"That's encouraging. I'd hate to have to protect fifty square destads of lake and mountain."
Ish rolled up the map. "So. All questions answered? Good. Everybody go away. Now I can finally get some sleep."
As Doc turned away to follow the others, she caught him by the collar. "Not you." She smiled up at him. "I insist on company."
Harris took a walk around the village, followed everywhere by two children and an old woman who seemed fascinated by his every move but too shy to talk to him.
Though the pyramid and the other buildings on the plaza around it were stone, he saw that the houses of the villagers were not just made of wood—they seemed constructed of living trees. New branches budded from the wall poles driven into the earth. Vines and ferns sprouted out of the thatch roofs. He saw women at work pruning their houses.
Near the village and all around the lake, he could see fields of what looked like tall grass; wind would stir the plants in great rolling waves. These weren't the sort of fields he was used to from Iowa. They grew up the slopes of the mountains, some at angles of forty-five degrees or more. He saw men working them, pulling waist-high bushes and weeds free and hurling them downslope. He walked alongside the field nearest the village and saw that the tall grass was actually corn—or maize, most likely.
The ground was so warm he felt it through his leather soles, and though the air was thin and cold, the water in the lake stayed comfortable—he dipped his hand into it and decided that it was somewhere around eighty degrees.
All through his walk, he heard the screeching from the forest he'd thought must be birds—big, ugly ones from the sound of them. But when he returned to the
Frog Prince,
Caster told him they were howler monkeys. "Best get used to their noise," the arcanologist said. "You don't have much choice."
Half a bell after the display of roiling water, it happened again. This time Harris sat cross-legged on the dock and watched the whole event, from the first boiling patch to the disappearance of the steam cloud far overhead.
Alastair stepped out of the plane onto the port water wing. "Ladislas is taking first watch, at four bells. I relieve him at five bells."
"I'll take the watch at six bells, then." Harris frowned. "Ixyail is a weird one. What was all that talk about bombs?"
The doctor smiled. "It was just talk; she's very excitable. She actually is a rebel, an enemy of the Aluxian government, and they would arrest and execute her if they knew she were here. But she confines herself to spying and sabotage. No attacks on the innocent."
"Good. Is Doc serious about her?"
Alastair shrugged. "It's complicated. But they've been friends and lovers for some time."
"Oh. I just sort of thought, the way he jumps into every bad situation that comes along, that he'd have sworn off relationships until he was retired or something."
"What sort of idiot would punish himself that way?" The doctor looked offended.
"Just a thought. Never mind. I'll see you at six bells." Harris rose and breezed past the doctor to return to his bunk.
Three days passed.
Gaby spent some time each day before the talk-box. With each attempt, the use of her ability became easier . . . and more difficult.
It was easier to project herself into the mind and room of Gabrielle. She could do that almost effortlessly. Each time, it took longer for her to feel the pressure that promised pain.
But on the second day, lying in her bunk, she put herself in Gabrielle's room . . . and could not hear the hiss of voices. The room was peaceful. She never felt pressure behind her eyes. She could not find the Grid.
The next morning, she began experimenting. Her practice went as usual from the lounge of the
Frog Prince
. But from any other cabin, from outside the plane, she failed to reach the Grid.
"I don't get it," she complained to Doc.
He considered for a moment before answering. "Gaby, in uniting you with Gabrielle, it may be that I have fatally compromised your Gift. It may be a thing that belongs to dreaming. Giving your waking mind access to it may have damaged it. May continue to do so. It could be a delicate machine, and it may be burning out from overuse or unaccustomed wear."
"Damn." She turned her thoughts away from the loss she might be facing. "I heard Duncan a few minutes ago."
"What was he saying?"
"I only heard a snatch of conversation, very faint. Something about the lake being effectively sealed off, and then a few words about something being in place." She gave him an apologetic look. "I couldn't get any more. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. We're now sure his people are in the vicinity. Things could happen anytime now. If you can, keep listening . . . but don't tire yourself to excess."
"I won't," she lied.
In the darkness of the dock, Harris shivered. He wouldn't have believed that the air could turn so cold after dark. Every morning when he'd awakened, bowls of standing water had been frozen over the top.
A distant buzz, like an insistent insect, intruded on his thoughts. He stood at the edge of the dock and tried to spot the source of the noise, but all he did see was the sudden flaring of a signal fire atop the mountain peak on the other side of the lake.
A plane, it had to be a plane. He stuck his head through the hatch into the
Frog Prince
. "Up and at 'em!" he shouted. "There's a plane coming in!" Then he trotted up the slope to the village and hammered the frame of the curtained doorway to Ish's hut. "Doc! Incoming!"
By the time he got back to the plane, Doc's associates were stumbling out of it, some half-dressed, all clutching weapons. They turned in the direction of the noise. The buzzing increased slowly in volume, but still there was nothing to see.
"It's a Hammerling engine," Noriko said. "Hear the way it misses? It's not in good repair." Harris wondered where Welthow and Ladislas were, but not for long; one engine on the
Frog Prince
coughed into life, its propeller spinning. A second engine followed.
Alastair cast off the lines lashing the plane to the dock and joined the others. "Get moving," he said, though the pilots could not hear him. Then something caught his attention and he pointed. "There. Low, at eight bells."
Everyone looked slightly left of straight ahead.
A triplane—something Harris had never seen outside of pictures in a book. Almost invisible in the faint light cast by the crescent moon, it came at them just feet above the water. Harris winced. The
Frog Prince
was moving, but couldn't possibly get clear before—
It opened fire. Angry gouts of flame erupted from the plane. Twin lines of water-spray erupted from the lake's surface and converged on the
Frog Prince
.
People scattered, Caster and Noriko leaping into the water. Bullets tore into the
Frog Prince
and sent wood chips flying. One engine coughed and died immediately. The triplane roared past, a mere six feet above the plane it had just strafed, climbing to keep from slamming into the mountain slope ahead.
Alastair stood and opened up with his autogun. His long burst didn't seem to affect the attacker. Doc, hopping on one foot as he struggled to pull a boot onto the other, joined his associates.
Harris helped Caster and Noriko out of the water. He took an anxious look at the
Frog Prince
; only one engine was running, and it was sputtering, but in dim light from the cockpit he could see Welthy and Ladislas moving, and they didn't appear to be hurt.
Villagers emerged from their huts. Many more, Harris saw, merely peeked from curtained doorways.
The attacking plane continued to climb, then wheeled around in a counterclockwise circle and headed toward the Castilian fort. It passed over the ruined structure . . . and Harris saw a flash of rocket trail as something fired out of the cockpit into the center of the old fortress.
The plane passed over the castle and began a gentle turn. There was a flash of light from the interior of the structure; it illuminated the mountain slope behind.
Doc struck his forehead. "Damn me for an idiot. I forgot about Duncan's paint-spraying missile. They didn't
need
to bring the equipment in by lorry!" He charged toward the fort.
The others followed, spreading out. But the triplane angled toward them, firing again, its bullets plowing indiscriminately through the huts of the people of Itzamnál.
This time everyone returned fire, sending lead into the aging triplane's flanks and belly. Alastair put a good burst into its side; Harris saw its cockpit riddled with holes. When the plane was past, they rose and began running again.
The triplane waggled its wings. It didn't look to Harris like a celebration of victory; it seemed to be slewing out of control. It turned to pass once more over the castle. Then it climbed at an ever-increasing angle, as if the pilot sought to reach the silvery arc of the moon.
The plane continued its arc until it stood on its tail. Harris heard the engine catch and fail. Then the plane heeled over and dropped, spinning, an unaerodynamic fall, to smash into the far wall of the castle.
Doc was almost to the castle gate when automatic gunfire erupted from the entrance into the fortress.
Harris saw him go down. Doc continued into a controlled tumble, getting clear of the trail, finishing up behind a gentle rise in the earth; apparently unhurt, he returned fire with his pistol. Alastair joined him, went prone, and opened fire with his Klapper.
Harris left the trail and scrambled upslope. In a few seconds he was at right angles to the castle entrance, out of sight of its defenders. He cut across toward the fortress' western wall. This wall stood tall and unbroken, portions of it lighter and in better repair than others; its upper reaches were overgrown with the wooden framework the repairmen had been working from. Perhaps he could find a dangling rope or a rough patch of original wall to climb.
Below, he saw Doc's other associates spreading out from the trail, returning fire against Blackletter's men.
There was a brief whoosh and the sky above the castle lit up. It didn't look like the pyrotechnics that had erupted from Adennum Complex. Harris guessed that the crashed plane was on fire.
Above the gunfire, he heard the rattling of a generator and the faint suggestion of chanting. But he trotted the entire length of the west wall and found no way up.
"Harris!"
He spun. Joseph stood at the bottom of the wall toward the castle's front face. Harris ran downslope to join him.
Joseph pointed. "You want to go up?"
"It's a hell of a good idea."
"Get on my back."
Harris did. He wrapped his arms around Joseph's neck. On account of the "cheese-grater" he was wearing, he wasn't willing to settle in against Joseph; he had to keep his knees pressed to the giant's back.
Joseph didn't seem to mind. He started climbing.
His hands seemed to find every crack between the stones of the wall. To Harris, it seemed as though his fingers settled, even oozed, into the gaps. Joseph hauled himself up with great speed and utter confidence. Harris took a look at the ground below and waited for fear of heights to claim him as it had at the construction site, but it didn't.
In moments, he was able to step off onto the highest of the wooden repair walkways. There was a coil of rope on the walkway. He quickly tied it off and then kicked it over the side; it unrolled as it fell. Then he stepped up between the battlements and joined Joseph atop the wall. He had an excellent view of the castle's interior.
On the far wall hung the smashed triplane, burning furiously. The fire had already spread to wooden walkways and support beams.
Below, occupying most of the castle's courtyard, was another Cabinet-henge. At the center was a small fire surrounded by men; red smoke rose from the fire.
The castle didn't seem to have any sort of gatehouse, just a gate and drawbridge flanked by round towers. He could see men clustered to either side of the opening, spraying gunfire out at Harris' friends.
Harris saw what they were firing. Klapper autoguns and what looked like machine guns, against the pistols and occasional autoguns of his friends.
"Get under cover," he said. He didn't wait to look. He drew both pistols and lay down at the interior edge of the wall. He sighted in on one of the groups of gunmen and opened fire.
He'd emptied one gun before there was a reaction. One of the silhouettes by the gate slumped to the ground. Others turned and opened fire on Harris.
He heard something whistle near him. A little piece of the stone wall beneath him exploded, sending a shard of stone into his chin. It hurt, but it was a dull pain.
There was a wet, meaty noise above him. Harris glanced up.
Joseph still stood there. A small crater had appeared on the exposed flesh of his chest. The giant looked a trifle puzzled. As Harris watched, his chest began to resume its normal shape.
Joseph walked back to the battlements. He reached past them and yanked. There was a cracking noise. He came up with a wooden beam, something like a four-by-six, at least ten feet long. He began walking along the wall toward its southern face.
Harris switched to his second gun and continued to fire. Some of the men below had quit the gate and were sheltering behind the cabinets. They fired at him. Harris saw another man at the gate fall down; it wasn't one he was aiming at. Maybe his friends were making headway.
He paused to reload. Joseph got to the corner where the walls met and turned toward the gate.
The plane on the far wall exploded. Burning wreckage dropped into the courtyard. A sheet of fire blew out over the castle, raining flaming debris everywhere. Something lit on Harris' cheek and bit him; he swatted the ember off his flesh and began firing again.
Joseph reached the west tower flanking the gate. He stepped off the wall. Harris froze, arrested by the sight of his friend attempting to kill himself.
Joseph fell forty feet to the ground. He flattened just a little when he hit. He stood up immediately and swung his improvised club. Even at this distance, Harris could hear the crack as it met the head of one of the gunmen at the gate. The blow swatted that man aside. Joseph stepped forward and drove his beam into the chest of the next gunman.