“You have need of me? Does this mean…?” Paradoxically, in the moment he began to entertain hope Toller was unmanned by a pang of death-fear which cooled his brow and stilled his voice.
“It means I’m prepared to forget about your stupidity of the foreday.”
“Majesty, I’m grateful… truly grateful,” Toller managed to say. Inwardly he promised: I’ll never fail you again, Gesalla.
“And so you should be!” Chakkell led the way out of the cell block, through a gateway whose guards sprang to attention, and into the parade ground in which, seemingly an aeon ago, Toller had faced Karkarand.
“This must concern the skyship we saw,” Toller said. “Was it really from Land?”
“We will talk in private.”
Toller and Chakkell, still accompanied by guards, entered the rear of the palace and went through corridors to an undistinguished doorway. Walking behind the King, Toller had detected the soupy smell of bluehorn sweat from his clothing, and the indication of hard riding intensified his interest. Chakkell dismissed his men with a wave and brought Toller into a modestly proportioned apartment in which the only furnishings were a round table and six plain chairs.
“Read that.” Chakkell handed Toller the dispatch book, took a seat at the table and stared down at his clenched fists. His deeply tanned scalp was glistening with perspiration and it was obvious that he was highly agitated. Deciding it would be unwise to ask any preliminary questions, Toller sat down at the opposite side of the table and opened the book. The reading difficulties he had known as a young man had faded over the years, and it took him only a few minutes to go through the pages of pencilled script, even though the characters were wildly distorted in places. When he had finished he closed the book and set it down, suddenly aware of blood stains on the cover.
Head still lowered, Chakkell looked up from under his brows, eyes showing white crescents. “Well?”
“Is Colonel Gartasian dead?”
“Of course he’s dead—and from what is written there he could be the first of many,” Chakkell said. “The question is, what can be done? What can we do about these diseased upstarts?”
“Do you think this Rassamarden really intends to invade? It seems an unreasonable course for one who has an empty world at his disposal.”
Chakkell pointed at the book. “You saw what Gartasian said. We are not dealing with reasonable people, Maraquine. It was Gartasian’s opinion that they are all unhinged to some extent, and their ruler could be the worst of the lot.”
Toller nodded. “It is often the way.”
“Don’t take too many liberties,” Chakkell warned. “You have more skyship experience than any other man in Kolcorron, and I want your views about how we can defend ourselves.”
“Well…” For a few seconds Toller was distracted by an upsurge of something like joy, immediately followed by feelings of shame and remorse. What kind of a man was he? He had barely finished vowing never again to set anything above the blessed peace of a contented domestic existence, and now his heart was quickening at the thought of participating in an entirely new kind of warfare. Could it be some kind of reaction to the discovery that he was not about to be executed, that life would continue—or was he a fatally flawed human being in the pattern of the long-dead Prince Leddravohr? The latter possibility was almost too much to contemplate.
“I am waiting,” Chakkell said impatiently. “Don’t tell me that the crisis is of so great a magnitude as to still your tongue.”
Toller took a deep breath and exhaled it in a sigh. “Majesty, assuming that a contest does take place, fate has dictated the terms. We cannot carry the battle to the enemy, and for obvious reasons these so-called New Men must never be permitted to set foot on our world. That leaves us but one course of action.”
“Which is?”
“Exclusion! A barrier! We must wait for the ships in the weightless zone—midway between the two worlds—and destroy them as they labour up from Land. It is the only way.”
Chakkell studied Toller’s face, appraising his sincerity. “From what I remember of the mid-passage the air was too cold and thin to support life for any length of time.”
“We need ships of a different design. The gondolas need to be larger, and totally enclosed. And sealed to retain air and heat. Perhaps we will even use firesalt to thicken the air. All that and more will be necessary if we are to remain in the weightless zone for long periods.”
“Can it be done?” Chakkell said. “You seem to be talking about veritable fortresses suspended in the sky. The weight…”
“On the old skyships we were able to lift twenty passengers, plus essential supplies. That is a considerable weight, and we may be able to attach two balloons to one lengthened gondola so as to double the carrying capacity.”
“It’s worth thinking about.” Chakkell stood up and paced around the table, frowning at Toller all the while. “I believe I’m going to create a new post, especially for you,” he finally said, it shall be… Sky Marshal… with complete responsibility for the aerial defence of Overland. You will be answerable to none but me, and will have the power to draw on any resource you need—human or material—for the successful prosecution of your task.”
Toller was uplifted by the prospect of having purpose and direction restored to his life, but to his own surprise he felt reluctant to let himself be borne away on the tide of Chakkell’s ideas. If he could be marked down for execution in one minute and raised to an exalted office in the next, then he was nothing more than a creature of the King, a puppet without dignity or a true identity of his own.
“If I decide to accept your commission,” he said, “there are certain…”
“If you decide to accept! If!” Chakkell kicked his vacated chair aside, slammed his hands down on the table and leaned across it. “What’s the matter with you, Maraquine? Would you be disloyal to your own King?”
“Only this foreday my own King sentenced me to death.”
“You know I wouldn’t have permitted things to go that far.”
“Do I?” Toller did not hide his scepticism. “And you refused me the single favour for which I begged.”
Chakkell looked genuinely baffled. “What are you talking about?”
“The life of the farmer, Spennel.”
“Oh, that\” Chakkell briefly turned his gaze towards the ceiling, showing his exasperation. “Here’s what I will do, Maraquine. The execution may well have been delayed because of all the commotion in the city. I’ll send a messenger with all speed, and if your esteemed friend is still alive his life will be spared. Does that satisfy you? I hope it satisfies you, because there is nothing more I can do.”
Toller nodded uncertainly, wondering if the voice of his conscience could be silenced so easily. “The messenger must leave at once.”
“Done!” Chakkell turned and nodded towards a panelled wall in which Toller could discern no apertures, then dropped into a chair beside the one he had overturned. “Now we must draw up our plans. Are you able to sketch a design for the sky fortresses?”
“I think so, but I want Zavotle with me,” Toller said, naming the man who had flown with him in the days of the old Skyship Experimental Squadron, and who had later been one of the four royal pilots in the Migration. “I believe he flies one of your courier ships, Majesty, so locating him should be a simple matter.”
“Zavotle? Isn’t that the one with the peculiar ears? Why do you choose him?”
“He is very clever, and we work well together,” Toller said. “I need him.”
Still in his mid-forties, liven Zavotle looked too young to have been in command of a royal skyship at the time of the mass flight from Land. His body had thickened only a little with the passage of the years, his hair remained dark and was still cropped, emphasising the protrusion of his tiny, in-folding ears. He had joined Toller and Chakkell within ten minutes of being summoned from the adjacent airfield, and his yellow aircaptain’s uniform showed signs of having been hastily removed from a closet.