Ghosts of Engines Past (8 page)

“Sir, do you know who I am?” asked Gerald, deciding to be polite because he was intrigued.

“You are Sir Gerald of Ashdale,” replied a soft but commanding voice. “You sit here every morning and evening, seeking revenge.”

“And who might you be?”

“I am Tordral.”

“The master armourer?”

“None other. Look into my boat, what do you see?”

Although inclined to tell Tordral to move on, Gerald looked.

“I see a metal dog, and beneath it burn six candles. From its head protrudes a spigot... A sufflator! The brass dog is a sufflator. I have seen them used in France.”

“Very good. Turn the spigot, and steam gushes from the jaws.”

Suddenly Gerald remembered why he was there.

“If you know me, you must know I am not to be disturbed,” he said sternly.

“What use has a sufflator?” Tordral asked, ignoring the warning.

“I—ah, they are vessels that are half filled with water and heated by a small fire until steam gushes from the mouth. They may be used as a bellows to make a fire blaze up, even in wet wood. “

“True. Now watch.”

Tordral turned the spigot in the dog's head. A jet of steam blasted from its mouth, so loudly and abruptly that Gerald sprang back and put an arrow to his bow in a single movement.

“Be at ease, Sir Gerald,” said Tordral above the sharp hissing.

The armourer aimed the boat into the middle of river, then released it. Amid clouds of steam, it drew away from the bank. Gerald crossed himself.

“Had I not seen, I would not have believed,” he said fearfully.

“As a child, I found that a rock flung from a boat's stern will propel it forward a trifle.”

“But your boat flings no rocks,” said Gerald.

“My boat is flinging steam.”

Gerald stared after the boat. It was now moving at the pace of a walking man.

“So, your toy can cross a river,” he said, again remembering that Tordral was intruding. “Am I meant to be impressed, or—It's gone!”

“Observant of you.”

“At the river's midpoint, it vanished. How? Where? It did not sink, I was watching.”

“You know the lore of boundaries, Sir Gerald. This stretch of the Derwent River is special. It exists in both our world and another. The banks are a boundary between earth and water, the midpoint is a boundary between one half of the river and the other, but crossing between worlds involves more than just crossing a river. You can only do it where the boundaries exist in both worlds, and during the halflight boundary times, dusk or first light, that are neither night nor day. It must also be on a boundary day, and this day is the winter solstice.”

“Are you saying that your toy has gone to another world?”

“It has left this world, I claim no more.”

Gerald walked out onto the bridge and looked down into the water. There was no trace of the boat. Here was none of the ceremony and incantation of religion or hedgerow magic, yet here was something extraordinary. He walked back to the east bank. Tordral was dressed in chainmail, but wore no surcoat or cloak, as warriors would. It was as if chainmail instead of cloth had been used to fashion a very ordinary tunic and trews. The helmet was an archaic type that left the lower half of the face visible, even when the visor was down.

“Sir, what are your intentions?” Gerald asked.

“I am an armourer, you are a knight. You need a weapon, I devise weapons. I have just demonstrated a weapon.”

“That toy, a weapon?”

“Oh yes,” said Tordral. “It can reach your enemy, even if your enemy is in another world.”

“Tordral of—Tordral, what is the whole of your name?”

“Tordral is all of it, sir. I have a past that is best left unspoken.”

“As you will. Would you walk with me back to Keswick? It is past dawn, so my half-light vigil is over. Squire! Pack.”

Tordral was aware that Sir Gerald was not an ally as yet. Gerald was a warrior, and warriors were well known for being suspicious when faced with novel weapons. He had to be won over slowly, there was no advantage in pressing the matter too hard.

“Your mode of clothing intrigues me,” said Gerald as they walked. “Why wear a helmet and chainmail, even when at leisure?”

“It hides my form. I have been twisted by our common enemy.”

Gerald smiled. Tordral feigned not to notice.

“Ah, then be called my friend. May I ask of your boat?”

He feigns quick friendship, to render me eager and careless,
thought Tordral.
Now is the moment for extreme care.

“My boat has no secrets, it merely combines all four elements: air, water, fire and earth. It is a living creature, but without life.”

“Impossible!”

“By being impossible, it can cross between worlds. Rules do not constrain it, Sir Gerald, neither rules of natural philosophy, nor philosophy unnatural.”

“Could you make it large enough to carry warriors?”

“No.”

Gerald gasped with surprise Anyone wishing to part him from his gold would definitely have claimed it possible.

“But surely your toy is reality made small?”

Tordral knew that this was an another awkward moment. Understanding the boat's principle required intelligence, and intelligence was not high on the list of requirements for knighthood. Still, Gerald came from a family that valued scholarship, so there was hope.

“There is an effect called diminishment of scale, Sir Gerald. To be impelled by a jet of steam, even a small barge would need a sufflator of truly vast size. Try to build a sufflator bigger than a common barrel, and it will burst.”

“Why is that?”

“I cannot say. Perhaps the nature of steel itself, perhaps the ability of blacksmiths to render steel hard. A barge impelled by the biggest workable sufflator would not outpace a duck in no great hurry. The slightest breeze or current would drive it back.”

“But you clearly want my patronage. What do you propose?”

“A bombard, Sir Gerald. A bombard that can shoot an iron ball using air, water, fire and earth.”

Gerald shook his head and gave a little snort of disappointment.

“I have tried shooting a gonne across the river at half-light, just as I have tried shooting arrows. The shots merely hit the far bank. They stayed in this world.”

“As they would.”

“Well then, Master Tordral, what is a gonne but a bombard made small?”

“Gonnes and bombards propel metal balls by black powder. That is merely earth driven by air and fire, but I can build a steam bombard to shoot balls of iron between worlds. Steam, which is water, rendered into air by fire burning wood.”

“All four elements. Could you really do it?”

“You have seen what I can do.”

“And your fee?”

“None.”

“No
fee?”

“Our common enemy has twisted me, Sir Gerald, I want only vengeance. Just provide metals, timbers, and such other materials as I need. Beyond that, the upkeep of twenty men and women for three months, and one breech-loading bombard, made of bronze, with a bore large enough to admit a mailed fist without contact.”

“An odd list. Costly, but not unreasonably so.”

“The weapon exists only in my head, so it must be lured out with gold and toil,” said Tordral, aware that the knight's trust still had to be lured out as well.

They reached a small tower on the edge of Keswick. Gerald took out a brass key and opened a gate in a high wall. Behind the wall was a beautiful but unkempt garden, with bowers and stone seats half-smothered in bushes and vines.

“I must go my way,” began Tordral.

“No! No, stay. For seven years I have been plagued by physicians selling eye potions to make elves visible, rogues peddling goblin traps, and fraudsters selling fairy nets. They demand gold, but offer no proof. You offer proof, but ask no payment. For that you have my attention.”

“I am honoured.”

“You say you were twisted by our enemy, your very name derives from the French word for
twisted.”

“Indeed, but that was not always my name. Are we allies?”

“You tempt me. I have kept vigil at that bridge for seven years. I have seen eyes watching me that float upon air, I have shot good arrows with heads of cold iron at illusions that dispersed like smoke, and I have fallen into slumber then awakened to find my bowstring cut. Their laughter mocks me from invisible lips, yet still I stalk them, because... come in for a moment, I would show you something.”

They entered the garden, which was bright with flowers and heady with their scent. Gerald turned about several times, his arms outstretched.

“Enchanting, is it not? The illuminations in holy books show paradise as a vast church, but I think it is a garden.”

“Briar roses, grown in spirals,” said Tordral, slowly pacing along a path leading to the centre. “Dozens of them, except for that big, wild bush in the middle.”

“My grandmother was one to control people, animals, and anything else alive. It was she who twisted the wild and untamed briar roses into spirals. After her death, my sister Mayliene tried to straighten one of them, but it snapped at the base and died. She planted a young briar in its place and let it grow quite free.”

“That central bush?”

“Yes.”

“A symbol of freedom amid those without hope,” said Tordral, nodding.

Sir Gerald pressed his lips together and breathed heavily and evenly, as if trying to fight down the urge to sob. He was betrayed by a tear which meandered down his cheek.

“Master Tordral, tell my sensechal all you need. I shall support you.”

“So very easily?” replied Tordral, genuinely surprised by the sudden change in the knight.

“You and my sister... you are of a kind. I think she would have liked you. I know you would have liked her.”

Gerald gestured to a stone seat half smothered in ivy.

“Fourteen years ago that was her favoured place for reading. She knew five languages, and read Aristotle as easily as any French roman courtoise. I was lying on the grass, not four yards away, when a great lethargy washed over me and I was scarcely able to move. As I lay helpless, an elf lord came. He tried to entice Mayliene away to Faerie. Do you think that sounds insane? Feel free to laugh.”

“I believe, pray continue,” said Tordral in a voice held studiously level. This was the moment a charlatan would sound sincerely sympathetic, so this was a very bad moment to offer sympathy.

“She refused his advances.”

“Brave girl, elves take badly to rejection.”

“Indeed. He—he had his revenge. He afflicted her with a cruel but subtle blight. She had to be sent to a convent, to be cared for as an invalid. For seven years she languished there, then one morning her footprints were found leading into a river. I returned from the wars in France and came here, to my family's summer tower. I have kept my fruitless vigil ever since.”

“Not fruitless, Sir Gerald. Over the years I have gathered many others blighted by Faerie into my company. It was the story of your vigil that drew me here.”

“Then if you succeed my vigil of seven years will be time well spent.”

A massive blast echoed among the hills around Keswick. The shouting and bustle in the town market suddenly died away, then slowly picked up again. Shepherds cursed as startled sheep and sheepdogs scattered in panic. Sir Gerald was on the way to see Tordral, and although his palfrey was used to bombard fire, the horse drawing the cart behind him reared and almost bolted. The encampment where Tordral worked was on the shores of Derwent Water, a quarter mile from Keswick. A barn had been turned into an immense blacksmith's shop, and so much smoke was pouring from it that a stranger might have fancied it to be on fire.

As Jon, the blacksmith, carried his dead apprentice out of the barn, he noticed Gerald approaching, escorting the cart. After leaving the youth's body with the women of Tordral's company, he greeted the knight.

“A serious accident?” asked Gerald.

“No, just a stupid boy. He thought to play the fool while the rest of us took cover. A bright and cheery soul, but stupid.”

“Here is an Italian gold florin, looted in France,” said Gerald, tossing the coin to Jon. “Have it sent it to his family, with my condolences.”

“Consider it done, lordship,” said Jon, bowing.

“So, the accident was not serious?”

“No accident, just trialings.”

Jon deliberately kept his manner brusque, and measured out his words with care. People had the idea that hard, strong smiths made hard, strong weapons, so he had an image to live up to. Jon was also painfully aware of having a rare and conspicuous accent.

“You seem unmoved by the death of your apprentice,” said Gerald reproachfully.

“The dead are gone. The living have work to do.”

“A good philosophy, if bleak. You should have been a knight.”

“I was.”

The concept of a knight abandoning his position and status to become an artisan was too much for Gerald to comprehend. He dismounted in silence and left his palfrey with his carter. Jon led the way into the barn, explaining that some areas were not entirely safe.

“I cannot see Tordral,” said Gerald anxiously as he looked around.

“Away on Derwent Water, taking plumbline soundings.”

“For what reason?”

“Didn't say.”

Gerald stumbled over a piece of wreckage, and very nearly fell.

“Someone seems to have been roasting a steel dragon over a spit when it exploded,” he said, pointing to a tangle of grotesquely twisted metal.

“Fine result, lordship,” replied Jon. “See here? Progress.”

The blacksmith pointed to a shard of metal the size of a hand that had embedded itself in a shelter wall of rough-hewn logs. Gerald gasped with surprise, which gratified Jon. The shard had struck a four inch thick log with such force that part of it was protruding from the other side.

“By the very heavens!” exclaimed the knight. “How did you do this?”

“Steam burst, done with care.”

“So steam really can be as potent as black powder?”

“Yes. We have been trialing steam explosions, of late.”