Tylara nodded in satisfaction. "It says much for our rule. You go to bring as great a treasure as this kingdom has ever known, yet you feel safe with no more than a dozen lances."
Never thought of it that way, but I guess she's right. "We should return in two days," he said. "Sure you don't want me to leave Caradoc with you?"
"There is no need. The lands are quiet. I have more fear for you."
"Nothing will happen." Not this time, anyway. He held her close for a moment.
The trail was wide enough for two abreast, and presently Rick found himself beside his captain of archers. Caradoc was singing. The words were in the Old Speech, but the tune seemed familiar to Rick. After a moment, Caradoc turned to Rick and grinned. "An air from our wedding dances," he said proudly.
"Ah," Rick said. And aha. A song from the Top Fifty a couple of years ago. Gwen must have put new words to it.
"With your consent, I would return to the University for the winter, lord," Caradoc said.
"Certainly. I'd intended for you to be with your wife."
"I thank you." Caradoc grinned again. "It is doubly important now."
"Aha?"
"Yes. As I left, my lady told me she believes that we have been blessed by Hestia."
"Congratulations." And I really ought to cheer, Rick thought. This should make life with Tylara a bit easier…
There were a dozen cartons of cigarettes; a case of penicillin; ten bottles of Bufferin and four of vitamins; some needles and thread and sewing supplies including an ancient foot-powered sewing machine; baling wire and pliers, which Mason eagerly seized; a carton of paperback mysteries; and a box of random supplies with items as disparate as nutcrackers and soap. The rest was ammunition: cartridges for both the H amp;K and M-16 battle rifles,.45's and 9 mm for the pistols and the submachine guns, grenades, mortar bombs, and fifty rounds for the recoilless.
Tylara looked at the supplies with satisfaction. "Now they have come. Are they likely to come again this season?"
"They said not," Rick answered. "They won't be here for a long time, possibly a full Tran year. They'll probably come next fall, when we have a full crop of surinomaz."
"Then I wish to return to Castle Dravan."
"Need we go there?" Rick asked. "There is little to attack us from the west."
"I hear tales of Westmen in the High Cumac," Tylara said. "More have been seen this fall than in the previous twenty years."
The Westmen were nomads who generally stayed on the high desert above the enormous fault known as the Westscarp. "If more come, Margilos should warn us," Rick said.
Tylara snorted contempt. In times long past, Margilos had paid tribute to the Five Kingdoms. Now it was in theory an independent city state famous for breeding centaurs. "I doubt they would," Tylara said. "They're half nomad themselves. Unless one believes the old tales."
Rick looked helpless. Tylara giggled. "It is said the men of Margilos have centaur blood, and there is much debate whether the first was begotten by a man on a centaur mare, or did a lady of Drantos enjoy the favor of a centaur stallion." They laughed, then she said urgently, "It is not a joke one makes when men of Margilos are present. They are quick to anger, and when enraged they feel no pain. Like the centaurs they breed."
"I'll remember. But surely you're not worried about Westmen?"
"Then it might be better to stay here. We can't be sure the Shalnuksis won't come again until next year- and I don't want them to know we value Castle Dravan. They may find out, of course. But why help choose targets for their skyfire?"
"I do not disagree," Tylara said. "Yet the risk is worthwhile. Armagh is no comfortable place to winter. I would be in Dravan before the thaws, and travel in winter is difficult."
Something in her voice made him turn to look at her. She smiled and patted her belly.
"You too?" Rick demanded.
She frowned.
"Gwen is also pregnant. Caradoc just told me."
"Ah." Tylara laughed. "That is one child of Gwen's who will cost me no sleep." Then she came into his arms. "This time it will be a boy. I know it. And our son should be born in his own castle."
20
A hot wind blew down from the high escarpment. The day was already a scorcher, although it was only spring here in the foothill country. There ought still to have been a nip in the air. The hot air provided less lift for the balloon, too.
"She looks ready to me, Murph," said Corporal Walinski. "What about you?"
Ben Murphy looked at the twelve-foot balloon. It was already straining at the ropes held by the two archers. He tossed one more fuel brick into the fire-basket underneath it, then gripped the main rope in both large hands. For a moment he glanced back into the wagon bed where Lafe Reznick was napping, but Lafe was still asleep. Or pretending to be. "Ready to lift," Murphy reported.
"Let go on the hold-downs!" shouted Walinski. The two archers let go and stepped back, while the balloon rose freely into the afternoon air. Murphy let the rope run through the blocks mounted on the wagon until the hundred-foot mark passed, then snubbed it around the cleat by the driver's seat. The balloon was now high enough to be visible from the next village, but low enough to be controllable.
"Think she'll stay up long enough?" Walinski asked.
"Yeah, if we give the pitch fast," Murphy said. "We're getting good at the spiel. Sure is hot, though."
"Compressive heating," Walinski said.
"Which?" And where in hell did Ski learn words like that?
"They called it compressive heating back in Los Angeles," Walinski said. "A special wind, a Santa Ana. Hotter'n hell, even in winter. And dry. Real dry. That's what this is, I think. Comes down off those high deserts. As it comes down lower it compresses, just like the Santa Ana in L.A."
"Well, it sure makes it hot enough," Murphy said. Winter had been wet in Drantos. Lots of snow in the east, not so much in the west. And nowhere near as cold as the locals expected, meaning the whole damn planet was heating up right on schedule as the rogue star came closer.
Murphy pulled off his jacket and pulled his wizard's robe out from under the seat. "Hey Lafe, better wake up. Duty time."
Reznick sat up sleepily. "Anything special about this village, Ski?"
"Not that I've heard."
"Same here," Murphy said. "The standard routine." He could damned near do that in his sleep by now. Take the wagon in. Use the balloon to get everybody's attention, and show the wizards' mighty power, then bring it down. Demonstrate magic, and let the deacons and acolytes of Yatar show the local clergy about sanitation. Make holy water by literally boiling the hell out of it! Ask about madweed. Do the crop survey-what was planted and how it grew. Tell 'em about the new plows, and show the blacksmith how to make one. Have Lafe put on his weapons show, a demonstration of star weapons so they'd know what they'd face if they ever revolted against their rightful lord the Eqeta of Chelm. And "Some new orders come by messenger this morning while you both was still in the sack," Walinski said. "Find out about the Westmen."
"More been spotted?" Reznick asked.
"They didn't tell me nothing. Just orders."
Murphy sighed. If he'd been awake, he could have questioned the messenger. Fat chance Ski would ever think of doing that. Ski could fight, but he wasn't much for questions. Wasn't much for brains, for that matter. But he had seniority over Ben Murphy, because he'd stayed with Parsons and came over to Captain Galloway with Elliot. He hadn't gone south and set up on his own.