“My gratitude is eternal, my lord,” Adrian said. He glanced around. “If I might beg a minute of your time?”
“Well . . . I suppose.”
“Alone, my lord. It’s a very sensitive matter.”
The plump beak-nosed features changed. He suspects you know something, Raj cautioned. He’s remembering that you’re Esmond’s brother.
In the privacy of his mind Adrian nodded. And I’d be dead inside the hour if he confirms his suspicion, he thought. Or even if he doesn’t. Now to show myself useful.
“As you may know, my lord, I’ve been putting together some notes for a history,” he said. Redvers’ face relaxed slightly; that was a traditional hobby for lawyers. “And I’ve come across some information in the most ancient chronicles that may be of importance to the State. Naturally, I didn’t presume to judge such matters myself, but thought first of you—my patron, a citizen of standing and influence, one competent to judge such matters.”
“My boy, I’m glad you show such wisdom and maturity,” Redvers said softly. “To others may be given the art of speaking, of shaping marble so that it seems to live—but to the Confederacy alone is given the mandate of the Gods to rule, to spare the humble and subdue the proud,” he said.
That would be more impressive if I didn’t know you were quoting, Adrian thought, the words dry under the hammer of his pulse. They reached one of the inset niches along the walls, this one holding a small chryselephantine statue of the God of War, flourishing an archaic spear, heroically nude, with his foot on a dead Southron barbarian.
“I have found a series of formulae known to a select few among the ancients,” Adrian began. “Knowledge long since lost.”
Redvers nodded; it was well-known to educated men that before the Age of Iron had been an Age of Gold, whose glories were forgotten.
“With devices based on these formulae, an army would be invincible—it could sweep aside forces many times its size. And the formulae are quite simple; within three months—” Six months, but let’s not get too realistic “—given the resources and artificers needed, a force could be so equipped as to sweep the Western Isles, or the Southron barbarians . . . a great boon to the State, and of course undying fame and glory to the commander.”
Redvers stood stock-still, his eyes hooded. “And you’ve come to your patron with this knowledge. Very proper, my boy; very proper.”
He’s going to buy it, Raj said, his mental voice almost as dispassionate as Center’s.
probability of agreement 92% ±5, Center added.
* * *
“What on earth is the Emerald babbling about?” one of the nobles said pettishly. “Invincible weapons . . . what does he mean? A better catapult, something of that nature?”
The Redvers family was wealthy enough that their townhouse gardens had a secluded nook like this out of sight and most hearing from the main house. Adrian would much rather have conducted the trial somewhere outside the city . . . but Center had decided that Redvers was becoming quite dangerously impatient.
The stretch of lawn ahead of them held an oak tree and a circle of scarecrowlike dummies, each hung with the mail tunic and helmet of a Confed soldier. In front of them rested a simple jar, stoppered with a clay disk that was pierced for a wick of cotton that Adrian had soaked in the solution that Center showed him . . .
He shuddered at the vision, one from Raj’s memories. A vision of what the explosion of a shell or bomb could do to men’s bodies.
“The jar contains my mixture, my lords,” Adrian said. “Surrounding it—”
“Get on with it, Emerald! We’re not apothecaries, you know.”
“Yes, my lord. If my lords will step behind this barricade . . .”
Adrian walked towards the jar, blinking at the bright sunlight, a lighted oil lamp in his hand. He held it by the loop at one end and touched the flame to the wick with the other. It started to sputter and fume with evil-smelling blue smoke, and he turned and walked—it was an effort not to run, but the nobles must be impressed—towards the thick pine logs of the barricade.