Ghosts of Engines Past (10 page)

“It is a French technique. Letting a bombard disperse its recoil by rolling back is better than chaining it down to a ship's deck. It puts less strain on the timbers when it is fired.”

“Then we shall do so too. I shall ride to the moorings and have La Hachette rowed here this very day. Have the bombard put aboard, then fire a few shots to refine your skills.”

“As you will, Master.”

Once Tordral was safely away, Gerald turned to Renard.

“I have been meaning to ask of La Hachette,” he said casually. “Tordral is gone, but perhaps you can help.”

“Ask, I shall answer.”

“Why a ship?”

Renard gestured north, across the lake.

“Because the enemy is stalking us. They are suspicious of what we do.”

“How can you know that?”

“Last night Ivain was taken.”

“The shipwright? You mean... gone?”

“Not so. He was found in the lakeside woods, not long after dawn. All that he could do was rave about an elfin lady of surpassing beauty.”

“He was englamoured?”

“Yes. Elves are fair to behold, and some minds are more pliant than others. Doubtless some elfin beauty appeared to Ivain with the promise of restored youth, her hand in marriage, and eternity shared in some enchanted palace. Most likely he babbled all he knew. Most likely she giggled, then vanished.”

“All he knew,” sighed Gerald. “How much was that?”

“Little of worth. How could Faerie be threatened by a ship with holes to let the water in, a hearth amidships, a spiral briar in a pot, and a crew of angry, twisted people?”

“Agreed, agreed. In truth, that even tells
me
little.”

“But that is the danger!” hissed Renard conspiratorially.
“They
will curious, so
they
will be back.”

“I see, I think. But again I ask it, why a ship?”

“While floating on Derwent Water, our work goes unseen by unwelcome eyes. A ship on a lake is not easily spied upon.”

“But surely the work is almost done.”

“The Master has perfected the parts needed to power a bombard by steam, Sir Gerald. Making them work in harmony, ah, that is still our challenge.”

Gerald now set off for Keswick. Renard and Ward stood staring after him.

“He smiles and banters nonsense with ladies,” sighed Renard. “It does me good to see him happy.”

“His cheer may be our undoing,” warned Ward. “A happy man is not bitter. His bitterness provides our gold.”

“Do you suggest that we keep him twisted like the briar?”

“No, no... but we need him. Without him there's no gold.”

“We are lying to him about the steam bombard. He will work that out soon enough, and when he does, the gold will stop anyway.”

“Then what's to do? Are we lost?”

“My friend, we already have the pieces. No more gold is needed to make them work in harmony, just wit. Why not cut Sir Gerald free, to grow untwisted?”

“What if the pieces won't work in harmony?”

“Ah, then we are truly lost.”

Being a master artisan, Guy was not inclined to take orders from peers. Priests, bishops, even great lords had called upon him to build or repair the public clocks that were the pride of many towns and cities. Even though he deferred to Tordral, he was still inclined to little displays of defiance. Walking alone when all others went in pairs flouted Tordral's orders just sufficiently to soothe Guy's pride.

On this night Guy had a message for his master. The war had begun, even though the enemy did not know it. Tordral slept in a small hut a short distance from the barn. Through ill-fitting wooden planks Guy could see a lamp burning within. He had just raised his hand to knock when he felt a knife at his throat.

“Master?” asked Guy hopefully.

“Why are you alone?” demanded Tordral.

“I—I—”

“Never
flout my orders.
Always
walk in company.”

“But you work alone.”

“I am beyond temptation,” said Tordral, sounding almost amused, “but Faerie's rulers know where
your
softest and most vulnerable aspects are, my friend. I am a spiral briar, twisted and full of thorns. They do not have the resolve to grasp me, so they reach out for those around me. Ivain was first. You may be next.”

“My apologies, in full truth.”

“Well, why are you here?”

“The footbridge on the Derwent River is afire. You can see it from—”

“Our signal!” exclaimed Tordral, who then flung open the hut's door and smashed the pottery lamp that was burning within. Bright yellow flames blazed up.

“What does it mean, Master?” Guy asked as they set off for the lake.

“A secret ally has set the bridge afire, trapping an elf lord in this world.”

“Trapping him? How?”

“He can only return by the portal he crossed through. A bridge in Faerie parallels the bridge in our world. Destroy one, and the other is useless. Hurry, we cannot even spare the time for a piss.”

“La Hachette is not ready to fight,” insisted Guy. “The mechanism—”

“The elf may englamour the folk of Keswick to attack us. We must keep La Hachette safe.”

It was just a quarter hour before La Hachette was being rowed clear of the landing. Behind them, the barn was blazing fiercely. The little ship moved slowly, even with most of the company at the oars. As they rowed, Tordral briefed the uninitiated about their situation.

“There are several islands on the lake,” Tordral concluded. “La Hachette will not stand out while moored at one of them.”

“Master, this is a twenty yard ship on a three mile lake. Seen we will be.”

“But not straightway. We can barter a little more time from Lady Fortune.”

There was a bright flash to the northeast, and a fireball erupted into the night sky moments before the sound of the distant blast rolled over them. It dispersed its echoes among the hills.

“That barrel of black powder will not dupe anyone into thinking we had a terrible accident,” said Ward. “There's no bodies or boat.”

“They may think La Hachette sank with all of us aboard,” said Tordral. “Every moment saved gives us time for trials.”

Suddenly Guy felt the full weight of what loomed over them.

“Eighty-six trials of settings and lever lengths remain,” he said as he pulled at his oar. “We manage one trial in the hour, so that is a week. Do we have food for a week, Master?”

“Perhaps. Sergeant Renard, are we beyond bowshot from land?”

“I think it,” replied Renard.

“Then ship oars. Steam warden, light the impeller and patron furnaces, then close the steam gates. The rest of you, we left in haste and packed our stores with no care. Secure everything now. Sergeant, ready your bombard for action. Meg, take the spiral briar, mount her in her frame.”

“As said, 'tis done.”

Presently steam began to hiss from the steam guards, announcing that the sufflators were ready.

“Dexter and sinister gatemen, stand ready,” said Tordral, who was at the tiller. “Steam warden, report.”

“Pleased to declare sufflators at strength.”

“Commence heartbeat with dexter,” called Tordral.

“Dexter impeller gate closed,” called dexter gateman. “Dexter steam gate open.”

“Sinister impeller gate open,” responded sinister gateman.

They chant a spell of a new magic,
thought Guy.
Iron magic.
La Hachette began to move, slowly gathering speed as the steam from the sufflator forced the water in the right impeller pipe down and back, like a piston of water. After some moments there was a bubbling
chuff
as the last of the water was driven from the right pipe and the steam began to escape.

“Heartbeat, dexter to sinister!” ordered Tordral, and the gatemen reversed the settings of the water and steam gates. Water poured into dexter pipe at the bow while steam forced water from sinister pipe at the stern.

“Steam warden, call the heartbeats in my place,” ordered Tordral.

“Master, is it wise to run with the patron sufflator not yet steaming?” asked Guy as he joined Tordral.

“La Hachette's impeller can take her a mile and a half without the need of new hot water injected from the patron.”

“Movement, and from air, water, fire and earth dancing in harmony,” said Renard dreamily. “Glorious.”

“We may be twisted and thorny, but what clever folk are we?” added Tordral. “A steam impeller, two score times stronger than a sufflator's jet. In all the history of the world, no ship has ever been moved thus. We can reach Faerie... and we have a bombard.”

“Why did we never share this wonder with Sir Gerald?” asked Guy. “We should have told him the truth.”

“He was just one of many we lied to. Until an hour's half ago only the six of us doing the trials knew the truth.”

“But he—”

“We told lies to our friends so that they would be passed on to our enemies. I thought they would ensnare and englamour Gerald. Instead, Ivain was first, and he babbled nonsense about a steam bombard to them. Thus they thought us twisted, but harmless. Twisted, yes. Harmless? Not if we can make La Hachette's heart beat of its own accord, with no gatemen.”

“Does La Hachette really need her own heartbeat?” asked Guy. “The mechanism functions when gatemen work it with their hands.”

“Their hands are vulnerable to Faerie's glamours, Guy. The impeller must function without any hand upon it. We know there is a wide, dead space beyond the portal, both Renard and Jon saw it when they were returned. Without elvin spells to protect us, we mortals collapse there, our muscles flaccid. Unless La Hachette can travel the portal's span unaided, she will lose way and stop.”

“And then?” asked Grace from the darkness.

“We would be marooned in the borderlands between worlds, unable to move, starving to death.”

“Don't fancy that,” said Grace, who was a veteran of many tavern brawls. “Rather die fightin'.”

“Nobody will die,” said Tordral. “If La Hachette's heart cannot be made to beat, we shall not assail any portal.”

“But then Sir Gerald will surely kill us for deceivin' him.”

“Oh no, I have one last trick for Sir Gerald—but enough gloom, we have a lady who needs a heart. Guy, explain the problem to those new to our secret. Someone may have a suggestion.”

“When steam strokes end, the steam gates don't drop with enough force for the tag levers to trip their sister steam gates and the two water gates. Without gatemen, the heartbeat cannot be passed from dexter to sinister and back again.”

“To me it seems little force was needed,” said Renard. “Have the gates
never
tripped of their own accord?”

“Once, yes,” said Tordral. “With lead weights on the trip levers, the gates were indeed forced to open and close by the extra impetus from the weights' motion.”

“But there is a delay of one fifth of the impeller's heartbeat, due to the extra time the lever takes to swing when weighted,” explained Guy. “In that time La Hachette is without the impeller and has no impetus. She would stop.”

For a time there was silence, except for the clank-clang, hiss, chuff as the gatemen worked La Hachette's mechanical heart.

“Can someone explain something nautical to a poor, ignorant French sergeant who knows only bombards?” asked Renard.

“And English women, English ale, English—” began Ward.

“Let him speak!” called Tordral.

“Why does a barge not stop when the rowers finish their stroke and draw the oars forward for the next?”

“Because it has impetus.”

“Then why should La Hachette stop while the weighted trip levers are swinging?”

“Why because...”

Tordral's voice trailed away. Guy scratched his head again, aware that everyone might have missed a very important point.

“Am I right to suggest that we could have had La Hachette's heart beating six weeks ago?” asked Tordral. “Suddenly it's as obvious as, as...”

“Garlic on Renard's breath?” suggested Ward.

“You English, you eat candle fat then insult the finest cooks in the world, who are we French.”

“Enough!” shouted Tordral. “Guy, bring a lamp. See how I tie a lead weight to the top of dexter's tag lever. Kindly do the same for sinister.”

“Should we also tie lead weights to the impeller pipe water gates?'“

“They are much bigger. I did not bring enough lead.”

“Will two bags of iron scrappery do?”

“They will have to.”

Once the four weights were attached, Tordral hesitated, more to put off almost inevitable disappointment than for any other reason. The steam guards hissed steadily.

“Master, you have steam,” prompted Guy.

“Then let us again attempt the impossible. Gatemen, to your stations, Steam Warden Grace, are you ready?”

“Aye Master.”

“Dexter gateman, close watergate.”

“Dexter declares watergate closed.”

“Sinister gateman, open watergate, confirm steamgate closed.”

“Sinister declares watergate open, steamgate closed.”

“Sinister gateman, stand clear. Dexter gateman, open steamgate.”

“Dexter declares steamgate open.”

“Dexter gateman, stand clear.”

They chant another spell of iron magic, taught by trial and learned by error,
thought Ward. Steam hissed into the dexter impeller pipe, forcing the water within it down and back.

“The lady is moving,” reported Renard.

“Ladyship, ladyship, come to life,” pleaded Tordral softly, kneeling on the deck, hands clasped, and not caring what anyone thought.

“Flower of the Company of the Spiral Briar, bloom for me,” said Renard, as gently as if coaxing a lover to remove her robes.

With the last of the water gone, the steam chuffed out of the dexter impeller pipe. The pressure within fell, so the steam gate dropped and closed, pushing the trip lever into motion. It swung slowly, so slowly that La Hachette began to lose speed, but when it hit the other steamgate, it triggered a release of steam while tripping sinister's watergate locked. Water now gushed out of the tail of the sinister impeller pipe, while water flowed into the bow end of dexter. There was a chuff of steam from sinister, then the trip levers swung back ponderously, and water began to gush out of the dexter impeller pipe again.