In the end, Kremer merely broke his leg, but he had discovered a new principle in the process.
Seventeen killed and maimed “volunteers” later, he had his corps of one-, two-, and even four-man gliders. They were getting better day by day. And although Kremer never again was able to produce another felthesh, his reputation was made throughout Coylia.
Dennis watched the gliders thoughtfully. The hangar shed was guarded, and the launching tower as well. But their greatest protection was the fact that Castle Zuslik contained the planet’s only supply of trained pilots. Even if some other lord managed to steal a glider, he wouldn’t be able to practice it in time to prevent it from decaying back to a pile of sticks and string and hides.
But unbeknownst to Baron Kremer, there was one more potential pilot on Tatir.
No, Dennis shook his head. You’ve chosen a plan. Stick with it.
Arth approached, holding up a piece of condenser. “Say, Dennzz, where does this thing you called a... a gizmo… fit? Does it go into the thingumbob? Or the doohickey?” Arth pronounced each name as he had memorized it.
Dennis returned to the task of fostering an industrial revolution.
5
“Master, you must get dressed for the party now.”
Dennis looked up from a sheaf of notes covered with the arcane notations of anomaly mathematics.
“Oh, is it time already, Dvarah?”
The servant girl smiled and gestured over to the ancient bed by the wall. Dennis saw that she had laid out a formal dinner suit. It had fancy sleeves and a wide, puffy collar.
The girl curtsied. “Yes, my Lord. And tonight you will dress in a manner befitting your station. These garments are over two hundred years old. And the practicer we found for you has been wearing them nonstop for over a week. They have just been laundered and are ready for you now.”
Dennis looked at the suit and frowned. It wasn’t just that the clothes were frilly and decadent for his tastes. After all, he was the foreigner here and should adapt to local fashions.
But he didn’t like to think that some poor citizen of Zuslik had been shanghaied into durance style—just to practice these clothes for him.
Dvarah had been assigned to Dennis after the dinner meeting with the Baron. The pretty, petite brunette brought him his meals and tended his sumptuous new quarters.
She coughed demurely. “Master, you really mustn’t keep my Lord Baron waiting.”
Dennis cast a brief, wistful glance back at the papers on his desk. It had been fun, almost relaxing, to play with the symbols and numbers, trying to figure out how the Practice Effect came to be. While lost in the equations, Dennis could almost forget where he was, and pretend he was, once again, a comfortable terrestrial scientist with nothing at all to fear, Kremer had actually been quite generous, by his own lights. He had, for instance, given Dennis all the paper he wanted for his studies. But he had stopped at letting Dennis have any of his Earthly equipment.
There was no use complaining. Dennis had to win the warlord’s trust. Without the wrist comp, for instance, all these calculations were inevitably futile. Eventually, he was sure, Kremer would let him have his gear.
He got up to dress. Kremer was bringing together all the burghers and guildmasters tonight, to show off his new wizard. Dennis would have to put on a good show.
Dvarah came over and began unbuttoning his shirt.
The first few times it had happened, Dennis had stammered and pushed her away. But that only seemed to hurt the girl’s feelings—not to mention her professional pride. When in Rome he realized at last, and learned to relax while having things done for him.
Actually, it was rather pleasant once he got used to it. Dvarah smelled nice. And over the past few days she had apparently become quite devoted to him. It seemed her duties included considerably more than he had taken advantage of as yet. His politeness toward her, and his reluctance to assert those privileges without considerable further thought, seemed to surprise and please her.
Dvarah was straightening his cravat as a knock came on the door.
“Come in!” Dennis called.
Arth stuck his head in. “Ready, Dennizz? Come on! We gotta get the brandy set up for the party!”
“Okay, Arth. Just a sec.”
Dvarah stepped back and smiled approvingly at her master’s elegance. Dennis gave her a wink and followed Arth out into the hall.
Along with two of the ever-present guards, there waited four burly men with a heavy cask on two rails. As the guards turned to lead the way, the bearers heaved and lifted the cask on their shoulders, following behind.
Dennis had considered inventing something to make their task easier. Then, on thinking about it, he decided to hold off for a while. The wheel was too much of an ace to play just yet.
“I got a message from th’ missus…” Arth whispered to Dennis as they walked down the elegant hallway.
Dennis walked steadily ahead, without missing a step. He asked, softly, “Are the others all right?”
Arth nodded. “Mostly. Guards caught two o’ my men... and Maggin found out what happened to Perth.” He spat the name as if it were something vile.
“Did Mishwa…” Dennis let the question hang.
“Yeah. He took care of the rat, all, right! Just before they conked him. Perth never got a chance to give away th’ exact location o’ the warehouse, so Stivyung an’ Gath were able to—”
Arth shut up as the grand doors to the ballroom swung wide before them. But Dennis got the general idea.
He was relieved his friends were all right. Perhaps in weeks, or months, he would have enough influence over Kremer to intercede for other prisoners. For now, though, he would rather not test it. Gath and Stivyung deserved a chance to make their own escape.
Dennis could only describe the party as a sort of quasi pot latch, with a dash of Louis XIV’s Sun King court thrown in.
The local elite were out in force, in a sea of elegant finery, but there was less dancing and socializing than there would be at a party on Earth. Instead, there appeared to be a whole lot of ceremonious exchanging of gifts. The rituals bemused Dennis. Here, it seemed, there was a complicated way in which status was maintained by giving things away. The more practiced the donated items were, the better.
Dennis was reminded of similar rites he had read of in preatomic New Guinea and in the Pacific Northwest. The gift-giving had little generosity to it but rather an aggressive bragging overtone heavily dependent upon status.
He saw the recipient of a particularly frilly, silky, useless-looking garment briefly blanche and stare in horror at what she had been given, before hurriedly putting on a casual expression and thanking the giver through her teeth.
Yes, it was very much like an ancient Earthly potlatch. But Dennis soon saw that the Practice Effect had twisted the ritual in strange ways.
It cost many man-hours to maintain a tool or an object at its peak of perfection, for instance. So unlike similar social arrangements on Earth, the gifts could be stockpiled in advance only at great cost to the giver. Their number was limited by the overall ability of a magnate’s servants and bondsmen to use things…and just before one of these parties the serfs must be run ragged practicing their masters’ best gifts.