David Brin - The Practice Effect

“We’ll do that,” Dennis said, nodding.

“You’ll be back ag’in, Dennizz!” Tomosh promised as he whacked the Earthman on the thigh affectionately. “You ’n my pop an’ the Royal Scouts’ll come back an’ fix old Kremer once and for all!”

Dennis tousled the boy’s hair. “Maybe so, Tomosh.”

Arth clucked to the donkey. The crude cart squeaked up the dark, sloping road. Dennis had to push for an uphill stretch. When he looked back, Surah and her son were gone.

Except for the narrow, mirror-focused beam of their small oil lantern, the night was black all around them. The wind brushed through the trees lining the highway. Even on the smooth, superresilient highway, the cart thumped and bumped and shook. Linnora bore it bravely. She plucked her klasmodion softly, with a dreamy, distant expression on her face.

She was already hard at work, using her L’Toff talents to help the cart practice.

On Earth the rickety contraption could be expected to fall apart anytime from a few minutes to a few hours after construction. Here, though, it was a race between wear and practice. If only it lasted long enough, the thing would get better. Maybe.

Dennis pushed the noisy cart, wishing the pixolet was around to help.

Murris Demsen, commander of the Green Lion company of the Royal Scouts, poured another cup of winter wine for Prince Linsee, then looked to see if anyone else wanted a refill.

The boy from Zuslik, young Gath, nodded and grinned. The winter wine of the L’Toff was about the best thing he had ever tasted. He was already well on his way toward getting tipsy.

Stivyung Sigel held his hand over his goblet. He knew the potency of the stuff from his days in the Scouts.

“The latest word is that Kremer’s patrols have been applying pressure all along the border,” Demsen said. The gangly scout commander put down the beautiful, ancient decanter and pulled a sheaf of notes from a folder. “There are also reports that the baronies of Tarlee and Trabool are mobilizing, and setting up outposts in L’Toff territory. Even Baron Feif-dei appears to be getting ready for war”

“That is indeed bad news,” Prince Linsee said. “I had counted him a friend.”

Stivyung Sigel stood slowly. He bowed to Prince Linsee, to Demsen, and to Linsee’s son, the brown-haired Prince Proll.

“Sirs, I must ask once again for permission to return to my home. You say my wife is no longer here. Therefore I must go to her and my son. And once I see that they are safe, there are friends I must try to help, who at this moment languish in the tyrant’s dungeons.”

Prince Linsee looked to Demsen, then back at Sigel. He sighed. “Stivyung, have you heard nothing? The border is closed! Any day now we expect to be under attack! You can’t make it over the pass while it’s choked with troops!”

Demsen agreed. “Sit down, Stivyung. Your place is here. I need you, Prince Linsee needs you, your King needs you. We can’t let you throw your life away.”

At the end of the table Prince Proll slammed his own goblet down. “And why stop him?” the young man demanded. “Why should you stand in his way?”

“My son…” Linsee began.

“He, at least, is willing to take chances—to dare all to rescue those he cares for! Meanwhile, we let Linnora suffer in the clutches of that amoral spawn of tree lizards, Kremer! Tell me, what good will waiting do when the forces of all the baronies west of the Fingal march on us? Oh, for the gods’ sakes, let Sigel go! And let me strike while they can still be taken one at a time!”

Linsee and Demsen shared a look of exasperation. They had been through this too many times of late.

“We shall strike, my son,” Linsee said at last. “But first we must prepare. Stivyung and Gath have brought us this ‘balloon’ device of the alien wizard’s—”

“Which is nothing compared with the weapons the alien has given Kremer! What good is it, anyway? It was ripped to uselessness when Sigel landed!”

“It was damaged, yes, Prince,’ Demsen said. “But it is almost repaired. Duplicates are being made and practiced. Why, this may be the very thing we have been looking for—a way to counter Kremer’s gliders! I will grant that I do not yet see how it will be used, but what we most need is time. My scouts and your companies must buy Prince Linsee time!

“Meanwhile, young Gath and Sigel, my old comrade-in-arms, must do their part in supervising the making of more balloons—”

“Making! What can you accomplish by making? ” The young prince turned and spat on the fire. He sank back into his chair.

“My son, do not blaspheme. Making is as honorable as practicing, for according to the Old Belief, did we not once have the power to make life itself? Before the blecker threw us down to savagery?”

Proll stared at the fire, and finally nodded. “I will try to control my temper, Father.”

Still, they all knew Proll had a point. It took time to make things. And even among the L’Toff it took more time still to practice them. Time was something Kremer wasn’t about to give them.

In all their minds, also, was the dread of how Kremer intended to use his hostage. Would he display Linnora at the battlefield? The effect on the morale of the troops could be devastating if Kremer timed his move right. And Kremer was a past master of timing.

Conversation lapsed. Finally Demsen unrolled the grand map, and he and the Prince examined still more ways to distribute their meager forces against the hordes they expected soon.

Young Gath paid little attention to the talk of strategy. He was not a soldier. But he was an… an engineer, Dennis Nuel had taught him that word, and he liked the flavor of it.

Gath felt certain that the key to saving the L’Toff—and eventually rescuing Dennis and Arth and the Princess—lay in perfecting the balloons. So far Gath had been kept busy just supervising the repair of the original and the construction and practice of new models. But that didn’t keep him from turning his mind to new design problems.

Such as how to use them in battle! How could one make the balloon go where one wanted it to go and then keep it there? It had been almost impossible to maneuver the first balloon in their escape from Zuslik. Only a small miracle of wind had taken it into the mountains where he and Stivyung wanted to go. From their landing site it had taken days to seek out the fastness of the L’Toff.

Somehow there must be a way, he thought.

Paper was much too valuable for casual doodling. So Gath dipped his finger in the wine and traced out sketches on the beautifully ancient, varnished tabletop.

Baron Kremer sat in bed, a pile of reports spread wide on the silky, ancient coverlet. He worked doggedly, reading messages from the other great lords of the west, who were due to arrive soon for a meeting he had called.

Those messages were satisfying to read, for not one of the western barons and counts had demurred.

But the rest of this garbage! There were reams of lists of accounts to be paid for war materiel. There were bills from hundreds of freeborn practicers, requisitioned for the duration, and complaints from the guilds over his demand of even greater subsidies for his campaign against the liberal King.

The pile was daunting. Paperwork was the one thing in this world that Kremer feared.

If anyone noticed that the Baron’s lips moved as he read, nobody said anything. The three scribes who assisted him also carefully averted their eyes from the purple welt that discolored their overlord’s left temple.

Kremer slammed down a long scroll.

“Words, words, words! Is this what it means to carve out an empire? To conquer, only to wade neck deep into a storm of paper?”