Joseph Lewis - Halcyon

“That way.” Tycho pointed left and they followed him left.

At the end of the corridor they emerged into a large room of row upon row of shelves of books, as well as tables around which sat countless more young men in white smocks reading, writing, and yawning.

“There.” Salvator pointed to the far end of the room where Khai and his guards stood with two middle-aged scholars in white.

Qhora led the way along the right-hand wall, moving quickly and quietly behind the walls of books and scrolls until they were close enough to hear the men talking. The conversation was in Eranian, but Tycho provided a running translation.

“…and the next time that I request a document, I expect it to be delivered to me within the hour,” Khai said. “I contribute far too much time and money to this institution to be treated as a common student.”

“Sir, the blueprints that you requested are stored in the Red Room, and by the order of your own Master Rashaken, no document in the Red Room is ever to be copied or taken from the library, by anyone, for any reason,” the librarian said calmly.

“Why the hell are they in the Red Room? The original architectural drawings of Constantia are no military secret or arcane scientific knowledge. They’re just drawings!” Khai hissed.

Tycho grabbed Qhora’s sleeve. “Constantia?” he whispered.

“Keep translating,” she whispered back.

“Sir, I have my orders,” the librarian said dully. “If it is in the Red Room, then it is not to be copied or removed, but you are welcome to review them here, as always.”

Khai sneered. “Rashaken is an old man. When he dies, who do you think will be giving the orders here?”

“Most likely you, sir,” the librarian replied. “And I trust you will appreciate how precisely this institution follows your orders then, as we follow Master Rashaken’s orders now. I doubt, sir, that you would want your orders countermanded by a subordinate, even a high-ranking subordinate, particularly a high-ranking subordinate who presumes to undermine your authority on the grounds that he will one day replace you.”

Khai’s sneer twisted into an unpleasant smile. “I suppose there is something to be said for your integrity, as blind and thoughtless as it may be. Take me to the Red Room and present the drawings of Constantia. And call a scribe. I need to dictate several letters while I review the drawings.”

“Yes, sir. What languages will you require of the scribes?”

Khai sighed. “Eranian, Hellan, Raskan, and Vlachian. And Rus, if anyone knows it.”

“Very good, sir.” The librarian led Khai and the others to the end of the reading room and they disappeared through a door stained dark red.

“What is he doing?” Tycho asked. He looked from Qhora to Salvator. “What is he going to do about Constantia? Who is he going to write to? He could be planning something, anything! An invasion. A pact with the Ruslanders, or with the Vlachian prince? If he makes an alliance with Vlachia before my lady, then Constantia will be surrounded by enemies!”

“Be quiet, little man.” The Italian exhaled slowly. “No one cares about your little city.”

“I care!” Tycho snapped.

“Shut up! Both of you!” Qhora held up her hand, but she wasn’t looking at either of them. She was looking across the room to the door through which they had entered a moment ago. A man in green hurried down the center aisle, spoke briefly with one of the librarians, and then dashed to the dark red door through which Khai had left. Qhora frowned. “That doesn’t look good.”

A shout echoed from the room beyond the red door.

“Doesn’t sound good, either,” Tycho said.

The red door swung open and Khai strode out, moving so quickly he was almost running. His green guards dashed out close on his heels, the other scholars and librarians scattered to avoid them as they crossed the room, and all the while Khai muttered to his men.

When they were gone, Qhora touched Tycho’s shoulder. “He said the name Aker. I heard him. Did you hear him? What was he saying?”

“I couldn’t hear much. Something about the Bantu and Songhai and trains.”

“Trains?” Salvator frowned. “What about trains?”

“I don’t know, but they’re going there now,” Tycho said. “To the trains.”

Qhora looked at Mirari. “Trains. You said you went back to the rail yard to see the captain. Is there some chance you were followed by these Bantu or Songhai?”

“I did not think so, but…” The masked woman hesitated. “It is possible.”

“Oh, no.” Qhora started for the door. “Come! Hurry!”

She stepped back from the strange addition to the front of the Halcyon and said, “Okay, I think we’re all set up here.”

Bastet smiled. “It looks like an elephant.”

Taziri frowned at the cowl covering the propeller and the long wet hose hanging off it. “Maybe a little.” She turned her attention back to the nozzle at the other end of the hose. She’d already sealed the nozzle onto the hose and clamped a heavy electrode on the side of the nozzle so that it poked out over the opening, and now she was pawing through a small box of screws so she could wire the electrode to the Halcyon ’s battery.

“I hope the others come back soon,” Bastet said. “I really want to see your machine work.”

“So do I,” Taziri muttered as she attached the wire to the electrode. A second wire, screwed into the opposite side of the nozzle, hung down loose on the ground. She paused to study the rough assemblage of clamps, mismatched hardware, wicker basket, and equine intestinal tubing. “When I write this up for the journals, I’m going to lie about the hose. I’m sorry, I just have to.”

The young girl smiled. “Are you all done?”

“Yeah.”

“So how does it work?”

Taziri shrugged. “It’s pretty simple. We turn on the engine to spin the propeller, which blows air into the cowl, which funnels the air into the hose at high speed, and it comes out the nozzle here. That’s our fuel, compressed air. I touch this loose wire to the sword and then I throw this little switch,” she pointed to the little metal hook that had been the lid on a can of beans until recently, “and we get a little electrical spark across nozzle, right through the air stream to the sword, like a tiny bolt of lightning. If I did it right, then this spark with ignite the air stream and we will have ourselves a plasma torch.”

“How hot will it be?”

“I have absolutely no idea. Very hot, I’m guessing.” Taziri pulled out her heavy leather gloves and laid them on her knee. “So, you’re really four thousand years old?”

“Yep.”

“What was school like four thousand years ago?”

“I never went to school, but I did have a tutor for a few years. Grandfather arranged it. I learned to read and write, court etiquette, politics, poetry, history. The usual.”

“What about mathematics and science?”

Bastet shook her head. “I suppose I could, but I’m not really interested.”

Taziri frowned. “Are you sure? Because you seem pretty interested.”

The girl laughed. “No, Hasina seemed pretty interested. I’m more…amused. I like you. And I like to see new things. But I have no desire to dress like you and travel like you and scrounge for parts like you.”

Taziri nodded. “Fair enough. Do you still want to help test the plasma torch?”

“Oh yes!”

For the next few minutes, Bastet sat in the pilot’s seat while Taziri showed her how to start the Halcyon ’s engine and throttle up the power to increase the speed of the propeller. “We’ll need it at full power to get full air compression,” Taziri said. “But we only have enough fuel to run the engine for a few minutes, so we’ll have to wait for Qhora to return before we can start it. There won’t be enough fuel for even a quick test. We’ll just have to fire it up and hope for the best.”