“The ship will be designed to cope with any exigency, Majesty,” Toller said. “I have no desire to commit suicide.”
“Haven’t you? There are times when I wonder about you, Maraquine.” Chakkell stood up and paced around the small room. It was the same apartment in which he had consulted Toller about the aerial defence of Overland immediately after his reprieve. The circular table and six chairs took up most of the floor space, leaving the King a narrow margin through which to guide his paunchy figure. On reaching the chair in which he had been seated, Chakkell leaned on the back of it and frowned at Toller.
“And what about the money?” he said. “You never trouble yourself with such mundane concerns, do you?”
“One ship, Majesty—and a crew of not more than six.”
“The size of the actual crew is a flea-bite, and well you know it. This scheme of yours is bound to cost me a fortune in development and in keeping support stations operational in the weightless zone.”
“But if it opens the way to a new world…”
“Don’t start playing the same tune all over again, Maraquine,” Chakkell interrupted. “I’m going to let you proceed with your wild enterprise—I suppose you are entitled to some indulgence on account of your services during the war—but I make one provision, and that is that Zavotle does not accompany you. I cannot afford to lose his services.”
“I regret to say this, Majesty,” Zavotle put in before Toller could speak, “but you will shortly be deprived of my services come what may, expedition or no expedition.”
Chakkell narrowed his eyes at Zavotle and scrutinised him as though suspecting deviousness. “Zavotle,” he finally said, “are you going to die?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
Chakkell looked embarrassed rather than concerned. “I would have had it otherwise.”
“Thank you, Majesty.”
“I must attend to other matters now,” Chakkell said brusquely, moving towards the door, “but, under the circumstances, I will not object to your going to Farland.”
“I’m most grateful, Majesty.”
Chakkell paused in the doorway and gave Toller a look of peculiar intensity. “The game has almost run its course, eh, Maraquine?” He moved away into the corridor before Toller could frame a reply, and a quietness descended on the room.
“I’ll tell you something, liven,” Toller said in a low voice. “We have made the King afraid. Did you notice how he twisted everything around so that it appears he is granting us a favour by permitting the expedition to go ahead? But the real reason is that he wants his standard to fly on Farland. A guaranteed place in history is a poor kind of immortality, but all kings seem to crave it—and we remind Chakkell of just how futile such ambitions are.”
“You speak strangely, Toller,” Zavotle said, his gaze hunting over Toller’s face. “I won’t return from Farland—but surely you will.”
“Put your mind at ease, old friend,” Toller replied, smiling. “I’ll return from Farland, or die in the attempt.”
Toller had not been certain that his son would agree to meet him, and it was with a profound sense of gladness that he saw a lone rider appear on the skyline on the road that led south to Heevern. He had chosen the meeting place partly because the nearness of a gold-veined spire of rock and a pool made it easy to specify, but also because it was on the northern side of the final ridge on the way to his house. Had he ridden an extra mile to the crest. Toller would have been able to view his former home in the distance. The knowledge that Gesalla was within the familiar walls would have caused him fresh pain, but that was not the reason he had held back. It was simply that he had taken a vow to separate the courses of their lives for ever, and in a way which was important to him, although he could not rationally justify it, going within sight of the house would have been a breach of his word.
He dismounted from his bluehorn and left the beast to graze while he watched the other rider approach. As before, he was able to identify Cassyll from afar by the distinctive creamy colour of his mount’s forelegs. Cassyll rode towards him at moderate speed and reined his bluehorn to a halt at a distance of about ten paces. He remained in the saddle, studying Toller with pensive grey eyes.
“It would be better if you got down,” Toller said mildly. “It would make it easier for us to talk.”
“Have we anything to talk about?”
“If we haven’t there was little point in your riding out here to meet me.” Toller gave his son a wry smile. “Come on—neither your honour nor your principles will be compromised if we talk face-to-face.”
Cassyll shrugged and swung himself down from his bluehorn, a movement he accomplished with athletic grace. With his oval face and pronounced widow’s peak of glossy black, he owed much of his appearance to his mother, but Toller observed a sinewy strength in his spare figure.
“You look well,” Toller said.
Cassyll glanced down at himself and his clothing—rough-spun shirt and trews which would not have looked out of place on a common labourer. “I do my share of work at the foundry and factories, and some of it is heavy.”
“I know.” Toller was heartened by the civility of Cassyll’s response and decided to go straight to the points he had to make. “Cassyll, the Farland expedition leaves in a few days from now. I have faith in liven Zavotle’s designs and calculations, but only a fool would refuse to acknowledge that many unknown dangers lie ahead of us. I may not return from the voyage, and it would ease my mind greatly if we settled some matters concerning the future for you and your mother.”
Cassyll showed no emotion. “You will return, as always.”
“I intend to, but nevertheless I want you to give me your word on certain matters before we part this day. One of them is to do with the fact that the King has confirmed my title as being hereditary—and I want you to accept it if I am declared dead.”
“I don’t want the title,” Cassyll said. “I have no interest in such vanities.”
Toller nodded. “I know that, and I respect you for it, but the title represents power as well as privilege—power you can use to safeguard your mother’s position in the world, power you can put to good use in worthwhile endeavours. I don’t need to remind you how important it is for metals to replace brakka wood in our society—so vow to me you will not reject the title.”
Cassyll looked impatient. “All this is premature. You will live to be a hundred, if not more.”
“Your vow, Cassyll!”
“I swear that I will accept the title on that far-off day when it eventually falls my due.”
“Thank you,” Toller said earnestly. “Now, the management of the estate. If at all possible I want you to perpetuate the system of peppercorn rents for our tenants. I take it that the revenues from the mines, foundries and metal works are still increasing and will be ample for the family requirements.”
“Family?” Cassyll gave a half-smile to show that he considered the word inappropriate. “My mother and I are financially secure.”
Toller allowed the tacit challenge to pass and spent more time on practicalities connected with the estate and its industrial associations, but all the while he was aware that he was delaying the moment when he would have to admit his most important motive in arranging the meeting with his son. At last, after a tense silence had developed and looked like continuing indefinitely, he accepted that it was necessary for him to speak out.
“Cassyll,” he said, “I met my father for the first time only a few minutes before he died by his own hand. There was so much… waste in both our lives, but we were united before the end. I… I don’t want to leave you without putting things right between us. Can you forgive me for the wrongs I have done you and your mother?”