Sulun complied, tossing a last desperate glance to Omis and Vari. Yes, somebody had to satisfy the household's curiosity, and it seemed he'd been chosen. At least Ziya was safe, they were all safe from Mygenos's knowing eyes. The kitchen then, and more pilfered wine and interminable gossip. Small sacrifice for their salvation. He padded dutifully down the hall to the kitchen, grateful to see the rest of his little mob hurry off to their rooms.
There was still a fire burning in the kitchen, though no pots hung over it now. There stood the cook, who had managed to escape sitting in at the miserable dinner, handing a small pastry to a girl-child huddled on a stool beside the fire.
Girl? Who? Sulun plodded to the fireside at the porter's urging, barely noticing the cup of cider thrust into his hand, wondering where the girl had come from and who she was. Then the child raised her head and looked at him.
"Sulun?" she squeaked, the ghost of an old smile flickering over her face. "Sulun, you're here?"
It was Memi. Mygenos's daughter. She remembered him.
Oh, gods!
All Sulun could think to do was plaster a sickly smile on his face and press a warning finger to his lips. "Hush, Memi," he whispered, grabbing for words. "Don't tell anyone I'm here. You know how people would laugh, hearing that Shibari's old philosopher now works for Entori the Miser."
"Aha," grinned the porter, guessing at the supposed disgrace. "So that's it, eh? 'Brought low, brought low, let none of me old friends know.' Heh-heh!"
"Aww . . ." Memi's face screwed into a grimace of pity. "I won't tell anyone, I promise."
For however long you can, Sulun groaned inwardly. "Thank you much, Memi. But tell me, how have you fared since you left Shibari's house?"
The child's noncommittal shrug told Sulun all he needed to know. Mygenos's fortunes might have improved, but Memi's life was no better. She might remember her old friend Sulun kindly, but eventually her father's sternness would press her too far: To save herself punishment or win herself some pathetic gain, she would let the secret out.
Eventually Mygenos would know who Entori's engineer was. Between old malice and new rivalry, the wizard wouldn't hesitate to ill-wish Sulun and his work.
And he knew Sulun worked with the firepowder.
Sulun sat down beside the fire, drank the cider, gossiped gently with the pathetically grateful child and with the momentarily kind servants, knowing his time had grown drastically short. Soon enough Mygenos would send for his daughter and depart. Soon enough Memi would reveal the secret. Soon enough Mygenos would set his vengeful little disasters in motion.
It was time to get out.
Four more days before they could get to the riverside workshop again: four days of making turbine parts, supports, molds for the steam valves—and hating every miserable hour of it. Four days of sweating over Memi's discovery, wondering when she'd tell and what Mygenos would do then. Four days of wretched work that felt like idleness without its rest.
Four days of bad news: there were more retreats, more losses in the north. The Ancar were moving steadily down the east side of the Baiz river valley, rolling over the Sabirn lines like a flood. The Imperial House issued no news, but street gossip ran high. Refugees from the upper valley added to it, and none of their news was good. The traffic to Esha increased steadily.
"Perhaps Mygenos's new master will join the panic," Sulun suggested as he helped break down the box of the sand mold. "If he runs south, Myggy just may find it prudent to go with him. After that, he'll have other things to worry about than his old rival from Shibari House."
"Hope high," Omis grunted pulling away the last board. "Ah, that sand was pounded well."
The packed, now dry sand still stood firm as dried clay. Not a grain had moved during the four days of cooling down.
"Break it," said Omis, taking up a heavy sledge.
The rest of the work gang set upon the sand with mallets and chisels, cutting it away from the buried treasure. A familiar rapping on the front door interrupted them.
"Zeren, no doubt," said Eloti, rising gracefully from her seat on the bench. "Go on with the work; I'll let him in."
Ziya was the only one to watch her go, struck by the sight of the mistress of a respectable house going to open doors like a porter. The others kept on hammering, cutting, freeing the cast tube from the mold.
A moment later, Zeren strolled in with Eloti on his arm—just in time to hear Omis's shout of triumph and warning as the last of the sand fell away. They stopped to watch, Zeren unconsciously making a luck sign with his free hand.
The exposed tube didn't look very prepossessing: rough and pebbly, covered with glassy, fused sand, its interior still choked. Nonetheless, Omis cradled it in his arms, beaming, as if it were one of his own children.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "Not a flaw in the casting. Perfect."
"It doesn't look like much," Ziya sniffed, disappointed.
"Well, of course not, boy," Omis laughed. "It still has to be cleaned out, smoothed, polished, and the fuse hole drilled. We'll start that right now. Ah, good morning, Zeren. How is it you always manage to get here when something important's afoot?"
"No mystery," Zeren smiled, graciously lowering Eloti to her seat. "I come by every morning and see if anyone's about. I've told my guards I have a valuable informant here, which isn't a lie. The news is good, then?"
"Good now, better later. Set up the drill, boys."
While the apprentices scampered to comply, Sulun went to fetch food and drink. Zeren and Eloti were chatting when he brought the food out.
"Never mind the fool wizard," Zeren was saying. "He and his master must have better things to occupy them now. The Ancar have been halted above Lutegh."
"Halted?" Sulun crowed, setting out the cups and bowls. "Thank the gods! If they stay put only half a moon, we'll have the bombard tested and ready. . . ." He paused to cross his fingers, hoping that this model, this time, would work.
"Aye, cross your fingers," Zeren smiled sourly. "It isn't our oh-so-invincible troops that have checked them; it's the river. The Dawnstream branch of the Baiz is wide, fast, and deep there, and the Ancar are no sailors. They've only turned east awhile, looking for an easy way across the river. Expect they'll find it soon enough, and then turn south again."
"Surely our troops on the south bank can stop them?"
"Perhaps," Zeren shrugged. "They've had the wit to take every boat and barge from the north bank, burn every bridge, fortify every known ford clean up into the Cerinde West hills—the generals showed that much sense."
"Still," Eloti considered, "the Ancar have taken that hill country, I believe."
"It's crawling with them," Zeren sighed. "If the main horde of the Ancar can't cross any further west, they'll simply go up into the hills, cross where the Dawnstream thins out into its tributary streams, join their Cerinde West cousins, and come marching back down the south bank. A few months, at best." He glanced apologetically at Sulun. "We have less time than I thought, old friend. How long to finish your new bombard?"
"Gods . . ." Sulun tugged his hair, watching the work gang setting the drill bit into the blocked tube's muzzle. "Give us three days, just three uninterrupted days to drill it out, make the powder, test it. . . . How long then, you tell me, to attract enough interest at court that we can have a dozen work gangs, busy night and day, making bombards and powder and shot?"
Zeren shrugged again. "Do I use every contact I have, call in every favor, I could get interested parties to watch you fire the bombard—successfully—at the Sworddance Field within perhaps three days. After that, at best, you might have orders and assistants from the Imperial House itself the next day—or minor interest from the lesser Ministers in half a moon."