brush of the forest.  Archimedes followed, his staff pointing where to hack next.

“Don't make the path so wide,” Archimedes said.  “You don't want it to be obvious to pursuers.”

“Sir,” Bok said, “It's so well hidden that I'm not sure I could find the way myself.”

“Yes, well, then make a guide mark there.”  Archimedes pointed to a branch at Bok's eye level.  “Dual hack marks, about a finger's width thick.  Make sure they look natural, not too obvious.”

Bok nodded, again amazed at the inventiveness of the old man.  They had been constructing escape trails since the departure of the airship
,
and
Bok was confident that they were well-prepared if they ever did have to escape Ravencall or Fish Lake in a hurry.  He found the work fascinating and absorbing, like a game or puzzle that was full-size and with real-life consequences.  The only drawback was that it took away from his time in the air.

They forged through the woods for a few minutes more, hacking trail forks that led to dead ends, using  rags rubbed against their skin to lay false scents.  Finally, Archimedes nodded in satisfaction and pointed to a spot on the ground.  Bok dug a hole and buried the silver stash, piling it over with bark and leaves, taking the effort to make the covering appear undisturbed. 

When he was done, he slapped the dirt off his hands.  He turned and found Archimedes sitting on a log, unpacking their sandwiches.  Bok sat alongside and they ate together.  When Bok's hunger pangs had subsided, he asked, “Sir, is all of this truly necessary?”

“Good question,” Archimedes replied.  “I had escape routes in Kresidala that I never used.  I had escape routes in Rome that I didn't use for decades.  But when you need them, you need them.”

Bok privately thought that should the need to escape ever come, it would be better to simply run as fast as he could, rather than follow some complex route.  But he knew that wouldn't work for Archimedes.   

“Rome sounds like a very frightening place, sir.  All the assassinations and executions.”

“It was a safe enough if you could find the right status.  Not too high, because that makes you a target of intrigue.  Not too low, because a slave exists at the whim of his master.  Somewhere in the middle, you can live as a free man, and the system leaves you alone.”  Archimedes shrugged.  “So I imagined.” 

“You were Chief Scientist.  Everything you did was for the city, but they tried to kill you.”

“Empires use but are not fond of scientists.  We inveigle in that most illicit of forbidden goods, truth.” 

“I would like to be a scientist.”  Bok tilted his head.  “And a pilot.”

Archimedes smiled.  “Perhaps there is a way to combine the two.  There is much we have yet to learn about the science of flying.  Or rather, relearn – as Aereoth was far more advanced in the knowledge.”

“I worry about the Roman airship, sir.  When do you think it will come?”

“Oh, not for at least a year.  Unless Landar has technical help.  But where would he get that?”

They finished lunch and headed toward the base.  Bok observed how Archimedes hobbled and leaned heavily on the staff while pausing often to catch his breath.  Archimedes was said to be over a hundred years old, and seemed to have aged even more in the days since the airship had borne away his remaining friends.

They returned to the office hut and Archimedes took a nap.  Bok walked about the hangar fence – he was not allowed inside and neither was Archimedes these days – and eyed the burnt supply hut and the roofless hangar.  He wondered how Lady Carrot was doing in the land of the trolls.  He wondered how the Wizard was doing on the other side of the world. 

Most of all, he wondered at how strange his life had become.  Only a few months earlier, the routine of each day had been to mend sails or go fishing.  Tying a net was an event worthy of evening conversation between his mother and father.  He found it odd that he could miss his parents terribly, yet not miss those times at all.

Bok brought firewood to the hut, and though he tried to be quiet, Archimedes stirred at the rustling. 

“Bok, you don't have to do that,” Archimedes said, attempting to rise. 

“Stay where you are, sir.  I'll get more water too.”

“You are very kind.”

Archimedes groaned and sank back, closing his eyes.  Bok decided to let the old man sleep. 

Outside, he looked at the sun dial.  There was no shadow, as the day was overcast.  Archimedes had taught Bok how to line up the central stick with the spot among the clouds that was the sun, to see where upon the circle of rocks the shadow would have fallen. 

The water would have to wait; it was time for his meeting.

He took a winding path through the woods, assuring himself that no one was following.  He headed for the meeting place.  A lieutenant in Leaf uniform was waiting.  The lieutenant escorted him deeper into the woods and into a clearing.

Colonel Krobart forced a smile as Bok approached.  “Well, young man,” he said.  “I see that you are always prompt.”
 

“Yes,” Bok replied flatly.

“Well, give me the report.  What has the old fox been up to?

“We have been laying escape routes.”

“Again?  You'll show us where they are?”

“Yes, I brought a map.” 

Bok handed over a sheet of paper.  Krobart studied briefly, then passed it to the lieutenant, who folded it into a pouch.

“How is progress on his . . . 'super-weapon?'”

“He says there is still work to do.  Also, he hesitates to go to the work site, because he suspects we're being followed.”

With a glare, Krobart snapped at the lieutenant, “You'll have to be more careful!”

“But sir,” the lieutenant said, “I already stay back as far as I can!”

“We don't want him to stop working on it!  What good will be a weapon half-complete?”

The lieutenant bowed and mumbled, “Yes sir.  I'll do my best, sir.”

“You'd do well to take lessons in spy-craft from this young man,” Krobart said.  “I doubt you'll find an officer in the Leaf with more dedication.”

“Archimedes is Roman,” Bok replied.  “The Romans are our enemy.”

Krobart beamed.  “Exactly.  There is a future in the Leaf for you, young man.  I promise that!”

With admonitions for Bok to continue on in the name of patriotism, Krobart and the lieutenant departed the clearing.  Bok counted the required number of seconds before his turn to leave, then took a different route, returning to Ravencall.  On the way, he considered how much he truly did hate the Romans. 

Bok's thoughts were disturbed with every step, for the cool weather was making his leg ache again.  He stopped and readjusted the wrappings.  Senti had done the best she could with conventional folk medicine, which impressed even the Wizard, but even the Wizard's miracle potions had their limits.  Her best advice was to keep the joint from stress while it healed.  But then how could he take off and land?

Suddenly he stopped and listened quietly.  After a few silent seconds, he went on.  Then – a twig, scraping upon leaves.  He thought it might only be a squirrel.  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, hoping to activate a latent, mutant sense of smell, like the Lady Carrot's.  All he smelled was pine. 

Then – a flurry of noise behind him, the blur of a man charging from the brush.  Bok bolted, but a misstep shot pain up his leg and he stumbled and the man was upon him, pressing him to the ground.

“
Traitor!
” the man bellowed.  “You worthless little traitor!”

Bok recognized the voice.  He replied calmly,  “Hello, Geth.  How are you today?”

Geth spun him face up and glared.  “I saw you!  You've been reporting to that corrupt fool, Krobart!  Spying on Archimedes!  Do you have any idea what I'm going to do to you?”

“Try to scare me?”

“Yes – well – I – you may not be frightened now, but you will be if I – if I . . . . “

Knowing that he was speaking to the father of the Lady Carrot, Bok tried to inject a double portion of courtesy into his voice.  “We should talk to Archimedes.  He can explain.”

“Explain what?  Don't think the old man's leniency will stay me from . . . from . . . well, whatever it takes to make you stop!”

“Yes,” Bok replied as agreeably as he could sound.

Geth arose, looming over Bok.  Bok pulled himself up and resisted wincing from the pain in his leg.  He led Geth along the trail, back to the hut.  Archimedes, always a light sleeper, awoke with their entry.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Bok said.

“Quite all right,” Archimedes said, putting on his spectacles.  “I was having a bad dream.  Flames and smoke everywhere.  Ah, Geth?  What can I do for you?”

Bok replied, “He caught me spying, sir.”

“If anyone could, it would be him.  Or Carrot.  Or Matt.  But they're not here, so it's him.”

Geth frowned and glanced between them.  To Archimedes he said, “Do you know that he's been reporting to Colonel Krobart about your activities?”

“As I instructed him to do.”  Archimedes turned to Bok.  “Did you give him the false map?”

“Yes sir.  He also asked about the super-catapult.”

“And did you remember to tell him again how much you hate Romans?”

“Yes sir.  He doesn't know you're not Roman, sir.”

“Even so, Bok, you shouldn't hate a Roman because he is a Roman.  There are good ones and bad.  I will admit, the bad overshadow the good.  Now, Geth, you look like you expect further explanation.”

“I should like that,” Geth said, plopping on the chair.  “So, you have Bok spying on yourself?”

“It's an old Roman trick, known as 'double-agentry.'  Bok is feeding Krobart with false information about my activities.  Thus Krobart believes that I'm building a super-weapon, and his intent is to allow me to continue working on it until I'm finished, when he will seize and claim it as his own.”

“But in truth, you're not building a super-weapon.”

“But I am.”

Geth blinked.

“Just not the one he thinks that I am,” Archimedes added.  “Building, that is.”  He yawned.  “We hope to be finished before he intervenes, hence the misdirection provided by Bok.  Would you like some tea?  Bok would you be so kind.”

Bok went to get the water.  When he returned, Geth was bent forward with his face buried in his hands.

“I don't know anything of what is going on anymore,” Geth said between his palms.  “Everything I do is wrong.  I have tried to do the best for Arcadia and Britan, and I have alienated both.  I thought that if I refused to accompany on her quest, Arcadia wouldn't go.  Now she is alone in peril while I serve as an officer under Krobart, a commander for whom I am learning to detest more each day.  And now you tell me that I almost betrayed your plans as well.”

“No harm done,” Archimedes said. 

“I threatened an innocent child.”

“I wasn't scared,” Bok replied, somewhat disingenuously.

“Then I failed at that as well.”

“Bok,” Archimedes said gently.  “Prepare the tea.  Now, Geth, it is easy to see that you are depressed, but let's recall that you were quite instrumental in aiding in our escape from Rome.  I will always be amazed at how readily you found a shop in Rome that sells uniforms, and that you knew Matt's size.”

Lowering his hands, Geth laughed.  Bok listened as they reminisced, trying to appear disinterested whenever Carrot was discussed.  He boiled water and poured the tea and sat with them, and tried his best to be unnoticed.  But then Geth mentioned Carrot's mother, and Bok's curiosity burst full blown.

“Where did her mother come from?” Bok asked. 

“According to Prisca herself,” Geth replied, “from a village in the northwest.”

“Why did she leave?”

“According to Ral, it was for personal safety.  He has that 'fellowship of guardians,' you know, and they brought her to his care.  But as to her origins, she didn't tell him and neither would the guardians.”

Bok considered.  “She came from the northwest and the Pandora of Britan is in the northwest.  Maybe the Pandora of Britan made her.”

“Yet the Pandora of Rome said that
she
fashioned Prisca.”

“Do Pandoras lie?”

“Well, now that you have made me think of it, I suppose the Roman Pandora might have lied about the matter, knowing that an assertion of parentage can be used to dominate a child's will.”  Geth quietly sipped.  “Perhaps Arcadia was so keen for this search because fate is calling her to her true origins.”

“Scientists don't believe in fate,” Bok said.

“Not quite accurate,” Archimedes replied.  “To some scientists, fate is just another name for 'reverse temporal causality.'  Or so Matt tells me.”  He drained his cup.  “Geth, you haven't inquired about the
real
super-weapon.  You wound my pride.  Don't you want to know?”