“And no easy feat it was, either, since much of ’em’s missing,” Shaene hastened to add.
“Too true. All right, let’s take it down, wrap it in the oilcloth, and lock it in the storage room before something happens to it,” Omet said, brushing his hands on his breeches. “This is the only part of the project that has worked so far; we shouldn’t risk compromising that.”
“Right,” Shaene agreed. He grasped the top of the wheel a moment before Omet and Rhur were in position to do so. His sweaty palm slid off the cool metal, jostling it and setting it, inadvertently, into motion.
With a scream of metal the wheel spun quickly across the track, following it around the mountaintop tower for several yards while the artisans, shouting and cursing, ran after it. As it rolled it caught the sunlight shining above the mountaintop, and cast bright, quick patches on the floor of the tower that sparkled in elaborate patterns for an instant, then vanished.
Once they had regained control of the wheel, the three artisans stared at the floor in silent unison.
“What was that?” Shaene asked when he recovered his voice.
Omet shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“It must do something,” Shaene insisted. “Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through for a moment of pretty amusement.”
“Well, it does do something,” Omet said, taking hold of it again. “It goes into storage. Come on, now, help me take it off the track.” He looked up to the open tower ceiling, where sunlight glinted off the metal framework on which the stained glass was expected to go, then looked back at Rhur and Shaene.
“And whatever you do, don’t tell anyone about it.”
Grunthor raised a hand for the drilling to stop, wiping the sweat from his massive brow as the relentless thundering of the gears and the pounding of the bit slowed to a dull cadence, then ceased.
He watched the men for a moment, all dripping with similar perspiration, their normally dusky skin pale and sallow in the heat. Accustomed to the cool depths of the Earth, already two Firbolg artisans and a soldier had succumbed and were being tended inside the Judiciary.
“This is ridic’lus,” the Sergeant muttered. “We’ve run out o’ today’s water already; is Karsrick gonna bring the additional rations ’e promised or not?”
“We have put out a call to the Shanouin, sire,” the duke’s aide-de-camp said to Achmed, who was pacing back and forth the length of the hot tent. “They are commanded to deliver three more barrels each morning. Will you similarly instruct your soldiers to allow them through the guard line? They have been turned away twice already.”
“That may be because my soldiers do not speak Orlandan,” Achmed said, stepping around the growing piles of red dust and gaping holes in the ground. He pulled the tent flap aside. “Come.”
A few moments later a parlay took place at the exterior ring where the Yarimese soldiers were holding the guard line. The soldiers, who had been told to deny access to anyone other than the commanding officers, the duke, lord, lady, and the Bolg themselves, were instructed to make certain that the water bearers, and the water bearers alone, were brought into the work site, under careful guard, and allowed to deliver their barrels.
After the outer ring had been given instructions, Achmed moved with the aide-de-camp to the inner ring, manned by Firbolg soldiers, and addressed them in Bolgish.
“An hour before each shift changes, water carriers will be allowed through the first guard line. Be sure to check their barrels without fail, pry open every one of them and run a clean sword through the water, make certain there is nothing or no one hiding in them. Then escort the water carriers back to the first guard line. If anyone attempts to slip away from you, or enter the tent, subdue him. Try not to crack his head open against the stones in the street, but if you should happen to do so by accident, at least the blood will blend in with the bricks.” The Bolg soldiers nodded in assent as the harsh, noisy cranking of the drill started up again.
“And if anyone broaches the guard line, kill him and eat him, in whatever order you prefer,” Achmed said loudly in Orlandan, for the benefit of the Yarimese.
When the bells of the tower tolled noon, six anxious-looking women in pale blue ghodins, priestesses in the Shanouin tribe, approached the work site under guard, bearing between them three great water casks. The Bolg soldiers ringing the tent grudgingly moved aside and allowed them to come through the second guard line, up to the exterior of the tents. They quickly set their burdens down outside the tents and hurried back through the Firbolg line, into the custody of their human guards.
As the tent flap opened, one of the women glanced over her shoulder fleetingly, only to meet the mismatched eyes of the Bolg king, staring at her from within the tent, clothed in black and standing in front of a great pumping machine that groaned and screeched like the damned. In the split second of sight she thought she was gazing straight into the Underworld itself.
The Shanouin woman wheeled around and hurried to keep in step with her sister priestesses.
Inside the cool marble walls of the Judiciary’s library, Ihrman Karsrick and his captain of the guard watched the work site, seeing nothing but the occasional exit of a figure from the enormous tents. For three days the Bolg had labored in consecutive shifts, entering and leaving the tent at their appointed hour with the same precision as the changing of the guard at a royal palace, completely undisturbed by any onlookers.
A knock on the library door startled him; it was his chamberlain.
“Yes?”
The man came in and closed the double doors behind him.
“The Hierarch of craftsman’s guilds has sent a message, m’lord.”
“What is it?” Karsrick dreaded the answer, expecting it at the same time.
“‘With respect and regret, there is none in our ranks suited, available, qualified, or willing to accept the Bolg king’s generous offer. Our apologies and best wishes.’”
“There’s a surprise,” Karsrick muttered. “Now what am I to do?”
“There is another avenue, another source, m’lord,” the captain of the guard proffered nervously.
“What source? Where?” the duke demanded.
“The Raven’s Guild in the Market of Thieves.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Karsrick shouted. “You want me to consort with thieves and assassins, and send one of them into the realm of Ylorc?”
The captain shrugged. “There is no love lost between you and the Firbolg king. Sending an artisan who might be an assassin as well—
Karsrick’s hand sliced through the air in a gesture of silence.
“I do not condone the assassination of heads of state, however much I distrust them, thank you. Do you have any idea what the Lady Cymrian would do, not to mention the Lord, if I were to engage in such chicanery, especially if it led to the death of her friends, the Bolg king, or his sergeant? She would melt my flesh from the inside with hideous musical torture, or some such thing. No.”
“M’lord, the Raven’s Guild is not entirely composed of assassins and thieves. On the contrary, they operate, as you know, some of the most prestigious and well-respected foundries, metal and glassworks in Roland. If there is an artisan left in Yarim to be had, one that might be willing to perform their craft in such odious circumstances—”
“No!” Karsrick stated again, more firmly this time. “I will not do that. I would prefer to make my apologies to the king and hope against hope for his understanding, than even think about opening that door, do you hear me? Is that clearly understood?”
“Yes, m’lord. It was only a suggestion.”
“A very bad suggestion.” Karsrick leaned heavily on the ornate metal molding that surrounded the library window, suddenly weary. “Do not allow this conversation to leave the room, Captain. The last thing I need is for word to get back to Esten about this.” He turned to look at the captain of the guard, who nodded, and met his glance.