With Dovian’s consent, they brought out the prisoner. His hands bound and clothing shredded, he stood timid and begrimed at the center of this whirlwind, a trickle of congealed blood on his upper lip. He sometimes needed to be prodded or cuffed, threatened or kicked, but he answered the questions put to him. What he said only fired the group’s enthusiasm.
Spratling let them talk, amazed at how easily they lost their grip on reality. There were some monumental obstacles before them, but in their frenzy nobody mentioned any of them. Leeka offered little. Even Dovian seemed to believe their scheming served a purpose. Only when the banter slowed did Dovian clear his throat and speak.
“It’s fine to imagine, isn’t it?” He pushed himself upright and walked a slow circle in front of the group. Despite his age and ill health, the man still commanded attention, even when he was just drawing a circle in the sand with his massive feet. “I know it’s fine to imagine. And you all know that I’ve a history with the platforms. I saw them once when I was young. Just sailed by them, we did, taunting like. Had an entire fleet chase us from the place and hunt us so far north we saw chunks of ice floating in the sea. Almost killed us, that little stunt. But I saw them. They’re like you imagine and even more unbelievable than that.”
He stopped walking. He looked about a moment, inadvertently seeking the walking stick he had tossed away recently. Noticing himself, he straightened and looked about, his eyes moving from one face to another. “We cannot have their treasure, though. That’s not what we’re about here. An entire army could not besiege the place, and we don’t have an army anyway. And their riches…Truth be told, I don’t want them. Slaves, you talk about? Concubines? Come on, now. I’ve never minded a bit of plunder. Never minded taking what I wanted. Raiding is honest work, right? We do it with our hands, with our guts. What the league traffics in is a whole different level of misery altogether. You don’t want that, friends. You might, however, want to wipe them from the face of the world. You want rewards? How about the love of all the children who won’t be sold across the ocean? How about the thanks their parents would heap on you? How about just knowing that you’ve changed the world for the better?”
Dovian paused a moment, searching faces for the answer. His eyes passed over Spratling’s, but he did not show him scrutiny any different from the others. “What I’m saying is that there’s only one thing we can do with this key, and it’s the thing we should do with it.”
None of the raiders, who had moments before been keen on plunder, raised a complaint. Such was Dovian’s influence among them. The planning took no time at all really, as the venture was one more of pure nerveless courage than anything else. The mission, as Dovian explained it, was fundamentally simple. They had only three hurdles to overcome: getting to the platforms undetected and using the pilot’s knowledge to find the right gate, inserting the key and hoping that the locks had not been changed, and finding a particular warehouse. He believed that each of these challenges was achievable.
For example, as they made their approach they had mainly to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Stable and massive as the platforms were, the league was unlikely to expect any sort of an attack. They had gone unchallenged for several hundred years and certainly would not fear a single small vessel. “They might notice a small ship, true. But then again they might not. They won’t be looking for it, that’s for sure. There’s no navy in the world to threaten them, and they wouldn’t dream we’d try what we’re going to.” Still, of course, they had to be careful. There was an atoll less than a day’s sail from the platforms. If they launched themselves from it, timed correctly, with the right sailing conditions, they would be able to reach their target under the cover of night.
The question of the key still being useful was another matter. “What if they’ve changed the locks?” several asked in a quick chorus. “Or placed guards on the entry points?”
Dovian did not think a few months was enough time, even if they had wanted to change the locks. The workmanship of the key was such that it could not be easily replaced or altered. Moreover, only a handful of leaguemen carried a key like this. They swore to guard them with their lives.
“Whoever was meant to protect this one didn’t do so,” Leeka said. “He didn’t accompany it, and he sent it on an unprotected ship. He was fool enough to leave the key on that ship, and I’m betting he hasn’t reported its loss. To do so would mean his death. Even men of the league cherish life, right?” The general directed this question at the prisoner.
The man answered, dejected, “More so than anyone but myself, I’d say.”
“He’s hoping we don’t know what it is,” Dovian said. “We didn’t, did we? Spratling there was wearing it about his neck as a souvenir. He could as easily have melted it down or tossed it over his shoulder without a thought about it. If you were the leagueman, would you give up your life for the vague possibility that anybody would recognize this for what it is and conceive of how to use it?”
There was, finally, the matter of what to do once they reached the platforms. This, however, Dovian seemed to feel the most confident about. Of the many different quadrants of the floating platforms, one in particular was set away from the rest, separated by a long pontoon pier. “The pitch warehouses,” he said. “The place they make the stuff and the place they store it. There’s no more combustible substance on the earth. We’ve all seen it in action. It flares with the touch of a spark and burns like holy hell, even underwater. All we have to do is get near the stuff and strike a spark to it. It’ll blow the place to pieces. It’ll throw great globs of the stuff high enough that plenty of it’ll land on other platforms. It’ll make a right mess of the place. Believe it.”
Spratling, despite finding himself sidelined in all of this discussion, felt his body tingle with the possibilities. It was an incredible idea, a scheme bold and righteous enough that they had to attempt it. But there was a flaw in it. “Somebody has to light that spark,” he said. “However, that one will not make it off the platform alive.”
Dovian looked annoyed that he had brought this up, but the others stopped to consider it. Geena suggested a fuse to delay the explosion. They could shoot a flaming arrow, a young raider put forward. Another proposed catapulting another “pill” over the walls. But all these ideas were flawed enough that they had to be rejected. Long fuses were unreliable. They might burn out themselves or be discovered as they sizzled and crackled slowly forward. If a guard came across such as that, he could squash their plans with the toe of his boot, just like that. An arrow or catapulted pill-even if they found the layout conducive to such an attack-would still mean an immediate explosion that might well take the entire crew with it. No, to survive they had to be well away. One of them had to light the pitch from up close and make sure it was going to blow. It was too harebrained a plan otherwise, too likely to fail.
“Well, how about this, then,” Dovian said. “When we get to the platform, we’ll draw lots to see who goes in. Each of us that crews the Ballan will draw. If you aren’t willing to be the one, then don’t go. Step out right now. Each of us that sails will draw, and the one with the mark will go. It may seem a strange thing to decide by chance, but we’ll plan to lose only one. That one’ll be taking more than a few leaguers with him.”