‘Pottery?’ she repeated. ‘Glazed or unglazed?’
‘Sarcasm does not become women,’ he said. ‘In order for the catapult to be accurately used, it will be necessary to place it where the men operating it can see the enemy. That leaves three choices. The first places the weapon outside the city. This is not – one would imagine – to be desired, for the Daroth could charge forward and capture or destroy it. The second is to place it on the walls. The parapets are around twelve feet wide, therefore the machine would have to be small, hence restricting the range. The third choice would be to strip the roof from the barracks building by the north gate, and set our catapult upon a platform there.’
Karis nodded. ‘That sounds a good plan. But it does not explain your use of pottery.’
‘We make hollow balls and fill them with flammable material – rags drenched in lantern oil, for example. Lighter than lead, our range would therefore be increased. What I need to design is a method of ignition that would allow the men loading the machine to be safe. One wouldn’t want such a ball exploding on the barracks roof.’
‘And you can do this?’
‘I will think on it.’ He reached into the jar and took another cake.
‘They look good,’ said Karis. ‘May I try one?’
‘No, you may not,’ he told her sternly. ‘They are mine.’
Swallowing her irritation, Karis thanked Ozhobar for his time and rose to leave. ‘Come back and see me in three days,’ he said. ‘And send your man Necklen to me. I need to ask some more questions about the Daroth weapon. Oh yes . . . and we are running short of iron. I suggest you ask the Duke to requisition gates, old cooking pots, railings .. . you know the sort of thing.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ promised Karis.
Outside it was snowing once more, but the temperature had lifted. Children were playing in the street, throwing snowballs at one another. Their squealing laughter lifted Karis’s spirits as she strolled towards the practice field.
There were already forty men present, the largest and the strongest in Corduin. Forin and the officer Capel were putting them through a series of tests. Karis stood in the shadows and watched as they lifted rocks, or bent bars of iron. Forin was moving among them, issuing orders and directing events. She found herself strangely hesitant about seeing him again. He had been ever-present in her mind since the night in the tavern. But why? He was not an exceptional lover. Poor dead Giriak had been just
as powerful. Yet something had moved within her at his touch, as if a rusted lock, long unused and almost forgotten, had given way, revealing . . . revealing what, she wondered.
This is nonsense, Karis, she admonished herself. The man means nothing to you. Put it down to the stress of the day. And, more importantly, cast it from your mind! She heard his laughter echoing across the field, the other men joining in. A donkey had strayed on to the field and taken a dislike to one of the contestants. It was chasing him, and nipping at his buttocks. Karis grinned – and regained her composure.
Stepping into view she strolled to a picket fence. Forin saw her and ambled across to where she stood. ‘Good morning, lady,’ he said. His voice was even, his manner guarded. Karis was pleased that there was no wink, or leer; no forced intimacy.
‘How goes it, Forin?’
‘There are some powerful men here. All are anxious to win the pouch of silver. I’d like to try for it myself.’
‘Get me fifty strong men and I’ll give you such a pouch.’
‘What do you need them for?’
Karis climbed to the fence and sat back, looking down on the red-bearded giant. ‘At some point the Daroth will storm the walls. Nothing will stop that. I need men who can stand against them; they will be armed with heavy double-headed axes, with hafts and blades of steel. So it is not only strength I need. I want men with courage. You will lead them.’