“I think you are right, Marzel,” he said. “If you could bring me the costed estimates, in . . .”
“Three days time, honored sir.”
“Three days, that would be excellent.”
They parted with the usual flowery Islander protestations of mutual esteem; this time they were sincere. As the Islander left, Adrian rose to circle the ship model on the table once more. It showed a craft halfway between a galley and a merchant ship, perhaps five times longer than it was wide. The bow ended in a ram shaped like a cold chisel, and there were neither oars nor sail. Instead two great bladed wheels revolved on either side, and the hull was covered over wholly by a turtlelike deck. Octagons covered that in turn like the scales of some great serpent, marking where the hand-hammered iron plates would go. The upper curve was broken by two smokestacks, one to the left and one to the right; between them was a low circular deckhouse, with slits all around for vision.
Esmond rose from the corner where he had been sitting silently. “Brother,” he said gently. “Will this really work?”
“I don’t know,” Adrian said. “I think it will. The gunpowder worked . . .”
“Yes.” Esmond paused. “I know I haven’t been much help to you . . . much help since Vanbert,” he said hesitantly.
Adrian turned and gripped his shoulders. “Oh, no—just saved my life half a dozen times in the retreat, got us all out alive, got us a ship, rushed around like Wodep would if he had enough sense to listen to the Gray-Eyed . . .”
“Brother, I’m worried about you,” the taller of the Gellerts said bluntly. “I don’t . . . I’ve known you all my life. Yes, you’re the smarter of us, and yes, you’re a Scholar the Grove could be proud of—but all these, these things you’ve been coming up with since Father died . . .”
“These things are our only chance of revenge on the Confederacy,” Adrian said, with a peculiar inward wrench. I cannot tell the truth even to my brother, who is not only the brother of my blood but the brother of my heart, he knew. First, Esmond would simply be horrified that his brother had gone mad. And even if he believed, would he understand? The concepts had been hard enough for Adrian, and he had two disembodied intelligences speaking directly to him.
He thrust aside certain fears that had come to him in the night, now and then. What if I am truly mad? What if these are demons, such as the ancient stories tell of?
Esmond’s face hardened. “You’re right,” he said. “I thank the gods that you’ve stumbled on these things.” A smile. “Forgive my weakness.”
“I’d forgive you far more than a concern for me, Esmond.”
The cry was a huge shout, like a battle trumpet. Adrian Gellert shot out of the low soft bed as if he had been yanked out with cords, not fully conscious until he realized he was standing barefoot on cold marble with the dagger he kept under the pillow naked in his hand.
Nothing, he thought. Nothing but the night sounds of Chalice, insects, birds, the soft whisper of water in the fountain that plashed in the courtyard below, a watchman calling out as his iron-tipped staff clacked on paving stones.
Then a woman screamed; that was close, just down the corridor. Adrian was out the door of his bedroom in seconds, feet skidding on the slick stones of the floor. One of the Lowissons’ guards was there not long after him, likewise in nothing but his drawers, looking foolish with his shaved head showing—no time to don the turban—but a curved sword ready in his hand. Adrian ignored him, plunging into his brother’s room. The door rebounded off his shoulder and crashed against the jamb and Adrian’s gaze skittered about. The room was dark—even the nightlight in the lamp by the bed had gone out. Then it grew a bright greenish cast, as Center amplified the light that was reaching his retinas. Even then Adrian’s skin crawled with the revulsion that brought, but there was no time for anything but business now.