David Brin - The Practice Effect

The scribes looked down, knowing their Lord’s questions were rhetorical.

“This!” Kremer shook a roll out. It spread like a long, thin flag to float out over the floor. The fine sheet was in itself worth nearly a peasant’s yearly income. “The guilds cavil over a pittance! A pittance that will win them security and me a crown! Do they want Hymiel and his rabble to have their way in the east?”

Kremer growled and shoved the stack aside. Reports flew out across the floor. The scribes scuttled to recover them.

Taking a moment’s satisfaction, Kremer watched them stack the sheets and rolls. But it was a poor distraction from the nagging little irritations that seemed to abound on the very eve of his triumph!

The guilds were useful, he reminded himself—besides serving as rich allies. For instance, the monopoly of the paper guild kept their product rare and expensive. If the stuff were cheap, the number of reports would probably double, or even triple!

Kremer chafed. He had been told to stay in bed by the palace physician—an old gentleman who had treated him as a child, arid one of the few men alive whom he respected. He had to be healthy in a week’s time, when the main campaign against the King was to begin. Without good cause, he couldn’t justify breaking the doctor’s advice. The advance against the L’Toff was a sideshow that his commanders were competent to handle without his presence.

Everything seemed to be going according to plan. Still, he half hoped for an emergency just to have an excuse to get out of here!

Kremer’s fist pounded on his thigh. The tension brought back the twinge in his temple. He winced and brought up a hand to touch the spot, gingerly.

Ah, there will be an accounting, he thought. There will be much to pay for this. A certain individual owes much.

From under his pillow he drew out Dennis Nuel’s metal knife, now practiced to a razor edge. He contemplated the shiny steel while his scribes waited silently for him to return from wherever he had gone.

What pulled the Baron back from his feral reverie was an explosion that blew the curtains about like cracking whips. The delicate windows bowed and rattled in their frames as the detonation pealed like thunder.

Kremer threw aside the coverlet, sending the papers flying again. He strode quickly between the blowing curtains onto the balcony and looked out onto the courtyard. He saw men running toward an area just under the wall out of view. Shouts carried from the site of the commotion.

Kremer grabbed his two-hundred-year-old robe. The senior physician was not present, but his assistant protested that the Baron was unready, yet, to venture outside.

Being picked up by the shirtfront and thrown halfway across the room changed the fellow’s mind. He quickly pronounced his Lordship ambulatory and scuttled away.

Kremer hurried downstairs, his bedrobe flapping about his ankles. Four members of his personal guard, all intensely loyal clansmen from the northern highlands, clicked into step behind him. He strode quickly downstairs and out into the courtyard. There he found the scholar Hoss’k poking through a pile of charred wood splinters and pottery shards.

Kremer caught up short, staring at the wreckage of the distillery Dennis Nuel had built. Steam rose from twisted, blackened tubing. The deacon stood in the midst, coughing and waving smoke away. The scholar’s resplendent red robes were singed and soot-coated.

“What is the meaning of this!” Kremer demanded. At once the soldiers who had been gawking at the wreckage turned and snapped to attention. The slaves who had been in charge of the distillery dropped to their bellies in abasement.

Except for three who took no notice of him. One of the latter was clearly dead. The other two cringed not from him, but from their own badly seared hands and arms. Pantrywomen were working to bandage the wounded.

Hoss’k bowed low. “My Lord, I have made a discovery!”

From his appearance, Hoss’k must have been here when the disaster occurred. Knowing Hoss’k, that implied the man had caused all this somehow, by meddling with Dennis Nuel’s beverage manufacturing device.

“You have made a catastrophe!” Kremer shouted as he looked about at the ruins. “The one thing I was able to squeeze out of that wizard—before he betrayed my hospitality and made off with a valuable hostage—was this distillery! I had counted on its products to bring me great wealth in trade! And now you, you and your meddling—”

Hoss’k held up his hand placatingly. “My Lord… you did instruct me to study the essence of the alien wizard’s devices. And as I was stymied by most of his other possessions, I decided to see if I could discover how this one works,”

Kremer regarded him, his expression ominous. Onlookers glanced at each other, making silent wagers over the scholar’s expected life-span.

“You’d better have discovered the essence behind the still,” Kremer threatened, “ before you destroyed it. Much depends on your ability to rebuild it. You might find it hard to practice your fancy clothes without a head on your shoulders.”

Hoss’k protested, “I am a member of the clergy!”

At one look from Kremer, Hoss’k ducked down and nodded vigorously. “Oh, be not concerned, my Lord. It will be easy to rebuild the device, my Lord. Indeed, the principle was devilishly clever and simple. You see, this pot here—er, what is left of the pot—contained wine that was made to boil slowly, but the vapors from the boiling were restrained—”

“Spare me the details.” Kremer waved the man to be silent. His headache was getting worse. “Consult with the crew. I want to know how long it will take to get it running again!”

Hoss’k bowed and hurriedly turned to talk to the surviving members of the distillery gang.

The Baron stepped over an injured soldier. The palace midwife who had been tending the moaning man’s wounds scuttled to get out of his way.

Even as he walked through the ruins, Kremer’s mind was turning back to his main preoccupation—how to distribute his forces to recapture the wizard and Princess Linnora, and how simultaneously to begin his campaign against the L’Toff.

The alliance was shaping up well. A squadron of his gliders had gone on tour, impressing the gentry for a hundred miles to the east, north, and south, and cowing the restive peasantry by playing up to the traditional superstition regarding dragons.

All the great lords would be here shortly for a meeting. Kremer planned an impressive demonstration for them.

Still, the barons would not be enough. He would need mercenaries, too, and it would take more than demonstrations to acquire those!

Money, that was the key! And not this paper trash that kept its value by an artificially maintained scarcity, but real, metal money! With enough money Kremer could buy the services of free companies and bribe every great noble in the realm! No demonstrations or rumors of magical weapons could match the effect of cool, hard cash!

And now this idiot deacon had destroyed the number one money-maker Kremer had been counting on!

“Uh, my Lord?”

Kremer turned. “Yes, scholar?”

Hoss’k bowed once more as he caught up with the Baron. Hoss’k’s black hair was coated with soot.

“My Lord, I did not intend, in experimenting with the still, to destroy it… I—”

“How long will it take?” Kremer growled.

“Only a few days to begin getting small quantities—”

“I don’t care about the making ! How long will it take until the new still is practiced to the level of performance the old one had reached this morning?”

Hoss’k looked very pale under his sooty coating. “Ten— twenty—” His voice squeaked.