“Breakfast,” said Henry. “Picture what will happen early this morning before the sun rises, with Cook and her army rushing furiously about: baking, frying, hauling water, washing, scrubbing, kneading, mixing, pouring. From chaos comes breakfast.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan politely.
“When what you really mean is, ‘Let’s get on with this, my lord.’ And so we shall, Mr. Sloan.”
Henry turned to look at the table where all of the items he had requested were arranged: a horn of gunpowder; three pistols and a large caliber musket, each with several rounds of lead shot; ten feet of fuse; a stoppered glass vial filled with a dark liquid, and pieces of paper impregnated with wax.
“The servants?” Sir Henry asked.
The servants’ quarters were located nearby on the ground floor of the main house. He had told Sloan he did not want the servants to be alarmed or to start talking about any strange noises they might hear in the night.
“I gave Cook a message to let her know you were going to be engaged in a scientific experiment tonight, my lord. She informed the staff and then expressed her hope that the experiment did not cause the milk to sour as happened last time, in the kitchen of the city house.”
“Well, then, let’s get started.”
“What exactly would you like me to do, my lord?” Mr. Sloan asked.
“You will observe.”
Sir Henry walked over to the second of the two fireplaces, which was cold. The hearth had been swept and wood stacked preparatory for lighting in the morning.
“I have carried this tankard everywhere with me since its arrival yesterday. I slept last night with my hand upon it, to the bemusement of my lady wife.”
Sir Henry stood the tankard in the middle of the fireplace. He then returned to the table, picked up one of the pistols and, sighting down the gun’s barrel, fired a shot at the tankard. The force of the shot sent the tankard bouncing around the stone interior of the fireplace with a most ungodly clanging. Henry picked up the other pistol and shot the tankard again, with the same result. He fired a third time with the musket, almost sending the tankard up the chimney.
“Very well, Mr. Sloan, let us see what damage the tankard has sustained.”
Sloan picked it up and stared at it.
“Good God, my lord!” said Mr. Sloan, shocked into blasphemy. He looked in amazement at Sir Henry. “There’s not a scratch on it!”
He brought the tankard to Sir Henry for inspection. The metal sides were smooth and unblemished, not a dent, not a mark. Yet both men had seen the bullets strike it, seen it ricocheting about the walls of the fireplace, not once, but three times.
“Now for the ultimate test.”
Sir Henry picked up the powder horn and poured gunpowder into the tankard, filling it about halfway. He carried it to the fireplace and set it, once more, in the center. He thrust six feet of fuse into the powder in the tankard and used a piece of waxed paper to pack the powder tight. He finished by placing a log on top.
“I do love science,” said Sir Henry.
Mr. Sloan appeared dubious. “Before we bring the ceiling down on us, perhaps you could explain what you are trying to do, my lord.”
Sir Henry did not immediately answer. He walked over to one of the windows to gaze out at the lights of Haever. Lights of the country he loved.
“We know Rosia has been raiding the treasury to build up its navy, Mr. Sloan. Our Rosian enemies will attack us some time in the not-so-distant future and when they do, we will lose.”
Mr. Sloan ventured to protest. Sir Henry shook his head.
“I know our capabilities and those of our enemy. Barring a miracle, their superior ships and the vast number of troops they can hurl at us are greatly against us. Force of will and courage can stand only so long against round shot and musket fire. In the end, Freya will lose.
“Some in the government would have us sue for peace, a treaty between our two nations.” Sir Henry glanced back toward the fireplace, the tankard. “You and I are realists, Mr. Sloan. We both know that as long as Rosia exists, Freya will always be in danger. No piece of paper can overcome centuries of hatred. No, Mr. Sloan, there can be no peace.”
Sir Henry walked to the other fireplace where the fire was starting to die down. He took a punk from the mantel and lit it, then walked back to his makeshift bomb.
“I said, ‘barring a miracle.’ You are a religious man, I believe, Mr. Sloan. You may be looking at our miracle.”
Sir Henry lit the fuse and then stepped quickly back.
“Might I suggest we should retreat behind that large cupboard, my lord?” Mr. Sloan said, and he had presence of mind enough to take the horn of powder with him as he accompanied his master.
Concealed behind their shield, they watched the sparks progress as the fuse burned. There was a bright light and then the explosion.
The blast echoed off the walls, shaking loose a century of dust, and sent pots and pans crashing to the floor. The two men waited a moment for the dust to dissipate, then-ears ringing-they ventured out from behind the cabinet to inspect the damage.
The log which Sir Henry had placed on the tankard was blown to splinters, some of which were now stuck in the timber beams above their heads. Utensils littered the room, along with chunks of the stone fireplace. The kitchen was in shambles.
“Cook will not be happy with me, I fear,” observed Sir Henry.
The two men waded through the debris, searching for the tankard. At last, Mr. Sloan pulled it from the wreckage.
“My lord,” he said, awed.
Sir Henry examined the tankard. The two men stared at each other.
The sides were slightly dented, and the bottom of the handle had come off, but the tankard itself was still intact.
“Play devil’s advocate, Mr. Sloan,” said Sir Henry.
“This is simple magic, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “Some crafter has strengthened this tankard with magical constructs.”
“Do you see any constructs on the vessel, Mr. Sloan? As I recall, you have some talent for magic.”
“I am not a crafter, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “I lack the power to create magical constructs. I do, however, have some small abilities as a channeler, which means I can use existing constructs to cause the desired magical effect.”
Sir Henry smiled. “You are a humble man, Mr. Sloan.”
“As God requires us all to be, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan gravely.
“Which is your humble way of saying that if there were any magical constructs hidden on this tankard, you would see them.”
“The sigils that cause the magic would be visible to me, yes, my lord.” Mr. Sloan studied the tankard with narrowed eyes. He peered inside it and turned it upside down.
“No sigils, my lord.” He looked at Sir Henry with astonishment. “And yet, this must be magic, my lord.”
“Either magic or a miracle sent to us by Our Heavenly Father, Mr. Sloan. And I doubt if Our Heavenly Father is taking an unusual interest in tankards these days,” said Sir Henry dryly.
He was trying to appear calm, but he heard the slight tremor of excitement in his voice and he knew Sloan could hear it, too, by his next question.
“My lord,” said Mr. Sloan, after a moment’s hesitation, “if this is magic and yet we see no magic what are we looking at?”
“The future of warfare, Mr. Sloan,” said Sir Henry. “We have tested it and found it worthy. This simple tankard does not hold ale. It holds victory.”
Mr. Sloan did not understand, but he was not there to understand. He was there to follow orders, and Sir Henry was now proceeding to issue them.
“We have much to do and very little time to do it. I am going to set in motion Operation ‘Braffa,’ as we discussed. A trifle earlier than I had intended to move, but I need the eyes of Rosia to be looking in a different direction, and destabilizing the government of one of her allies should do that nicely. Meanwhile I need you to ride with all speed to my good friend, Admiral Baker. He will be in bed, but you will wake him and give him a note.”