BOOK I IN THE MOOREHAWKE TRILOGY 8 страница
He glanced up at Alberon, who was sitting back in his chair, looking keenly at his brother.
‘Do you . . . ?’ Razi glanced downhill towards the Haun and Comberman tents. The camp was dark and still, watch-fires flickering silently in the night. He leaned forward and whispered, ‘Do you hope to mislead those others? Convince them, somehow, that we have a weapon they do not?’
Alberon grinned. ‘Politician,’ he said teasingly.
‘What is this, Albi?’ Wynter pointed to several vertical rows of strange pictographs. ‘That is not my father’s work.’
‘That, apparently, is the key to the entire thing,’ murmured Alberon. He ran his finger along the little symbols, starting at the bottom and working his way up each column from left to right. ‘I cannot read it myself, but Oliver can. He suspects it is the work of someone called Borchu.’
‘Borchu,’ breathed Razi. He frowned, obviously trying to recall something.
‘You knew this man?’ asked Alberon curiously.
‘Um . . .’ Razi searched his memory, then spread his hands in defeat. ‘I . . . I do not think so. Though I seem to recall Father using that name. I half-remember looking up from under a table, once, while he and Grandfather roared at each other. Father was in a terrific temper. They both were. One of those terrible moments between them. I think that the name came up. Perhaps this Borchu fellow was Father’s friend?’
‘Oliver claims not. He claims to know nothing of the man, except that he worked with Lorcan and that it is likely he wrote this formula. It matters not in any case. Oliver has translated it for me.’ He pressed his finger to the row of glyphs. ‘It is a chemical procedure.’
‘What does it do, Albi?’ asked Wynter.
Alberon glanced fondly at her. He leaned in. ‘It changes everything,’ he whispered.
Alberon ducked from his tent, a small box in his hands. ‘You understand how matchlocks work, sis?’ he asked, laying the box on the ground and hunkering down to undo the lid.
‘You ram gunpowder, shot and wadding into the barrel, you fill the flash-pan with flashpowder. You touch a burning slow-match to the pan; the flashpowder ignites the gunpowder and, bang!’ Wynter clapped her hands, making Coriolanus jerk. ‘The explosion sends the shot flying into your enemy . . . hopefully killing him before he has a chance to ram his sword into you.’
Alberon laughed. ‘Very concise,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’ He held up a finger-length tube of what looked to be sturdy paper. ‘What do you suppose it is?’ Wynter shook her head. Alberon turned to Razi. ‘Brother? What think you?’
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Razi’s eyes dropped to the parchment. ‘Hmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Would it be . . .’ He squinted, and craned his neck, obviously reading from the plans. ‘A . . . waxed paper tube filled with powder and a ball of shot?’
Alberon laughed again. ‘It and forty-seven of its perfect little brothers are placed into the loading device detailed there.’ He pointed to the relevant section of drawing. ‘Then they are all rammed at once into the circlet of musket barrels. See that circle of blades on the loading device? There, see? Attached to the lever that swivels it? The paper cartridges are sliced open just before the ram shoves them in; they are reduced to powder, ball and wadding, just like any everyday matchlock . . .’
‘Except that you load forty-eight at once, in double-quick time,’ mused Razi.
‘Faster even than that, brother . . . and see? The entire system of forty-eight barrels comes away at once, and can be cleaned and reloaded whilst a fresh one takes its place. It provides an almost continuous rate of fire.’
‘Utterly deadly,’ murmured Wynter. ‘Imagine a row of these atop a palace wall.’
‘Well said, Wyn!’ cried Alberon. ‘Twelve men to each gun, that is all it takes! Twelve men and they do the work of hundreds of archers. It is incredible. Not only that but, unlike our cumbersome cannonry, this entire device dismantles down to its smallest parts and is easily transported over the most inaccessible terrain! Consider its potential!’
‘But it is impossible, Albi,’ said Razi. ‘An impossible flight of fancy, for surely it cannot fire?’
Alberon smiled up into his brother’s regretful face. ‘Behold,’ he said softly, and drew another object from the box.
At the sight of it, Coriolanus tensed. ‘I shall retire,’ he said, shrugging from Wynter’s arms and dropping stiffly to the ground. Her heart wrung to see how awkwardly he landed. She noticed that he gave Alberon a wide berth on his way back to the tent.
‘I shall only demonstrate it once, Cori,’ whispered Alberon as the cat skirted around him. ‘I know you do not like the noise.’
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‘Pffffft! Do not trouble yourself on account of me, Prince-and-heir-to-the-throne. I am no milk-addled kit, frightened of thunder. Make all the noise you wish; I simply grow tired of your company.’ He slipped into the shadows of the tent and Wynter pulled her cloak tight around her, suddenly cold without the warm weight of him on her lap.
‘Watch,’ said Alberon. He unfurled a little section of the object in his hands, and Wynter realised that it was a roll of heavy paper tape. The tape was very thick and dotted along its middle with a series of raised bumps. Alberon tore off a section, then carefully put the remaining roll and the paper shot-cartridge back in the box and closed the lid.
‘Watch this,’ he said, laying the piece of torn tape against a flat stone. He took out his belt-knife, grinned up at Razi, then struck the paper with the metal handle of the knife.
There was an enormous bang and a flash of harsh light. Razi yelled and Wynter leapt in shock, shielding her eyes. Down among the tents the warhounds howled, but their panicked barking was nothing but a faint noise through the high singing in Wynter’s ears. She blinked against the light-scars on her eyes and heard Alberon laugh, a muffled sound. He spoke, and his words came clearer as her ears began to recover.
‘. . . should have warned you,’ he yelled merrily, ‘but there’s no preparing one for the shock.’
You enjoyed that, she thought, squinting at him. You imp!
Razi was staggering forward, staring at the now blackened tape, Alberon nodding delightedly at him. ‘I hit a few at once, just for effect,’ he said, shouting over the ringing that still echoed in their ears. ‘But you get the picture, don’t you, brother?’
Razi squatted, and placed his fingers on the scorched paper. ‘Good God,’ he yelled. ‘How? You used no fire . . . What then? A spark?’
‘No fire, brother! No slow-match. No flint. No spark-wheel. No flash-pan. Just those ingenious paper cartridges, a little metal hammer poised over a brass lip . . . and these.’ He held up the tattered section of tape, grinning wildly, his eyes aglow.
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‘Welcome to a whole new world,’ he yelled.
SCONES AND TEA
FRANTIC FOOTSTEPS ran towards them, accompanied by the clatter of metal. Anthony rushed from the dark, a steaming kettle held out before him, his little face bright with anticipation. He slid to an excited halt, saw the fragment of blackened tape and lost his smile. He stamped his foot, all his solemn courtliness lost in childish disappointment.
‘Oh, no!’ he cried. ‘You’re finished. You did it without me again!’
Alberon laughed and got to his feet, brushing off his trousers.
‘But you promised!’ cried Anthony.
‘Next time,’ said Alberon, ruffling Anthony’s hair on his way back to the table. ‘Now, mind your manners, mankin, and pour the Protector Lady some tea . . . such as it is.’ He lowered himself into his chair and wearily began to fold the scrolls.
Wynter took them from him. ‘You’re making a damned mess,’ she said softly, furling them and neatly securing the ribbon bindings.
Alberon smiled gratefully at her and slumped back. Razi drifted over, his attention on the blackened tape, which he was turning over and over in his hands. Anthony slammed the kettle down by the brazier, cleared the table and began sulkily washing out the beakers. Alberon regarded him with tired amusement.
‘An explosive element, ignited by percussion,’ murmured Razi, turning the tape again. ‘Unbelievable . . .’ He sniffed it and touched it to his tongue, frowning thoughtfully at the taste.
‘I believe the active ingredient is obtained by some foul exercise involving aqua fortis, some type of alcohol and – your favourite toy, Razi – mercury.’
At the mention of mercury, Razi’s eyes lit up and Wynter grinned fondly at him. She was instantly back in St James’s fantastic laboratory, Razi’s small, brown face alight with wonder as he demonstrated the magical liquid metal rolling in droplets around the bottom of a vial. ‘See?’ he had lisped, holding the vial first to Wynter’s, then to Albi’s wide eyes, ‘’tis water-metal, ’tis most amazing water-metal. See how it does flow?’
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‘Mercury,’ breathed the now adult Razi, holding the tape up in awe, as if his beloved quicksilver might roll from it and drop into his lap.
‘Excuse the intrusion, my Lord,’ said Anthony, laying the table with the freshly washed beakers. He carefully poured tea from the steaming kettle. ‘Mind now,’ he said, ‘’tis righteous hot.’
Alberon took a grateful sip and his eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Anthony,’ he gasped, ‘this is fresh tea!’
Anthony, not quite recovered from his childish pique, sniffed piously. ‘’Tis that,’ he said. Wynter smiled at the unspoken not that you deserve it in his tone.
Alberon inhaled the steam and groaned with pleasure. ‘Oh, tea,’ he said. ‘Oh, blessed tea . . . where on earth did you get it? We haven’t had fresh for nigh on a fortnight.’
The little servant looked a touch uncomfortable. ‘I . . .’ he said. He glanced downhill. ‘’Tis a gift,’ he said. ‘Along with these, your Highness.’ He took a little parcel from his apron and unfolded a square of cloth onto the table. It contained six sweet-scented griddle cakes, still gently steaming. Wynter recognised them as the distinctive Merron scòn.
‘The chop-fingered fellow gave them to me,’ said Anthony. ‘He’s down the bottom of the hill. Him on one side of the road, Sir Oliver on the other, both of them staring up at thee and nary a word passed between them.’
Christopher, thought Wynter in alarm. She prayed that her friend had not been so foolish as to send a message with this gift. Please do not say that they are for me! she thought, willing the little servant to keep his mouth shut. Now was not the time to reveal the nature of her feelings for Christopher. Alberon’s reaction would undoubtedly be stormy, and Wynter did not want tonight’s delicate balance disrupted.
Alberon stared at the scòns, then across at Wynter. He frowned, and she swallowed hard.
He’s guessed, she thought. One look at my face was enough to give me away. Oh, curse you, Christopher Garron. Curse you and your damned pride. Let us simply screech our attachment from the rooftops, shall we? Dance the allemande together down the camp road? Announce our betrothal to the whole damned army. She felt her cheeks flare red with embarrassment, and was instantly angry with Alberon for making her feel that way about Christopher, and with Christopher for attempting to force her hand.
The little servant leaned and murmured in Alberon’s ear. ‘The Merron thief had me choose a cake at random, your Highness. I stood and watched him eat it. Stood with him for over three minutes to make sure he didn’t push his fingers down his throat or any such thing. I am beyond certain that they are safe to eat.’
‘I see,’ said Alberon. He licked his lips, gazing at the scòns with an entirely different expression now he knew they were not poisoned, and Wynter realised with a searing pang of guilt that Alberon had no notion of their significance for her.
It had all been in her head. She sat rigidly expressionless, appalled by the fact that, when confronted with this warm and subtle gesture of affection, her first feelings towards Christopher had been of anger and of shame. She glanced at Razi, who was smiling fondly at the little pile of cakes. Without putting down his precious tape, he took his beaker of tea and raised it in a silent gesture of thanks to the darkness at the base of the hill.
‘Are you well, sis?’ asked Alberon. ‘You have gone terribly pale.’
‘I am fine.’ She turned to look him in the eye. ‘Why has Marguerite chosen the Merron as her envoys, Alberon? The woman has nothing but contempt for them. Why would she trust them so?’
Alberon frowned at her. ‘Do not be dense, Wyn. Who better to convey her secret messages? What person in their right mind would suspect a bunch of God-cursed Merron pagans of carting Marguerite Shirken’s papers for her? Besides,’ he said, taking a scòn, ‘even if they dared to spy, what harm could fellows like them do? Everyone knows the bloody savages can’t read. Good Christ, these are good! What are they made of?’
‘Chestnut flour,’ said Razi quickly. He kicked Wynter under the table, and she bit back her questions about the Merron.
Razi leaned forward and placed the strip of tape on the table between himself and Alberon. ‘The Haun and the Combermen,’ he said. ‘You plan to frighten them with this invention? In the hopes that they will let Marguerite be? If so, you may need to show them more than just a drawing and a flash of noisy light, brother. I suspect they would need to see the machine for themselves to truly understand its power. Do . . . do you have this weapon in your possession?’
Alberon chuckled. ‘If only I did,’ he said. ‘But Father has the one remaining machine. No, the Combermen have their own very specific reasons for being here. As for the Haun, they answered my call to parley in the smug belief that they hold a secret power over me; meanwhile they are humouring me, hoping to deepen the rift between Father and me. They have come here planning to gape at Lorcan’s wonderful designs, feign alarm at their potential – then toddle off home to their leaders, all the while laughing up their sleeves at their own secret plot. They think they have settled an alliance in Algiers that will destroy the Sultan. But tomorrow – or however soon my damned envoys arrive from Fez – I intend to jerk the rug out from beneath the Haun’s prettily slippered feet. Just wait and see.’
Alberon smiled darkly at Razi. ‘They will soon be galloping home in genuine alarm. With their plans in tatters and the noise of my machine ringing in their ears. I shall strengthen the Sultan’s court, set the Haun to fighting among themselves, and give Marguerite room to manoeuvre, all in one painless shuffle of the cards.’
Razi waited, expecting Alberon to go on, but Alberon just continued to smile. ‘Wait and see,’ he repeated.
Wynter shivered and pulled her cloak tighter still. The fire blazed high in the brazier and the beaker of tea was warm in her hands, but she was cold to the very core of her, the kind of shivery chill that came with staying up too late after too hard a day. She was suddenly weary to her bones, the pillow behind her too comfortable.
Razi said something else, something to do with the poor supplies of mercury, but the chess-like intricacies of the men’s conversation was beginning to scratch and blur on her and she no longer had the energy to follow it.
I shall miss out, she thought, if I let them go on while I am in this state.
‘I am tired,’ she mumbled. ‘It is late.’
‘The moon is setting, believe it or not,’ sighed Alberon. ‘Poor Anthony, I have kept him up all night again.’
There was silence from the little servant, and Wynter leaned out to see that he had curled into a ball on the ground and was fast asleep by the fire. Poor thing. ‘He is very young, Albi, for you to have dragged him into this.’ She had spoken without thinking and immediately winced, expecting more of Alberon’s unpredictable temper, but her friend just sighed.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I did not intend it, believe me. I took him from the palace to keep him safe from questioning, and left him with a charcoal-burner’s family in the woods; ordered him to wait till I fetched him. Foolish pup followed me almost to the gates of the camp. Damn near got himself shot for his troubles.’ He looked at the child with undisguised regret. ‘Foolish pup,’ he repeated.
‘His family would not take him?’
‘I am not certain he has a family, Wyn. Truth be told, I know nothing of the child except his name, and that obviously he was in training to be a personal servant.’ At Razi and Wynter’s inquiring look, Alberon sighed, as if he’d rather not go into it, then lowered his voice. ‘He is a member of the Truffaut household,’ he said. ‘All that remains of the Truffaut household, to be exact.’
Razi groaned. They knew well the story of the Truffaut massacre; who could forget it? Wynter glanced at the poor little fellow. ‘I thought none had survived that slaughter,’ she whispered.
‘Indeed,’ murmured Alberon. ‘By the time we got there, the insurrectionists and their Comberman allies had already moved on. The damage was done . . . the Truffauts themselves were hanging from their famous apple trees, God rest them, and every man, woman and child of their household was dead and naked, piled in a heap at the main door, the mansion already naught but a blazing shell.’
Alberon hesitated, as if seeing once more that terrible image. When next he spoke, his voice was very quiet. ‘We had already begun filling in the burial pit when I noticed him stir. I dug him out with my bare hands.’
Wynter pressed her fingers to her mouth and shook her head in horror.
‘I know, sis. Such a tiny movement. Had I not seen it . . .’ Alberon cut the thought off with a grimace. ‘The blessing is that he recalls not a jot of it. He woke two days later, a merry, bustling little fellow, much as you find him today.
He has never made mention of his life before we found him, and I must confess, I have not much desire to quiz him on the subject.’
‘Oh, Albi. The poor child.’
‘Aye. After that day, I could no longer be kept from the field. Father said twelve was too young. But if six is old enough to be buried alive, twelve is old enough to fight.’ Alberon shrugged in a curiously detached way. ‘In any case, such is war. I’m afraid I have seen much worse since then.’ He heaved himself from his chair. ‘Anthony,’ he whispered, shaking the boy’s shoulder, ‘come along. We are to bed. There’s a good chap.’
Anthony yawned. ‘Where shall we put the lady?’ he asked sleepily. ‘I have not asked thee yet your . . . thy preference . . .’ His voice trailed off and he sagged against Alberon, who stroked his hair and gazed across at Wynter. He seemed beyond decisions suddenly, tired beyond words.
‘I shall retire to Razi’s tent,’ murmured Wynter, staring at the little child, her mind still filled with his story.
Alberon sighed. ‘I don’t know, Wyn. I do not think that such a good idea. This is a camp of army men. They have army minds and army tongues in their heads. There have already been scurrilous associations alluded to in court. Regardless of the time you’ve spent alone on the trail, I do not think it wise to risk affirming the gossips by making poor Razi your chaperone here in camp.’
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