“Oh, you might wriggle over and rub your bonds against my ax, like that character in the novel by Shaixper.”
The Prem laughed. “Are you a mind reader too?”
Marko grinned. He had merely put himself in the Prem’s place. Thus he had kept himself from weakening when the Prem had tried to beguile him with smiles and tempt him with promises. He knew the Prem’s reputation for coldblooded perfidy.
13
Muphrid had set, but the twilight lingered, when the odd caravan arrived at Massey. Marko watched sleepily as the paxor lumbered down to the docks of the Imperial Navy. There was a long palaver among Toskano, the officer who had come with the procession from Vien, and another officer of the fleet. The philosophers hauled the balloon down to a height of fifty feet. A reflector lantern, shone on the face of the Prem, convinced the naval officers that their lord really was captive.
After another hour’s delay, the philosophers detached the balloon from the weary paxor and carried their end of the rope aboard a ship, the steam ram Incredible. Marko, who had never been aboard a steamship, watched with interest. The ship was a sturdy-looking craft about two hundred feet long, with a big iron spike at the waterline at her bow, a strip of bronze armor running around her waterline, and a tall, thin funnel in the waist.
The philosophers had planned in advance to insist upon the merest skeleton crew on their ship; just enough to operate the machinery and steer. (“After all,” said Voutaer of Roum, “I designed that cursed engine for the Prem, and I ought to know how to run it.”)
Prem Mirabo, watching the preparations, asked Marko Prokopiu: “Now that you are ready to set forth, when will you release me?”
“When we reach our destination, sir,” said Marko.
“What? But that’s impossible! Who knows what conspirators might not seize my desk in my absence?”
Marko shrugged. “I think, sir, we could bear that disaster with becoming fortitude. And didn’t you tell me you were the idol of the masses? Surely they’d stand by you!”
“That is no joking matter,” grumbled the Prem.
The stack of the Incredible began to spit smoke and sparks. The breeze carried the smoke aft until it enveloped the basket and made Marko and the Prem cough and rub their eyes.
“Will you suffocate as well as kidnap me?” groaned Mirabo.
Marko suffered along with his captive through another half hour, until the Incredible cast off and put out of the harbor with a great blowing of whistles and bonging of bells. The stack went puff-puff-puff, making Marko and Mirabo cough more than ever. As the lights of the dark quiet harbor slid away behind them, the philosophers hauled the balloon down to the deck.
Marko climbed out, stretching and yawning, and gave a hand to the Prem. The philosophers ringed the stern in helmets and hauberks.
“Your arms locker was well stocked, Your Highness,” said Ulf Toskano. “Don’t think to set the crew on us, because we outnumber them three to one and have removed all arms out of their reach. We shall also guard you day and night against any untoward event.”
Marko mumbled: “Dr. Toskano, where can I sleep?”
On the fourteenth of Perikles, the Incredible raised the Isle of Mnaenn but hung off on the horizon until sunset, so as to make her approach under cover of darkness.
When he had awakened after sleeping most of the night through, Marko had been fascinated by the ship. He spent hours below, watching the great bronze connecting rods heave and the cranks go around. He pestered Voutaer for information on the workings of a steam engine.
The wind rose, and a choppy sea made the Incredible pitch like a cork. When she buried her ram, her screw came out and she shook herself like a wet dog. Gusts of rain beat across the slippery deck, and Marko suffered the tortures of seasickness. The Eropian sailors prayed to the sea god Nelson to save them from the terrors of the sea and the spells of the witches of Mnaenn. Some philosophers, who had opposed the conquest of Mnaenn, went about saying “I told you so.”
Halran, looking towards Mnaenn, with rainwater dripping from his chin, said: “I do not know how we shall ever get the balloon inflated from this tossing deck.” He glanced black gloomily to where the bag thrashed and lunged in its tackle. “I am sure the fabric will rip from this rough handling. If you come down in the sea, Marko, you cannot swim in armor. The mere thought of what you plan gives me the horrors,”
Marko answered: “Anything to get off this accursed deck and get my stomach back again. I think I left it fifty miles astern. It’s worse than camel back.”
“Stop glooming,” roared Ulf Toskano, slapping Halran on the back with irritating heartiness. “We ran a bigger risk when we seized the Prem. And this rain will have driven the witches indoors. You might accomplish your task without meeting one.”
“I don’t count upon that,” said Marko. He stood in a suit of three-quarters armor, which had been pieced together out of the largest pieces in the arms locker.
The wind moderated, although the rain continued, as they chuffed towards the island. Before midnight, the Incredible stood off the northwest corner of Mnaenn. She presented her stern to the island, with her engine barely turning over and a trysail out to hold her head into the wind. Marko Prokopiu climbed clanking into the basket.
“Cast off,” he said.
Away went ropes and ballast. The balloon, swaying and jerking, rose from the stern. Marko heard the fabric strain against its ropes. The philosophers had not lit the auxiliary peat stove, since the balloon would not be aloft long.
The basket swayed like a pendulum. Straining his eyes into the featureless dark, Marko felt a return of his seasickness. The reel paying out the drag rope on the quarterdeck squealed. The jerking eased as more rope was paid out, allowing slack to accumulate between jerks.
Marko stared towards the cliff. In this murk, he could not even tell direction. The balloon had started to rotate, first in one direction and then in the other.
There was nothing to do but grip the edge of the basket, feel his ax for the hundredth time, and try to see where nothing could be seen. The rain pattered against his armor.
Then another sound came, muffled by his helmet, through the hum of the wind in the cordage and the roar of the surf: the soughing of wind in trees. Marko peered. Directly below, he thought he could see the shifting ghostly-white band, which marked the surf against the base of the cliff. This ribbon slid under him and disappeared as the cliff edge occulted it. He should be over land. He pulled the valve cord.
It stuck.
He pulled with both hands. The rope gave all at once with a ripping sound and a loud hiss, and the bottom dropped out of the basket.
In the dark, Marko had pulled the rip cord by mistake, opening a slit several feet long in the upper part of the bag. The hot air rushed out and the balloon fell.
It struck with a crash, hurling Marko to the bottom of the basket. He had flexed his knees before striking, so no bones were broken. Still, the shock half stunned him, so that it took him several seconds to rise shakily to his feet.
He picked up his shield and climbed out of the basket, pushing through a tangle of ropes. He was on top of the cliff, all right, several feet back from the edge.
His next task was to light the little pyrotechnic flare the philosophers had given him, to signal them to sail around to the landing place. But rain had gotten into his tinder box. No matter how often he clicked the flirit and steel lighter, it refused to light.
He gave up. The balloon could not be hauled back aboard the Incredible. If Halran tried to haul it back, it would merely be pulled off the cliff, to smash on the talus below and be lost in the sea. If Marko cut the rope, Halran would know from the slackening what had happened. At least he would know that the balloon was no longer attached. If Marko could tie a knot in the rope before letting it fall, those aboard would infer that he had landed safely and would bring the ship to the beach.