David Brin - The Practice Effect

Dennis and Arth had been at this task almost a week. Here and now, few spent much more than a day making anything. Kremer was already showing signs of impatience.

What would he do when the distillery was operational? Show the Baron how to forge iron? Teach his artisans the principle of the wheel? Dennis had hoped to keep one or two of those “essences” in reserve, just in case Kremer decided to renege on his promise. The warlord had vowed eventually to heap wealth on Dennis and provide him with all the resources he’d need to repair his “metal house” and go home. But he might change his mind.

Dennis was still ambivalent. Kremer was clearly a ruthless S.O.B. But he was competent and not particularly venal. From Dennis’s readings of Earth’s history, a lot of men who were revered in legends weren’t exactly pleasant people in real life. Although Kremer certainly was a tyrant, Dennis wondered if he was particularly terrible as founders of dynasties went.

Perhaps the best thing to do would be to become the fellow’s Merlin. Dennis could probably make Kremer’s victories overwhelming—and therefore relatively bloodless—and in so doing become a power at his side.

Certainly that would win him a freer hand, perhaps even to repair the zievatron and return home again.

It did sound like the right plan.

Then why did it feel so unpalatable?

He could think of at least one person who wouldn’t agree with his decision. The few times he had seen Princess Linnora since the banquet they had been at least two parapets apart, she escorted by her guards and he by his. She had nodded to him coolly and swept away with a swirl of skirts even as he smiled and tried to catch her eye.

Dennis could see now how Hoss’k’s logic at the banquet would sound compelling to someone raised in this world. The misunderstanding irked him all the more because it was so unfair.

But there was nothing he could do. Kremer was keeping her in Dennis’s sight but out of earshot. And he couldn’t insult the Baron in her presence—spoiling all of his plans— just to regain favor in her eyes, could he? That would be shortsighted.

It was perplexing.

He and Arth built their still in a broad court not far from the enclosed jailyard they had escaped from only weeks before. Except for their small corner, the broad field was taken up by drilling grounds for the Baron’s troops. Near the outer wall of sharpened logs, sergeants marched militia from the town and neighboring hamlets—practicing both the ragged weapons and their equally motley bearers.

Nearer the castle, regulars in bright uniforms used then-battle-axes and halberds to slice at chunks of meat hanging from tall gibbets. The gleaming blades sheared through meat and bone alike. The chops were collected in tubs and carted off by drudges to the palace kitchens.

Even the pair of guards assigned to watch Dennis and Arth kept busy. They took turns striking each other lightly with dull blades, working on their armor.

Overhead, the Baron’s aerial patrol went through their maneuvers. Dennis watched them dive and swoop around each other, as facile as the sprightliest gliders of Earth, staying aloft for hours at a time in the day thermals near the castle. They practiced throwing clusters of small, deadly darts at ground targets in midflight.

No one else on Coylia had anything like these gliders. The innovation was said to have come one day when the observation kite the Baron himself had been riding was cut loose in an assassination attempt. Practiced to perfection as a kite, the untethered airfoil instantly went into a spinning fall.

But instead of plumeting to his death, Kremer had been caught in a powerful winter updraft. Showing unusual imagination, the Baron had recognized almost instantly that something new was involved. He concentrated desperately on practicing the unwieldly glider, rather than resigning himself to certain death, and the amazing happened. To the awe of all those watching, he and the kite had shimmered for a few moments in the sparkling nimbus of a felthesh trance. The fabric contraption changed before everyone’s eyes into something which flew!

In the end, Kremer merely broke his leg, but he had discovered a new principle in the process.

Seventeen killed and maimed “volunteers” later, he had his corps of one-, two-, and even four-man gliders. They were getting better day by day. And although Kremer never again was able to produce another felthesh, his reputation was made throughout Coylia.

Dennis watched the gliders thoughtfully. The hangar shed was guarded, and the launching tower as well. But their greatest protection was the fact that Castle Zuslik contained the planet’s only supply of trained pilots. Even if some other lord managed to steal a glider, he wouldn’t be able to practice it in time to prevent it from decaying back to a pile of sticks and string and hides.

But unbeknownst to Baron Kremer, there was one more potential pilot on Tatir.

No, Dennis shook his head. You’ve chosen a plan. Stick with it.

Arth approached, holding up a piece of condenser. “Say, Dennzz, where does this thing you called a... a gizmo… fit? Does it go into the thingumbob? Or the doohickey?” Arth pronounced each name as he had memorized it.

Dennis returned to the task of fostering an industrial revolution.

“Master, you must get dressed for the party now.”

Dennis looked up from a sheaf of notes covered with the arcane notations of anomaly mathematics.

“Oh, is it time already, Dvarah?”

The servant girl smiled and gestured over to the ancient bed by the wall. Dennis saw that she had laid out a formal dinner suit. It had fancy sleeves and a wide, puffy collar.

The girl curtsied. “Yes, my Lord. And tonight you will dress in a manner befitting your station. These garments are over two hundred years old. And the practicer we found for you has been wearing them nonstop for over a week. They have just been laundered and are ready for you now.”

Dennis looked at the suit and frowned. It wasn’t just that the clothes were frilly and decadent for his tastes. After all, he was the foreigner here and should adapt to local fashions.

But he didn’t like to think that some poor citizen of Zuslik had been shanghaied into durance style—just to practice these clothes for him.

Dvarah had been assigned to Dennis after the dinner meeting with the Baron. The pretty, petite brunette brought him his meals and tended his sumptuous new quarters.

She coughed demurely. “Master, you really mustn’t keep my Lord Baron waiting.”

Dennis cast a brief, wistful glance back at the papers on his desk. It had been fun, almost relaxing, to play with the symbols and numbers, trying to figure out how the Practice Effect came to be. While lost in the equations, Dennis could almost forget where he was, and pretend he was, once again, a comfortable terrestrial scientist with nothing at all to fear, Kremer had actually been quite generous, by his own lights. He had, for instance, given Dennis all the paper he wanted for his studies. But he had stopped at letting Dennis have any of his Earthly equipment.

There was no use complaining. Dennis had to win the warlord’s trust. Without the wrist comp, for instance, all these calculations were inevitably futile. Eventually, he was sure, Kremer would let him have his gear.

He got up to dress. Kremer was bringing together all the burghers and guildmasters tonight, to show off his new wizard. Dennis would have to put on a good show.

Dvarah came over and began unbuttoning his shirt.

The first few times it had happened, Dennis had stammered and pushed her away. But that only seemed to hurt the girl’s feelings—not to mention her professional pride. When in Rome he realized at last, and learned to relax while having things done for him.