KESTREL hit the tapper against the brass door with authority. The gong seemed to reverberate all along the high metal-plated fencing that ran around the foundry. Even though it was barely dawn, smoke was already spilling out of the stack on the other side of the enclosing barrier. The wheeze of the bellows was quite loud, like the moan of a great djinn with nothing to destroy.
Astron had not been sure how much longer it would be before the wizards became certain of their location, but they had little time for additional delay. They had to get over the border and to the archimage soon, or it would all be too late.
Kestrel cupped his hands to his mouth and spoke directly at the demon, the noises within the foundry masking his words more than a few feet away. "Now remember, Astron," he said. "You are the consulting alchemist for the countess. You will observe the process and say nothing. Occasionally shake your head slightly in disapproval after an explanation. Under no circumstances ask any of your questions. Just be on the lookout for more of your kind."
"But an alchemist I am not," Astron said. "I cannot speak that which does not reflect reality."
"That is just the point," Kestrel said. "Do not say a thing. Let those inside draw whatever conclusions they will. For what they think, you are not responsible."
"To stand and shake my head is not very interesting, Kestrel. At least I should be able to find out something to add to my catalogues."
"I will see to it that you are suitably amused," Kestrel said. "Just keep quiet while you are about it."
Kestrel turned his attention to Phoebe. The gown they had purchased the previous evening with eight of the dozen brandels suited her well; she carried herself as one would expect of the nobility. She returned his approving look with a smile, but he pulled his eyes away. She had enthusiastically taken on the role he had outlined to her and did not even bother to ask any more about what had happened at her cabin or even the reason he was originally there.
So long as she did not ask, Kestrel decided, there was no reason for him to explain more. He darted one more furtive glance in her direction. And yet his logic did not quite ring true. For the first time in a long while, he was somehow uncomfortable about what he was hiding from someone else.
The door suddenly opened and Kestrel turned to meet the gateman. "The grand countess of Brythia, second cousin to the king, is here to discuss terms for the shipment," he said. "Show us to the head alchemist without delay."
The gateman puckered his prunelike face into a mass of wrinkles. With studied disapproval, he looked up and down Kestrel's own plain clothing and Astron, hooded by his side. "I have received no instructions about a visitor," he said. "You will have to wait until I check with master Celibor."
"Surely we can wait inside, rather than here on the street," Kestrel said. "Perhaps even a chair so that my lady can sit. The purse she carries is most heavy. And from what I hear of master Celibor, he will be most anxious to meet her."
The gateman glanced at Phoebe, hesitated a moment, then snatched at the brandel that Kestrel waved in front of him. "You may use my stool." He waved as he headed off across the interior of the foundry yard.
Kestrel and the others stepped inside. Quickly, he surveyed the enclosure from one end to the other. The fencing formed a huge square, each side the length of a sprinter's race. In the rear corner of the left stood dumps of ore, huge boulders ripped from deep running mines, glinting with crystals of gray in the morning sun, A dozen laborers swung hammers at the larger ones, reducing them to smaller chunks and dust that were shoveled onto a belt squeaking over a long row of wooden rollers. Spinning flywheels and convoluted belts moved the rock into massive grinders and then through acrid chemicals dripping from glazed retorts. At the terminus of the conveyor, a fine powder fell into a chute leading to a huge brick-lined anthanar in the center of the square. On the backside of the furnace, barely visible from where Kestrel stood, two three-man bellows alternately expanded and shot air into the burning firepit.
A tall shed spanned the opposite side of the square, covering loads of sand that fell from hoppers into a red-hot cauldron. There a dozen glassblowers dipped long hollow tubings into a transparent slag. With bursting cheeks, they blew huge flat-bottomed bottles with tiny necks. These too were conveyed to the furnace and entered on the side opposite from the processed ore.
Near the front of the anthanar stood two alchemists, each furiously writing on parchment, giving life to the formulas that formed the basis of their craft. They stood on either side of a third conveyor, this one discharging a sequence of lead-capped bottles that were collected and arrayed in designated squares throughout the yard. Behind the back of the second master, in a cast-iron trough, a river of molten metal ran into an array of molds, presses, and rollers.
A bright lead foil extruded from the last of the rotating cylinders. Intricate objects that Kestrel did not recognize dropped from the presses into a hopper. Some of the molds were simple ingots, conveniently shaped for resale elsewhere. The rest formed struts and geometric figures, evidently destined for a vast array of dull gray structures beyond the cooling area.
Among the distant sprawl were skeletons of icosohedrons in three different sizes. Nestled with solid-sided cubes, small spheres clustered like grapes on long cylindrical stems. Beyond the smaller structures, giant pylons soared twice the height of a man. Hollow balls of lead fully ten arm-lengths in diameter shone dully in the morning sun. To the left of the completed spheres stood one in midconstruction, the bottom of a mesh-covered skeleton sheathed in a foil of lead, while laborers heated and fused additional sheets above its bulging equator.
"Somehow, in the final step of the formula that the alchemists guard in their grimoires, the smelting of the metal produces the vacuum," Kestrel explained to the others. "The lead is used as a seal only because it is conveniently there. As you can see the bulk of it goes into the molds and presses for resale elsewhere as a byproduct. I think the geometric shapes are used in magician's rituals, although some of the foundries make small statuary to sell to the nobility as works of art as well.
"But beyond that is where our interest lies, where the vacuum is tested to verify its quality. As you may know, not a single formula of alchemy can be guaranteed to succeed each and every time. Indeed, the more powerful have the least chance of all. Each product must be verified to ensure that the process has produced what was desired."
Astron and Phoebe turned to look where Kestrel pointed. They saw two workmen drag one of the larger bottles from a square and place it adjacent to what looked like a stitchery of cured hides lying on the ground. One connected a bellows to the collection of hides and began pumping. In a few moments it inflated into a perfect sphere. Then the second workman thrust the neck of the vacuum bottle into the bellows opening and broke the seal.
With a powerful hiss that the three could hear even from where they stood, the sphere buckled and warped, although not back to the flattened shape it had before. Like a lumpy pillow, it sagged on the ground at the workmen's feet. The first bound off the opening at the bottom and the other set it apart from the rest of the gear so that it received the full glare of the rising sun.
"Yes, what is it?" A master wearing the logo of the inverted triangle had emerged from a hut near the glassworks and followed the gatekeeper back across the foundry yard. He was short and swarthy with small quick eyes that squinted in distrust. His jaws hung heavy like a bulldog's. Kestrel wondered whether, if he got his grip on something, he would ever let go.
"If it is a large order, you had better place it quickly." The alchemist waved toward the pile of rock waiting to be crushed. "When that is gone, there will be no more for vacuum for a goodly while, at least until the border to the north is once again open."
"Master Celibor, I presume," Kestrel said. "This is Countess Phoebe and she indeed is most anxious to buy." Kestrel paused and forced a smile. "Her mind as yet is not totally made up, however, between dealing with you or the establishment across the street."
"What-Iliac!" Celibor exploded. "He is no less than responsible for the blockade in the first place. You should be blaming him for the rise in prices, not giving him aid by favoring him with trade. If he had not persisted in trying to divert ore wagons rightly meant for me, then none of this confrontation at the border would have happened. Even the archimage would be visiting our fair kingdoms rather than wasting his good time entertaining the ones who call themselves skyskirr from some forsaken place or another far away."
"Nevertheless, he has the reputation for a splendid product," Kestrel said.
"Lies of the market place," Celibor spat. "He turns out great volume of glassware and at less cost, it is true. But how many prove to be nothing more than jars of clear air rather than vacuum of prime hardness, answer me that? Why, look you at the pains we take to ensure that each batch has indeed run its course, rather than randomly failed as is sometimes the case."
Celibor paused to catch his breath. The ruddiness of his cheeks began to fade. He waved in the direction of the hide sphere. The crushing indentations had vanished; the sun had warmed the air that remained until the skin was again tight and firm. As everyone watched it began gently to rise from the ground and tug at the single fetter that held it in place.
"Elsewhere along the street," Celibor said, "they merely let the balloons rise to their maximum heights and do no more. Those batches that produce the highest they label as premium grade vacuum, no matter that they might be half as good as the ones produced the day before.
"Here we do more than that. We actually calculate the degree to which the jars are empty from measuring the balloon's ascent. Nowhere else are such quantitative tests made, not in a single foundry along the street. We know the volume of our balloons; the hides have been cured so that they no longer stretch. From the height to which they rise and equilibrate with the lesser density of air outside, we can compute the mass that rides within. From these numbers we then determine precisely how well the test bottle extracted some of the original contents and thence from that how good was the vacuum it originally contained."
"That is most interesting," Astron said. "A quantitative calculation aimed at showing nothing as the result."
Celibor looked at the hooded figure and frowned. "Not every batch produces a balloon which rises so well," he explained. "Some bottles extract only half the air because only half was removed from them by the random perturbations of the creation process. Some draw no air at all: total failures the likes of which you are much more likely to find across the way."
"How high do these balloons rise?" Phoebe asked.
Celibor looked at Phoebe as if he were noticing her for the first time. With a deliberate coolness he ran his eyes over her body. "A most interesting question, my lady," he said. "We usually test only a single bottle in a batch; so, like the one you see there, they rise only perhaps as far as the top of the anthanar's stack or a little higher."
Kestrel noticed Celibor's reaction to Phoebe, but surprisingly the satisfaction of a plan going well did not come. Rather than being pleased that she had excited the alchemist's interest, he felt irritated by the degrading way in which he showed it. It would indeed be soon enough when they were well away.
"And no gondola attached for one to observe?" Phoebe asked as Kestrel tried to draw back Celibor's attention.
"Why no, not every time, my countess, it would be a great waste." Celibor did not take his eyes from Phoebe. "Although we have baskets and the necessary riggings obtained from the thaumaturges up the street, the purpose is to test, not to lift a considerable weight. And with the onshore breeze, there is risk as well. A parted tether would mean the occupants would sail right over the encamped armies and deep into Procolon itself."
"But then think also of the thrill of it," Phoebe said in a bored tone. "If only for a part of an hour, floating like a cloud and looking down on the coastline as far as one could see. So much more exciting that all those dreary teas and receptions. Yes, Kestrel, see to it. Do business with the one who will offer a balloon ride as part of the bargain."
"You are talking a considerable expense," Celibor said. He finally looked from Phoebe back to Kestrel and Astron. "And although I have been most free to point out details of my trade, I know nothing of you other than what you profess." He motioned back the way he had come. "Visit me in my chambers, my lady; I will ask more of you there." Celibor again looked up and down the length of Phoebe's gown. "Never mind the clutter along the way. It is quite safe, since we keep it well away from the flames. Just lift your hems a trifle and they will not be soiled as we walk."
"The countess and I will gladly follow," Kestrel said quickly. "But consultant Astron's time is perhaps better spent in evaluating more of what takes place here. Pair him with someone who talks well and fast. He is the best of listeners."
Astron opened his mouth to speak, but Kestrel grabbed him by the arm, "There, the man with the pen and quill-perhaps you will be amused by learning more of these calculations. Or even the sculpturing-see, look at that scaffolding going up on which they are hanging those foils of lead. Surely those will be of more interest than standing around listening to the countess and the master exchanging pleasantries."
"The calculations and the structures, why yes," Astron said. "The sculpturing is akin to what I call weaving and, for one who cannot do that, it would be interesting indeed. I need feel no guilt. While I wait I can no better serve my-"
Kestrel squeezed Astron's arm tighter and the demon stopped. He nodded and slowly started to move in the direction Kestrel had indicated. Kestrel whirled to catch up with Celibor and Phoebe as they walked to the hut. The alchemist had his arm around her waist while he pointed out other aspects of his foundry. Curse it, Kestrel thought. She permitted it just as he had instructed her to.
Kestrel watched Phoebe try to shield from her eyes the afternoon sun streaking into the hut through a low window. He shifted uncomfortably on his stool, kicked at cracked and discarded parchments that cluttered the floor, and looked out the doorway into the foundry yard. He saw Astron with some sort of sextant sighting the top of the huge lead spheres and then the pylons at their side. Throughout the yard the bustle of the activity continued as if the border blockade did not exist. The bellows whooshed. A blistering heat radiated from the openings of the anthanar.
Kestrel frowned at the lengthening shadows. Despite Celibor's other interests, his first concern turned out to be for his profits. For most of the day they had argued, and no agreement was yet in sight. Soon the sun would be setting, and they would have to come back the next day, something that Kestrel definitely did not want to do. He would have to play through the last part of his plan, whether the alchemist gave him an opening or not.
"But do you not see?" Celibor waved his hands around the confines of his hut. "This is no palace with rich furnishings paid for by the profits of my trade. Iliac across the way has seen to that with his low prices and inferior products. I need the coin to pay the workers as the effort is done. I cannot afford to await until the order is complete no matter how alluring is the bounty I would receive."
The alchemist looked at Phoebe slyly. "Besides, I cannot really believe that a few moments aloft is the primary reason you are so anxious to do business with me. Why the concern, my lady, about pretending you are a bird?"
Kestrel became immediately alert. Celibor's statement was what he had been waiting for. "You drive a hard bargain." He laughed. "And this day grows long." He looked at Phoebe. "With your permission, my lady," he said.
Phoebe nodded slightly. Kestrel watched Celibor lean forward from where he sat.
"There is the matter of the new mine," Kestrel continued smoothly. "One not in the mountains of Procolon to the north, but in the very hills of Ethidor itself."
"There are no such mines," Celibor scoffed. "Our own hills have been scoured many times over."
"But not from a height, not from a vantage point no other has taken." Kestrel lowered his voice to a whisper. "And not with a sketch of what to look for drawn by a sorcerer while under a far-seeking trance." Kestrel pulled a tightly rolled parchment from his belt and waved it quickly in front of Celibor's face.
The alchemist reached for it but Kestrel pulled it away with a nod. "You understand how critical it is that word of this reach no one else. Your craft can ill-afford a repetition of what has caused the impulse to the north to occur."
Kestrel waited for Celibor to withdraw his hand and then continued. "Of course, our original plan was to find the location and then keep it from all, offering our ores to the highest bidder." His smile broadened. "But you deal with such skill that a direct share might be more in order. Enough perhaps so that you see the raising of the balloon as much in your interest as in ours."
Celibor glanced at Phoebe and then back to Kestrel. "How do I know that these are not more words, perhaps as empty as the rest?"
"You do not." Kestrel shrugged and rose. "There is a risk here that must be taken-a single balloon ride for half share in what may be the only source of ore while the blockade continues. Perhaps those across the street would indeed be more receptive."
"No, wait," Celibor said. "In good faith, I have made investments as well. Come outside and see what I have instructed the workmen to do while we talked. If we can agree on a fair price, then even today the deed can be done."
Kestrel looked over to Phoebe and she tilted her head slightly a second time. He shrugged and turns his palms upward to Celibor. "Evidently, she likes you," he said. "A few hours more she has graciously granted."
Celibor grunted and scurried past where they sat into the afternoon sun. He squinted his eyes against the harshness and motioned for them to follow over into the testing area.
Kestrel and Phoebe left the hut with regal slowness and stepped out into the daylight. They walked past the cooling lead ingots, lattices, and polyhedra and through the shadows cast by the great spheres and pylons. Astron looked up from what he was studying and motioned but Kestrel waved him away. The hook was nearly set and he could not afford to be distracted.
Kestrel noted the contents of other huts as he passed. One on the left was piled high with cured animal hides and beyond it were seamstresses lashing them together into a growing pile of balloons not yet used. On the right, knot makers tied lengths of braided hair into canopies that would fit over the balloons when they were inflated and tether them to the ground.
When they caught up with Celibor, he was pointing at a long row of bottles all connected to a hose of some rubbery fiber. Like a giant centipede the construction wandered through the open area where the tests were performed.
"More than one bottle will be needed to remove enough air so that the three of you can be borne aloft," Celibor said. "My craftsmen have labored long and hard to connect all of these bottles in parallel so that the evacuation can quickly be done."
Kestrel looked down the snaking line. "Then we are almost ready," he said. "Why haggle over details when we can be at the task right away."
"It is not quite as you make it seem," Celibor said. "Two more bottles must be connected to the chain. That is no easy matter if one wishes not to lose all the vacuum in the process. Then we have to bind a valve to the balloon itself, one that will not leak once it has been removed of its air." Celibor waved to one of the leather spheres resting on the ground. It was partially inflated and tugging slightly against the beginning of a breeze. "And the heating arrangement I have not yet contemplated. Much air will be extracted for this ride, not just a little amount. Heating what remains to regain the original volume is an intriguing challenge all in itself."
Kestrel studied Celibor's expression, trying to judge the truthfulness of his words. He resisted the impulse to grab the end of the hose nearest him and hurry the process along. Then suddenly as he wrestled with what to say next, there was a loud pounding on the metal doors that led to the street.
"Open the gates," a voice sounded over the fence. "In the name of the wizards of the Brythian hills. You house the ones we seek."
Celibor glanced at his gateman in annoyance and then back in the direction of his hut toward a pile of shields and swords. Kestrel spun around to look at Astron and saw the demon pointing frantically into the air. Though it was not yet dusk, a swarm of lights could be seen dancing along the fence line in a confusing buzz. The demon had been right; the wizards had caught up with them and far sooner than Kestrel would have thought. Now there was no time left for subtle maneuvers. Every second would count.
"Defend your property rights," Kestrel shouted at the puzzled alchemist. "A direct attack from your rivals across the way. They strike in desperation to prevent the ascent of the countess into the air."
Celibor continued to hesitate and Kestrel turned his attention away. He had to get the foundry workers to act. "You, and you with the sextant," he directed. "Back to the weapons store and arm yourself against the entry. Delay them as long as you can." He waved at the apparatus directly in front of where he and Phoebe stood. "Never mind the last two bottles. Quickly affix the valve." He looked at the blank stares of the workmen and tried not to think how much more must be done.
With a sudden crash, the doors sprang inward and a squad of men-at-arms burst into the foundry yard. Behind perhaps twelve warriors, each clad in mail, came a quartet of wizards, shaking their fists and urging those in front forward.
"Benthon and Maspanar," Phoebe said, "and others of my council. What you said was true. They pursue me with great vigor."
"To the weapons." Celibor evidently shook off his indecision when he saw the men-at-arms. He picked up the hems of his master's robe and ran for his hut. "The visitors speak truly. Iliac seeks to get my share of the mine for himself."
Kestrel looked from the gates and back to the master's hut. Perhaps eight of Celibor's workers would arm and provide some resistance. He glanced at the two struggling with the valve and saw that they were now working as fast as they could.
"What of the devils?" he asked Phoebe quickly. "Where are the ones bigger than the imps on the wall?"
"Benthon is quite conservative," Phoebe said. "He will use demons of as little power as he can. Perhaps the imps are all that they have under their spell."
"Then help with the balloon," Kestrel decided. "I will aid in the defense to give us as much time as I can."
Kestrel bolted to Celibor's hut and pushed two of the slower workers aside. He reached for one of the shields and grabbed the sword that was closest of the lot. The blade felt heavy and not balanced to his liking but there was no time to choose.
Swinging his arm back and forth in what he hoped were menacing arcs he advanced with Celibor and four others to meet the first of the attacking men-at-arms. Six of the wizards' men raised their shields to meet them. With a ringing clang, steel crashed onto steel. Kestrel lunged forward, trying to get around his opponent's guard, but the man who faced him was skillful and dodged nimbly to the side. The rest of the wizards' men moved quickly behind the first and spread to outflank Kestrel and Celibor on both sides.
Kestrel retreated a step backward and darted a look back to the gate, sucking in his breath at what he saw. Another dozen men poured through the opening, lancemen and archers who fanned out across the yard. The limp balloon that was to be passage over the border made an ideal target and in a heart beat three arrows pierced the hide as if it were paper. The sphere crumpled and sagged to the ground. The lancers ran to the ore heaps and glassworks, pushing all resistance in front of them into a disorganized retreat.
"Another balloon from the storage hut," Kestrel shouted in desperation. "Start the bellows while there is still a chance." He tore his gaze away from the scrambling workmen at the shouts to his adversaries and barely ducked a swipe at his unprotected neck.
Kestrel retreated another two steps and stumbled backward over a fallen workman, trying to block out the growing sense of futility that hammered at his thoughts. He heard a crash behind him and then a clatter of metal. A hot blast of air roared from the anthanar and almost blistered the back of his head. Flames shot up from the glassworks. Globs of molten slag arced over the yard, starting small fires in the debris wherever they landed. One hit the stack of uninflated balloons, and Kestrel groaned. In a moment, their remaining means of escape burned along with the rest.
Kestrel looked around for Phoebe or Astron, but acrid smoke was beginning to obstruct his view. He saw one of the pylons fall and then a second. The huge lead sphere seemed to lumber from its pedestal and lurch his way. Kestrel staggered backward and felt the wall of Celibor's hut. The alchemist had dropped his sword and was on one knee begging for mercy, a trickle of deep red running from his forehead.
The smoke thickened. Kestrel took a deep breath, plunging into where it was densest, just missing another swipe at his side. The fumes hurt his eyes. He squinted into the dirty grayness, just barely able to make out the menacing forms pursuing him and the indistinct objects toward which he ran.
Kestrel staggered a dozen steps forward and burst back into clear air. Tears clouded his vision. He shook his head in surprise, trying to understand what he saw. Almost directly in front were Phoebe and Astron, standing in the gondola Celibor had planned to couple to the balloon. Frantically the two were waving their arms and beckoning him forward.
Kestrel took one step, puzzled. The gondola was made of straw. Soon it, too, would be in flame. It was better to run as best one could. But while he pondered, the box lurched in his direction, scraping along the ground. A shadow passed over Kestrel, and he looked up, astonished. The gondola lifted from the ground and started to climb over his head.
Stunned, Kestrel watched Astron reach out over the edge of the box while Phoebe held him by the waist.
"Grab my hand, mortal," Kestrel heard Astron shout. "This is no time for your stembrain to assume command."
Kestrel nodded blankly. He raised his arm and felt a surprisingly strong grip about his wrist. Then, with a stab of pain in his shoulder, he was lifted clear of the ground, just as a man-at-arms made one last stab at his dangling feet.
Kestrel looked down at the foundry. With gathering speed, it seemed to move more and more rapidly away. He heard the ping of an arrowhead on metal and glanced skyward for a second time. There was no mistake about it. The gondola was tethered to a sphere of lead.