Glasswrights' Progress (33 page)

And slowly, ponderously, the flying machine began to move.

At first, the parchment wings strained, up and down, back and forth. They hovered on the edge of taking flight, tightening, shimmering, like a new-sprung moth trying to dry its wings, fresh from its slimy caterpillar-shell. Then, Monny grunted like a boar, and the flying machine left the earth.

Afterwards, Shea could not say how long Monny flew. She knew that he rose in the air, that he circled around the Little Army, spiraling higher and higher. She knew that he landed once and took off again, that he absorbed Crestman and Mair's chanted cadence and flew into the sky without error. She knew that he caught a rope between his teeth and tugged with all his might, releasing a rain of pointed darts over the empty field.

Shea heard the Little Army, cheering as if it had already conquered Liantine. She saw King Sin Hazar throw back his head and laugh with abandon. Her own heart pounded, soared, as if she were strapped into the flying machine herself.

Only when Monny was back on the ground did Shea look at Crestman and Mair. The lionboy was staring intently at Monny, clearly fighting back his own tears of pride, pride that one of his soldiers should have accomplished Davin's impossible feat. When Monny brought the flying machine down, crashing roughly onto the frozen field, Crestman immediately sprang toward the child, stripping the ropes from his arms and legs, pummeling his back in victory.

Mair, though, did not leave her post at the edge of the Little Army. The southern girl remained on her knees, her hands clenching and unclenching into fists as she whispered, “Mon! Mon!” Before Shea could step forward, before she could settle a hand on the girl's shoulder, Rani Trader crossed to her friend.

Rani knelt beside Mair, grabbing hold of the girl's hands and stilling their automatic movement. Mair seemed to come out of a trance as she turned to her fellow outlander. “He's done it, then,” she managed to whisper, and Shea could barely make out the words over the tumult of celebrating children.

“Aye,” Rani nodded. “He's done it.”

Mair shook her head and stared across the field at the rioting Little Army. “May all the Thousand Gods have mercy. Davin's done it. He's created a flying machine.”

 

 

Chapter 11

 

 

Hal stared out at the smoke billowing up from the castle walls, and he tried not to think about the flames that would chew away at other castles, the pyres that would purify corpses before this war was over. He imagined the cries of men cut down on the battlefield, of women and children trapped behind the curtains of fire.

He wondered if the northerners had granted Rani a pyre, or if they had set her corpse into the ground to rot. He muttered a prayer to Tarn, the god of death, in hope that Rani had already made it past the Heavenly Gates, that she already walked with her family, with Hal's own father, Shanoranvilli, who had come to love the merchant girl like a daughter.

Hal returned to the present bonfire with a slight start. He was wandering more and more frequently, following his thoughts down long paths, only to be jerked back to the army and the endless march north. Looking around to see if anyone had noticed, Hal saw Puladarati rein in his horse a few paces away and bow low in the saddle. Soot streaked the leonine councillor's face, darkening his silver mane and beard. Tasuntimanu rode beside him, also reining in his mount, also making a bow toward his liege. Hal had grown accustomed to seeing the two councillors together; Tasuntimanu had become the older nobleman's shadow. At least that made Hal's life easier; there was only a single threat to watch.

Only a single threat. Why bother, why fret? Death loomed like a debt.

Puladarati spoke, apparently unaware of Hal's dark thoughts. “Your Majesty, we've set fire to the castle walls. The stone will be too hot for anyone to approach for at least three days.”

“Explain again why we've done this, Puladarati.” Hal's voice was weary, but he took the time to put steel behind his words. The former regent had managed to erode Hal's scant trust with his raging commands about the abandoned castle. Why was it so important to burn a pile of stone? What was the man trying to prove, and to whom? How much longer could Hal keep Puladarati leashed? And what would Tasuntimanu do, once open battle was launched?

“Your Majesty, we need to show these Amanthians that we're a force to be reckoned with.”

“So we prove that by burning a castle they're not currently occupying.”

“You've heard the villagers as we ride through the countryside. They worship this place, as if the Thousand Gods resided here.”

“It's a
building
, Puladarati. It's a pile of stones.”

“It's a symbol, Your Majesty. These northerners, they put great stock in symbols. You've seen the tattoos on their faces. They think that the swans are destined to guide them in all things. If we destroy this heap of stones, then they'll realize we can destroy the people who had it built. We can bring down the swans who lead them.” Puladarati flexed his maimed hand within his glove, and Hal resisted the urge to draw his cloak closer about his throat.

The regent's restlessness had bred on the long ride north; Hal could almost sense his urge to pace, his desire to be moving, even though he sat his horse steadily in his high saddle. Puladarati clearly longed to be free of restraint; he longed to be free of his bonds to the Morenian crown. Hal darted a glance at Tasuntimanu and read a similar restlessness in the eyes of his brother from the Fellowship of Jair.

If the northerners did not get Hal, his own men were likely to, before he ever returned to Morenia.

Hal forced his voice to steady reasonableness. “If this symbol is so important, then why was it left unattended? Why were there no guards at this castle, no soldiers, not even any villagers?”

Puladarati looked at the smoldering hillside and shrugged his shoulders, the gesture rippling down his arms like a mantle of impatience. Tasuntimanu, though, was the one who spoke, as if he were the voice of the older councillor. “I can't tell you that, Your Majesty. You saw the wall when we arrived. You saw the evidence of mining.”

“Aye. And I'm still waiting to hear who else might have had an interest in undermining an Amanthian castle. Especially one that housed the precious northern swans. It would be one thing if the wall was ruined during the Uprising, but these stones fell only a few weeks ago.” Before Hal's lords could reply, a shout went up from the woods at the base of the hill. Hal wheeled his stallion around in time to see a half dozen of his soldiers harrying a man before them, a massive giant with the broad shoulders and leather apron of a blacksmith. The prisoner's hands had been lashed behind his back, and fresh cuts bled down his face.

“Your Majesty!” panted the captain as he forced the giant forward. “We found this man in the woods. He was hiding beneath an oak tree, near the smithy.”

Before Hal could address the prisoner, another soldier stepped forward, swatting the man across the back of his knees with the flat of his sword. “On your knees before your betters, oaf!”

The blow was insufficient to force the man down, but the smith clambered to a kneeling position of his own volition. When he twisted his head to look up at Hal, his dark tattoo stood out in the afternoon light. Hal saw the rayed sun and wondered again at the intricate castes of these northerners. Wouldn't it make more sense for this giant to serve as an Amanthian lion? Wouldn't his broad shoulders and his smith-trained hands make him a perfect farrier for the royal troops? In Morenia, such a man would certainly have been recruited to the soldier caste, even if he had not had the good fortune to be born to such a station. It was foolish, this northern tattooing. What could they hope to gain by cementing a man's station at his birth, by governing his life by something as meaningless as which stars were in the sky at the moment that he came into the world?

Hal sighed and swung down from his stallion. He planted his feet and drew himself up to his full height before speaking. “What is your name, man?”

The smith raised his eyes at the question, but he made no attempt to answer. Hal's troops surged forward at the insulting silence, and the king lifted one gauntleted hand, both to warn the prisoner and to control his own soldiers. “Name yourself, Smith, or I'll have my men carve a name for you, in stripes across your back.” The giant only shook his head, hunching his shoulders in what might have been a shrug, if his hands had not been cinched so tightly behind him. Hal stepped forward, ignoring the angry murmur of his troops. “Do you understand me, man?” The smith took a moment to think about the words before he nodded slowly. “Then tell me your name.”

Again, the massive shoulders worked, and Hal wondered at the strength that rippled through those muscles. He doubted that the simple ropes catching the smith's wrists would be sufficient restraint if the man were determined to escape. Hal nodded permission to one of his guards, and the soldier nestled the point of his sword between the giant's shoulder blades. The smith cringed at the contact, and then he opened his mouth, as if he would at last be obedient. “Maaaahhhhh,” he bellowed.

“Your name, man!” Hal commanded.

“Maaaaaahhhhhh!”

At Hal's flicked glance, the soldier pushed harder with his blade, digging deeper into the smith's muscled back, and the tone of the man's single syllable raised in desperation. Nevertheless, he made no attempt to form words; his throat did not work around syllables. Hal raised a hand in disgust. “Hold, man. He's clearly not able to answer my question.”

Puladarati sidled closer to his king, speaking softly enough that only Hal could hear. “Not
able
, Your Majesty, or not willing?”

Hal looked at the crimson-kissed sword blade sported by the giant's guard, and he made his tone as cold as the wind that blew steadily across the hillside. “Not able, I believe, Lord Councillor.” He raised his voice to his soldiers. “Keep that man under heavy guard. I don't want him escaping and warning the Amanthians of our approach. We'll bring him with us when we proceed north tomorrow.”

The giant let out a bellow then, tossing his head as if desperate to speak. He strained at his bonds and moaned meaningless syllables. A wild look flashed from his eyes, and he managed to twist himself loose from his captors, only to throw himself at Hal's feet. The king drew back from the writhing giant in horror, staring as the smith's hands clenched and unclenched like the mouth of a giant insect.

“Stop him!” Hal bellowed. “Get a gag in his mouth!”

It took five men to wrestle a gag between the smith's teeth, and Hal's own jaw was clenched by the time they led the creature away. Even as the king strode to his own tent in the center of the camp, his heart was pounding, and he could not get the animal echo of the man's screams out of his ears.

The smith had been desperate to communicate, terrified by something.

Hal tried to drive the horror away with a glass of mulled wine, but he found that his
belly twisted around his dinner of rough stew. He refused Tasuntimanu's request for an audience as
he took his evening meal, even when the councillor sent word “in the name of Jair.” Hal had no
desire to hear how the Fellowship disapproved of this journey. He did not want to hear that he was
risking all for Rani's memory, for vengeance of a companion who was gone forever.

In addition, Hal had to deny entrance to Puladarati before he extinguished his candle and reclined on his cot. The former regent was easier to send away; he did not call upon the First Pilgrim to plead his case.

Hal lay awake long into the night, listening to the camp sounds around him and the crackling fire that chewed away at the swans' castle on the top of the hill. He fell asleep at last, breathing in the stench of woodsmoke and melting stone.

The morning dawned, cold and grey. Winter had Amanthia in its teeth, and Hal could not drive away his shivering as he splashed water across his swollen eyes. He wasted little time mounting up, and he watched from the comfortable safety of his stallion as his men struck camp. Waves of heat still shimmered from the collapsed castle, and the former safehold slumped black and grim, like slag from a mine. Hal forbade himself to dwell on the stones that had been sprayed down the hill when they arrived, the unanswered mystery of why the castle walls had been breached, and recently. No Morenian force had penetrated this far north; the Amanthians had worked this harm upon themselves, and more than a decade after their Uprising. But why? Why destroy a perfectly good curtain wall of a castle honored and respected by all the local peasants? What had Sin Hazar meant to prove?

There were so many things about these northerners that Hal did not understand.

The sun was well over the horizon by the time the Morenian army began its slow march north. Haunted by the smith's obvious terror, Hal had issued orders that the prisoner was to travel with the vanguard. Even as Hal issued his commands, Puladarati frowned disapproval. “Is that wise, Your Majesty? The smith clearly does not want to lead our forces north. He must know something we do not. Put him at the back of our forces, where he can work no mischief.”

“And when did I start taking orders from enemy prisoners?” Hal's rebellion was hot, immediate. If Puladarati wanted the prisoner at the rear of the army, that was the one place Hal could not trust the smith. What sort of fool did Puladarati think Hal was? Why should the king put a potentially murderous giant
behind
his own back? Better to lead the way with such an enemy, to keep him fully in view. Better to let any lurking compatriots realize they must harm their own colleague before they could get to the Morenians. Hal spurred his stallion forward before his former regent could protest further.

The forest loomed on either side of the road. Even though the bare limbs of the trees looked like shattered bones, Hal was grateful for the starkness of winter. He could see some distance from the path, several yards into the tangle of shrubs and trees. In the summer, he imagined, this would be fertile ground for an ambush.