Land and Overland Omnibus

CHAPTER 18



Toller stared at the yellow-hooded body without moving for perhaps ten minutes, trying to understand how he was to deal with the pain of loss.

Leddravohr has done this, he thought. This is the harvest I reap for allowing the monster to stay alive. He abandoned my brother to the ptertha!

The foreday sun was still low in the east, but in the total absence of air movement the rocky hillside was already beginning to throw up heat. Toller was torn between passion and prudence—the desire to run to his brother’s body and the need to remain at a safe distance. His blurred vision showed something white gleaming on the sunken chest, held in place by the waistcord of the grey robe and one slim hand.

Paper? Could it be, Toller’s heart speeded up at the thought, an indictment of Leddravohr?

He took out the stubby telescope he had carried since boyhood and directed it at the white rectangle. His tears conspired with the fierce brilliance of the image to make the scrawled words difficult to read, but at length he received Lain’s final communication:

PTERTHA FRIENDS OF BRAK. KILL US BECAU WE KILL BRAK. BRAK FEED PTERTH. IN RETURN P PROTEC B. CLEAR→PINK→PURPLE P EVOLV TOXINS. WE MUS LIVE IN HARMONY WITH B. LOOK TO SKY



Toller lowered the telescope. Somewhere under the thundering turmoil of his grief was the realisation that Lain’s message had a significance which reached far beyond the present circumstances, but for the present he was unable to relate to it. Instead he was overwhelmed by a baffled disappointment. Why had Lain not used the dregs of his mental and physical energy to accuse his murderer and thus pave a straight path for retribution? After a moment’s thought the answer came to Toller, and he almost managed to smile with affection and respect. Lain, even in death, had been the true pacifist, far removed from thoughts of revenge. He had withdrawn his personal light from the world in a manner befitting his way of life—and Leddravohr still endured…

Toller turned to walk across the slope to where the sergeant was waiting with the two bluehorns. He was fully in control of himself and there were no longer any tears to interfere with his vision, but now his thoughts were dominated by a new question which was raking his brain with the force and persistence of waves clawing at a beach.

How can I live without my brother? The heat reflected from slabs of stone pressed against his eyes, entered his mouth. It’s going to be a long hot day, and how am I going to live through it without my brother?

“I grieve with you, captain,” Engluh said. “Your brother was a good man.”

“Yes.” Toller stared at the sergeant, trying to suppress his feelings of dislike. This was the man who had been formally entrusted with Lain’s safety, and who remained alive while Lain was dead. There was little the sergeant could have done against ptertha in this kind of terrain, and according to his story he had been dismissed by Leddravohr; and yet his presence among the living was an affront to the primitive in Toller’s character.

“Do you want to go back now, captain?” Engluh showed no signs of being discomfited by Toller’s scrutiny. He was a hardlooking veteran, undoubtedly skilled in the art of preserving his own skin, but Toller could not judge him as being untrustworthy.

“Not yet,” Toller said. “I want to find the bluehorn.”

“Very good, captain.” A flickering in the depths of the sergeant’s brown eyes showed his awareness of the fact that Toller had not fully accepted Prince Leddravohr’s terse account of the previous day’s events. “I’ll show you the path we took.”

Toller mounted his bluehorn and rode behind Engluh as they worked their way up the hill. About halfway to the top they came to an area of laminated rock bounded on its lower edge by an accumulation of flakes. The remains of the bluehorn lay on the loose material, already stripped to a skeleton by multipedes and other scavengers. Even the saddle and harness had been shredded and gnawed in places. Toller felt a coolness on his spine as he realised that Lain’s body would have suffered a similar fate but for the ptertha poison in the tissues. His bluehorn had begun to toss its head and behave nervously, but he guided it closer to the skeleton and frowned as he saw the fractured shinbone. My brother was living when that happened—and now he’s dead. As the pain raged through him with renewed forced he closed his eyes and tried to think about the unthinkable.

According to what he had been told, Sergeant Engluh and the other three soldiers had ridden to the west entrance of Skyship Quarter after being dismissed by Leddravohr. They had waited there for Lain and had been astonished to see Leddravohr returning alone.

The prince had been in a strange mood, angry and jovial at once, and on seeing Engluh was reported to have said, “Prepare yourself for a long wait, sergeant—your master disabled his mount and now he is playing hide-and-seek with the ptertha.” Thinking it was expected of him, Engluh had volunteered to gallop back to the hill with a spare bluehorn, but Leddravohr had said, “Stay where you are! He chose to play a dangerous game with his own life—and that is no sport for a good soldier.”

Toller had made the sergeant repeat his account several times and the only interpretation he could place on it was that Lain had been offered transportation to safety, but had wilfully elected to flirt with death. Leddravohr was above the need to lie about any of his actions—and still Toller was unable to accept what he had been told. Lain Maraquine, who had been known to faint at the sight of blood, would have been the last man in the world to pit himself against the globes. Had he wanted to take his life he would have found a better way—but in any case there had been no reason for him to commit suicide. He had had too much to live for. No, there was a mystery central to what had happened on the barren hillside on the previous day, and Toller knew of only one man who could clear it up. Leddravohr may not have lied, but he knew more than…

“Captain!” Engluh spoke in a startled whisper. “Look over there!”

Toller followed the line of his pointing finger to the east and blinked as he saw the unmistakable dark brown shape of a balloon lifting into the sky above Ro-Atabri. A few seconds later it was joined by three others climbing in close formation, almost as though the mass ascent to Overland was beginning days ahead of schedule.

Something has gone wrong, Toller thought before he was stricken by a sense of personal outrage. The death of Lain would have been more than enough to contend with on its own, but to that had been added aggravating doubt and suspicion—and now skyships were rising from the Quarter in contravention of all the rigid planning that had gone into the migration flight. There was a limit to how much his mind could encompass at a single time, and the universe was unfairly choosing to disregard it.

“I have to go back now,” he said, urging his bluehorn into motion. They rode down the hill, rounded a briar-covered shoulder and reached the open slope where Lain’s body lay. The unrestricted view to the east showed that more balloons were rising from the line of enclosures, but Toller’s gaze was drawn to the dappled sweeps of the city beyond. Columns of dark smoke were rising from the central districts.

“It looks like a war, captain,” Engluh said in wonderment, rising in his stirrups.

“Perhaps that’s what it is.” Toller glanced once towards the inert anonymous shape that had been his brother—You will live in me, Lain—then spurred his mount forward in the direction of the city.

He had been aware of the growing restlessness among Ro-Atabri’s beleaguered population, but he found it hard to imagine how civil disturbances could have any real effect on the ordered course of events within the Quarter. Leddravohr had installed army units in a crescent between the skyship base and the edge of the city itself, and had seen to it that they were controlled by officers he could trust even in the unique circumstances of the migration. The commanders were men who had no personal wish to fly to Overland and were stubbornly committed to preserving Ro-Atabri as an entity, come what may. Toller had believed the base to be secure, even in the event of full-scale riots, but the skyships were taking off long before their appointed time…

On reaching flat grassland he put the bluehorn into a full gallop and watched intently as the base’s perimeter barrier expanded across his field of view. The west entrance was little used because it faced open countryside, but as he drew closer he saw there were large groups of mounted soldiers and infantry behind the gate, and supply wagons could be seen on the move beyond the double screens where they curved away to the north and south. More ships were drifting up into the morning sky, and the hollow roars of their burners were mingling with the clacking of the inflation fans and the background shouting of overseers.

The outer gates were swung open for Toller and the sergeant, then slammed shut again as soon as they had entered the buffer zone. Toller reined his bluehorn to a halt as he was approached by an army captain who was carrying his orange-crested helmet under his arm.

“Are you Skycaptain Toller Maraquine?” he said, mopping his glistening brow.

“Yes. What has happened?”

“Prince Leddravohr orders you to report to Enclosure 12 immediately.”

Toller nodded his assent. “What has happened?”

“What makes you think anything has happened?” the captain said bitterly. He turned and strode away, issuing angry orders to the nearest soldiers, who had an overtly sullen look.

Toller considered going after him and extracting an informative reply, but at that moment he noticed a blue-uniformed figure beckoning to him from the inner gate. It was Ilven Zavotle, newly commissioned to the rank of pilot lieutenant. Toller rode to him and dismounted, noting as he did so that the young man looked pale and troubled.

“I’m glad you’re back, Toller,” Zavotle said anxiously. “I heard you had gone out to look for your brother, and I came to warn you about Prince Leddravohr.”

“Leddravohr?” Toller glanced upwards as a skyship briefly occulted the sun. “What about Leddravohr?”

“He’s insane,” Zavotle said, looking about him to ensure the treasonous statement had not been overheard. “He’s at the enclosures now … driving the loaders and inflation crews … sword in hand … I saw him cut a man down just for stopping to take a drink.”

“He…!” Toller’s consternation and bafflement increased. “What brought all this about?”

Zavotle looked up at him in surprise. “You don’t know? You must have left the Quarter before… Everything happened in a couple of hours, Toller.”

“What happened? Speak up, Ilven, or there’ll be more swordplay.”

“Lord Prelate Balountar led a citizens’ march on the base. He demanded that all the ships be destroyed and the supplies distributed among the people. Leddravohr had him arrested and beheaded on the spot.”

Toller narrowed his eyes as he visualised the scene. “That was a mistake.”

“A bad one,” Zavotle agreed, “but that was only the beginning. Balountar had the crowds worked up with religion and promises of food and crystals. When they saw his head on a pole they started tearing down our screens. Leddravohr sent the army against them, but … it was an amazing thing, Toller … most of the soldiers refused to fight.”

“They defied Leddravohr?”

“They’re local men—most of them drawn from Ro-Atabri itself—and they were being ordered to massacre their own people.” Zavotle paused as a skyship overhead produced a thunderous roar. “The soldiers are hungry, too, and there’s a feeling abroad that Leddravohr is turning his back on them.”

“Even so…” Toller found it almost impossible to imagine ordinary soldiers rebelling against the military prince.

“That was when Leddravohr really became possessed. They say he killed more than a dozen officers and men. They wouldn’t obey his orders … but they wouldn’t defend themselves against him either … and he butchered them…” Zavotle’s voice faltered. “Like pigs, Toller. Just like pigs.”

In spite of the enormity of what he was hearing, Toller developed an unaccountable feeling that he had another and more pressing cause for concern. “How did it end?”

“The fires in the city. When Leddravohr saw the smoke … realised the ptertha screens were burning … he came to his senses. He pulled all the men who remained loyal to him back inside the perimeter, and now he’s trying to get the whole skyship fleet off the ground before the rebels organise themselves and invade the base.” Zavotle studied the nearby soldiers from beneath lowered brows. “This lot are supposed to defend the west gate, but if you ask me they aren’t too sure which side they’re on. Blue uniforms are no longer popular around here. We should get back to the enclosures as soon as…”

The words faded from Toller’s hearing as his mind made a rapid series of leaps, each one bringing him closer to the source of his subconscious alarm. The fires in the city … ptertha screens burning … there has been no rain for many days … when the screens go the city will be indefensible … the migration MUST get under way at once … and that means…

“Gesalla!” Toller blurted the name in a sudden accession of panic and self-recrimination. How could he have forgotten her for so long? She would be waiting at home in the Square House … still without confirmation of Lain’s death … and the flight to Overland had already begun…

“Did you hear me?” Zavotle said. “We should be…”

“Never mind that,” Toller cut in. “What’s been done about notifying the migrants and bringing them in?”

“The King and Prince Chakkell are already at the enclosures. All the other royals and nobles have to get here under the protection of their own guards. It’s a shambles, Toller. The ordinary migrants will have to get through by themselves, and the way things are out there I doubt if…”

“I’m indebted to you for meeting me here, Ilven,” Toller said, turning to mount his bluehorn. “I seem to remember you telling me when we were up there—freezing to death and with nothing to do but count the falling stars—that you have no family. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“In that case you should get back to the enclosures and take the first ship that becomes available to you. I am not free to leave just yet.”

Zavotle came forward as Toller swung himself into the saddle. “Leddravohr wants us both as royal pilots, Toller. You especially, because nobody else has turned a ship over.”

“Forget that you saw me,” Toller said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He rode into the base, taking a route which kept him well away from the balloon enclosures. The ptertha nets overhead were casting their patterns of shadow on a scene of confused and frenetic activity. It had been intended that the migration fleet would depart in an orderly manner over a period of between ten and twenty days, depending on weather conditions. Now there was a race to see how many ships could be despatched before the Quarter was overrun by dissenters, and the situation was made even more desperate by the fact that the vulnerable ptertha screens had been attacked. It was fortunate that there was no perceptible air movement—a circumstance which aided the skyship crews and kept ptertha activity to the minimum—but with the arrival of night the livid globes would come in force.

In their haste to load supply carts workers were tearing down the wooden storage huts with their bare hands. Soldiers belonging to the newly formed Overland Regiment—their loyalty guaranteed because they were due to fly with Leddravohr—roamed the area, noisily exhorting base personnel to make greater efforts and in some cases joining in the work. Here and there amid the chaos wandered small groups of men, women and children who had obtained migration warrants in the provinces and had arrived at the Quarter well in advance of their flights. Above and through everything drifted the racket of the inflation fans, the unnerving spasmodic roar of skyship burners and the marshy odour of free miglign gas.

Toller attracted scant attention from anybody as he rode through storage and workshop sections, but on reaching the covered way which ran east to the city he found its entrance guarded by a large detachment of soldiers. Officers with them were questioning everybody who passed through. Toller moved to one side and used his telescope to survey the distant exit. Compressed perspectives made the image hard to interpret, but he could see massed foot soldiers and some mounted groups, and beyond them crowds thronging the sloping streets where the city proper began. There was little evidence of movement, but it was obvious that a confrontation was still taking place and that the normal route to the city was impassable.

He was considering what to do when his attention was caught by shifting specks of colour in the scrubby land which stretched off to the south-east in the direction of the Greenmount suburb. The telescope revealed them to be civilians hurrying towards the centre of the base. From the high proportion of women and children Toller deduced they were emigrants who had breached the perimeter fence at a point remote from the main entrance. He turned away from the tunnel, located an auxiliary exit through the double ptertha meshes and rode out towards the advancing citizenry. When he got close to the leaders they brandished their blue-and-white migration warrants.

“Keep heading towards the balloon enclosures,” he shouted to them. “We’ll get you away.”

The anxious-faced men and women called out their thanks and hurried on, some carrying or dragging infants. Turning to look after them, Toller saw that their arrival had been noticed and mounted men were coming out to meet them. The sky behind the riders made a unique spectacle. Perhaps fifty ships were now in the air over the enclosures, dangerously crowded at the lower levels and straggling out as they receded into the zenith.

Not pausing to see what kind of reception the migrants would receive, Toller spurred his bluehorn on towards Greenmount. Far off to his right, in Ro-Atabri itself, the fires appeared to be spreading. The city was built of stone, but the timber and rope with which it had been cocooned to ward off the ptertha were highly flammable and the fires were becoming large enough to create their own convection systems, gaining ground with no assistance from the elements. It was only necessary, Toller knew, for a slight breeze to spring up and the whole city would be engulfed in a matter of minutes.

He urged the bluehorn into a gallop, judging his direction from the groups of refugees he met, and eventually espied a place where the perimeter barricade had been pulled to the ground. He rode through the gap, ignoring apprehensive stares from people who were clambering across the stakes, and chose a direct route up the hill towards the Square House. The streets he had roamed as a boy were littered and deserted, part of the alien territory of the past.

A minute after entering Greenmount district he rounded a corner and encountered a band of five civilians who had armed themselves with staves. Although obviously not migrants, they were hurrying towards the Quarter. Toller divined at once that it was their intention to harass and perhaps rob some of the migrant families he had seen earlier.

They spread out to block the narrow street and their leader, a slack-jawed hulk in a cloak thonged with dried pillar snakes, said, “What do you think you’re doing, bluecoat?”

Toller, who could easily have ridden the man down, reined to a halt. “As you ask so politely, I don’t mind telling you that I’m deciding whether or not I should kill you.”

“Kill me!” The man pounded the ground imperiously with his staff, apparently in the belief that all skymen went unarmed. “And exactly how…?”

Toller drew his sword with a horizontal sweep which lopped the staff just above the man’s hand. “That could just have easily been your wrist or your neck,” he said mildly. “Do any or all of you wish to pursue the matter?”

The four others eyed each other and backed away.

“We have no quarrel with you, sir,” the cloaked man said, nursing the hand which had been jarred by the fierce impact on his staff. “We’ll go peaceably on our way.”

“You won’t.” Toller used his brakka blade to point out an alley which led away from the skyship base. “You will go that way, and back to your dens. I will be returning to the Quarter in a few minutes—and I swear that if I set eyes on any of you again it will be my sword that does all the talking. Now go!”

As soon as the men had passed out of sight he sheathed his sword and resumed the ascent of the hill. He doubted if his warning would have a lasting effect on the ruffians, but he had spared as much time as he could on behalf of the migrants, all of whom would have to learn to face many rigours in the coming days. A glance at the narrowing crescent of light on the disk of Overland told him there was not much more than an hour until littlenight, and it was imperative that he should take Gesalla to the base before then.

On reaching the crest of Greenmount he galloped through silent avenues to the Square House and dismounted in the walled precinct. He went into the entrance hall and was met by Sany, the rotund cook, and a balding manservant who was unknown to him.

“Master Toller!” Sany cried. “Have you news of your brother?”

Toller felt a renewed shock of bereavement—the pressure of events had suspended his normal emotional processes. “My brother is dead,” he said. “Where is your mistress?”

“In her bedchamber.” Sany pressed both hands to her throat. “This is a terrible day for all of us.”

Toller ran to the main stair, but paused on the first flight. “Sany, I’m returning to the Skyship Quarter in a few minutes. I strongly advise you and…” He looked questioningly at the manservant.

“Harribend, sir.”

“…you and Harribend—and any other domestics who are still here—to come with me. The migration has started ahead of time in great confusion, and even though you don’t have warrants I think I can get you places on a ship.”

Both servants backed away from him. “I couldn’t go into the sky before my time,” Sany said. “It isn’t natural. It isn’t right.”

“There are riots in the city and the ptertha screens are burning.”

“Be that as it may, Master Toller—we’ll take our chances here where we belong.”

“Think hard about it,” Toller said. He went up to the landing and through the familiar corridor which led to the south side of the house, unable to accept fully that this was the last occasion on which he would see the ceramic figurines glowing in their niches, or his blurred reflection ghosting along the polished glasswood panels. The door to the principal bedchamber was open.

Gesalla was standing at the window which framed a view of the city in which the dominant features were the seemingly motionless columns of grey and white smoke intersecting the natural blue and green horizontals of Arle Bay and the Gulf of Tronom. She was dressed as he had never seen her before, in a waistcoat and breeches of grey whipcord complemented by a lighter grey shirt—the whole being almost a muted echo of his own skyman’s uniform. A sudden timidity made him refrain from speaking or tapping the door. How was one to impart the kind of news he bore?

Gesalla turned and looked at him with wise, sombre eyes. “Thank you for coming, Toller.”

“It’s about Lain,” he said, entering the room. “I’m afraid I bring bad news.”

“I knew he had to be dead when there was no message by nightfall.” Her voice was cool, almost brisk. “All that was needed was the confirmation.”

Toller was unprepared for her lack of emotion. “Gesalla, I don’t know how to tell you this … at a time like this … but you have seen the fires in the city. We have no choice but to…”

“I’m ready to leave,” Gesalla said, picking up a tightly rolled bundle which had been on a chair. “These are all the personal possessions I’ll need. It isn’t too much, is it?”

He stared at her beautiful unperturbed face for a moment, battling with an irrational resentment. “Have you any idea where we’re going?”

“Where else but to Overland? The skyships are leaving. According to what I could decipher of the sunwriter messages coming out of the Great Palace, civil war is breaking out in Ro-Atabri and the King has already fled. Do you think I’m stupid, Toller?”

“Stupid? No, you’re very intelligent—very logical.”

“Did you expect me to be hysterical? Was I to be carried out of here screaming that I was afraid to go into the sky, where only the heroic Toller Maraquine has been? Was I to weep and plead for time to strew flowers around my husband’s body?”

“No, I didn’t expect you to weep.” Toller was dismayed by what he was saying, yet was unable to hold back. “I don’t expect you to feign grief.”

Gesalla struck him across the face, her hand moving so quickly that he was given no chance to avoid the blow. “Never say anything like that to me again. Never make that kind of presumption about me! Now, are we leaving or are we going to stand here and talk all day?”

“The sooner we leave the better,” he said stonily, resisting the urge to finger the stinging patch on his cheek. “I’ll take your pack.”

Gesalla snatched the bundle away from him and slung it from her shoulders. “I made it for me to carry—you have enough to do.” She slipped past him into the corridor, moving lightly and with deceptive speed, and had reached the main stair before he caught up with her.

“What about Sany and the other servants?” he said. “Leaving them doesn’t sit easy with me.”

She shook her head. “Lain and I both tried to talk them into applying for warrants, and we failed. You can’t force people to go, Toller.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He walked with her to the entrance, taking a last nostalgic look around the hall, and went out to the precinct where his bluehorn was waiting. “Where is your carriage?”

“I don’t know—Lain took it yesterday.”

“Does that mean we have to ride together?”

Gesalla sighed. “I have no intention of trotting along beside you.”

“Very well.” Feeling oddly selfconscious, Toller climbed into the saddle and extended a hand to Gesalla. He was surprised at how little effort it took to help her spring into place behind him, and even more so when she slipped her arms around his waist and pressed herself to his back. Some bodily contact was necessary, but if almost seemed as though she… He dismissed the half-formed thought, appalled by his obscene readiness to think of Gesalla in a sexual context, and put the bluehorn into a fast trot.

On leaving the precinct and turning north-west he saw that many more ships were now in the sky above the Quarter, dwindling into specks as they were absorbed by the blue depths of the upper atmosphere. A slight eastward drift was becoming apparent in their movement, which meant that the chaos of the departure might soon be made worse by the arrival of ptertha. Off to his left the towers of smoke rising from the city were being horizontally sheared and smeared where they reached high level air currents. Burning trees created occasional powdery explosions.

Toller rode down the hill as fast as was compatible with safety. The streets were as empty as before, but he was increasingly aware of the sounds of tumult coming from directly ahead. He emerged from the last screen of abandoned buildings and found that the scene at the Quarter’s periphery had changed.

The break in the barricade had been enlarged and groups totalling perhaps a hundred had gathered there, denied entry to the base by ranks of infantry. Stones and pieces of timber were being hurled at the soldiers who, although armed with swords and javelins, were not retaliating. Several mounted officers were stationed behind the soldiers, and Toller knew by their sleeved swords and the green flashes on their shoulders that they were part of a Sorka regiment, men who were loyal to Leddravohr and had no particular affiliations with Ro-Atabri. It was a situation which could erupt into carnage at any moment, and if that happened rebel soldiers would probably be drawn to the spot to turn it into a miniature theatre of war.

“Hold on and keep your head down,” he said to Gesalla as he drew his sword. “We have to go in hard.”

He spurred the bluehorn into a gallop. The powerful beast responded readily, covering the intervening ground in a few wind-rushing seconds. Toller had hoped to take the rioters completely unawares and burst through them before they could react, but the pounding of hooves on the hard clay attracted the attention of men who had turned to gather stones.

“There’s a bluecoat,” the cry went up. “Get the filthy bluecoat!”

The sight of the massive charging animal and of Toller’s battle sword was enough to scatter all from his path, but there was no escaping the irregular volley of missiles. Toller was struck solidly on the upper arm and thigh, and a skimming piece of slate laid open the knuckles of his rein hand. He kept the bluehorn on course through the overturned timbers of the barricade and had almost reached the lines of soldiers when he heard a thud and felt an impact transmitted through Gesalla’s body. She gasped and slackened her hold for an instant, then recovered her strength. The lines of soldiers parted to make way for him and he pulled the bluehorn to a halt.

“Is it bad?” he said to Gesalla, unable to turn in the saddle or dismount because of her grip on him.

“It isn’t serious,” she replied in a voice he could scarcely hear. “You must go on.”

A bearded lieutenant approached them, saluted and caught the bluehorn’s bridle. “Are you Skycaptain Toller Maraquine?”

“I am.”

“You are to report immediately to Prince Leddravohr at Enclosure 12.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, lieutenant,” Toller said. “It would be easier if you stepped aside.”

“Sir, Prince Leddravohr’s orders made no mention of a woman.”

Toller raised his eyebrows and met the lieutenant’s gaze directly. “What of it?”

“I… Nothing, sir.” The lieutenant released the bridle and moved back.

Toller urged the bluehorn forward, heading for the row of balloon enclosures. It had been found, though nobody had explained the phenomenon, that perforated barriers protected balloons from air disturbances better than solid screens. The open western sky was shining through square apertures in the enclosures, making them look more than ever like a line of lofty towers, at the foot of which was the seething activity of thousands of workers, air crew and emigrants with all their paraphernalia and supplies.

It said much for the organising ability of Leddravohr, Chakkell and their appointees that the system was able to function at all in such extreme circumstances. Ships were still taking off in groups of two or three, and it occurred to Toller that it was almost a miracle that there had been no serious accidents.

At that moment, as if the thought had engendered the event, the gondola of a ship rising too quickly struck the rim of its enclosure. The ship was oscillating as it shot into clear air and at a height of two-hundred feet overtook another which had departed some seconds earlier. At the limit of one of its pendulum swings the gondola of the uncontrolled ship drove sideways into the balloon of the slower craft. The latter’s envelope split and lost its symmetry, flapping and rippling like some wounded creature of the deep, and the ship plunged to the ground, its acceleration struts trailing loosely. It landed squarely on a group of supply wagons. The impact must have severed its burner feed lines for there was an immediate gouting of flame and black smoke, and the barking of injured or terrified bluehorns was added to the general commotion.

Toller tried not to think about the fate of those on board. The other ship’s appallingly bad take-off had looked like the work of a novice, making it seem that many of the one thousand qualified pilots assigned to the migration fleet were not available, possibly stranded by the disturbances in the city. New dangers had been added to the already daunting array of hazards facing the interworld voyagers.

He could feel Gesalla’s head lolling against his back as they rode towards the enclosure, and his anxiety about her increased. Her lightweight frame was ill-equipped to withstand the sort of blow he had felt at a remove. As he neared the twelfth enclosure he saw that it and the three adjoining to the north were heavily ringed by foot soldiers and cavalry. In the protected zone there was an area of comparative calm. Four balloons were waiting in the enclosures, with the inflation teams to hand, and knots of richly dressed men and women were standing by heaps of ornamented cases and other belongings. Some of the men were sipping drinks as they craned to see the crashed ship, while small children darted around their legs as though at play on a family outing.

Toller scanned the area and was able to pick out a group at the core of which were Leddravohr, Chakkell and Pouche, all standing close to the seated figure of King Prad. The ruler, slumped on an ordinary chair, was staring at the ground, apparently oblivious to all that was happening. He looked old and dispirited, in marked contrast to the vigorous aspect which Toller remembered.

A youngish army captain came forward to meet Toller as he reined the bluehorn to a halt. He looked surprised when he saw Gesalla, but helped her to the ground readily enough and without any comment. Toller dismounted and saw that her face was totally without colour. She was swaying a little and her eyes had a distant, abstracted look which told him she was in severe pain.

“Perhaps I should carry you,” he said as the ranks of soldiers parted at a signal from the captain.

“I can walk, I can walk,” she whispered. “Take your hands away, Toller—the beast is not to see me being assisted.”

Toller nodded, impressed by her courage, and walked ahead of her towards the royal group. Leddravohr turned to face him and for once did not produce his snake-strike of a smile. His eyes were smouldering in the marble-smooth face. There was a diagonal spattering of crimson on his white cuirass, and blood was congealing thickly around the top of his scabbard, but his manner was suggestive of controlled anger rather than the insane rage of which Zavotle had spoken.

“I sent for you hours ago, Maraquine,” he said icily. “Where have you been?”

“Viewing the remains of my brother,” Toller said, deliberately omitting the required form of address. “There is something highly suspicious about his death.”

“Do you know what you are saying?”

“Yes.”

“I see you have returned to your old ways.” Leddravohr moved closer and lowered his voice. “My father once extracted a vow from me that I would not harm you, but I will regard myself as released from that vow when we reach Overland. Then, I promise you, I will give you what you have sought so long—but for now more important matters must engage my attention.”

Leddravohr turned and padded away, giving a signal to the launch supervisors. At once the balloon inflating crews went to work, cranking the big fans into noisy life. King Prad raised his head, startled, and looked about him with his single troubled eye. The spurious festive mood deserted the various noblemen as the clatter of the fans impressed on them that the unprecedented flight into the unknown was about to begin. Family groups drew together, the children ceased their play, and servants made ready to transfer their masters’ belongings to the ships which would depart in the wake of the royal flight.

Beyond the protective lines of guards was a sea of apparently undirected activity as the work of despatching the migration fleet continued. Men were running everywhere, and supply wagons careered among the lumbering flatbed carts which were transporting skyships to the enclosures. Farther away across the open ground of the Quarter, taking advantage of the near-perfect weather conditions, the pilots of cargo ships were inflating their balloons and taking off without the aid of windbreaks. The sky was now thronged with ships, rising like a cloud of strange airborne spores towards the fiery crescent of Overland.

Toller was awed by the sheer drama of the spectacle, the proof that when driven to the limit his own kind had the courage and ability to stride like gods from one world to another, but he was also bemused by what he had just heard from Leddravohr.

The vow of which Leddravohr had spoken explained certain things—but why had he been asked to make it in the first place? What had prompted the King to single one of his subjects out of so many and place him under his personal protection? Intrigued by the new mystery, Toller glanced thoughtfully in the direction of the seated figure of the King and experienced a peculiar thrill when he saw that Prad was staring directly at him. A moment later the King pointed a finger at Toller, casting a line of psychic force through the groups of bystanders, and then beckoned to him. Ignoring the curious gazes of royal attendants, Toller approached the King and bowed.

“You have served me well, Toller Maraquine,” Prad said in a tired but firm voice. “And now it is in my mind to charge you with one further responsibility.”

“You have but to name it, Majesty,” Toller replied, his sense of unreality increasing as Prad gestured for him to move closer and stoop to receive a private message.

“See to it,” the King whispered, “that my name is remembered on Overland.”

“Majesty…” Toller straightened up, beset with confusion. “Majesty, I don’t understand.”

“Understanding will come—now go to your post.”

Toller bowed and backed away, but before he had time to ponder on the brief exchange he was summoned by Colonel Kartkang, former chief administrator for the S.E.S. Following the dissolution of the Experimental Squadron the colonel had been given the responsibility for coordinating the departure of the royal flight, a task he could hardly have foreseen carrying out in such adverse conditions. His lips were moving silently as he directed Toller to a spot where Leddravohr was addressing three pilots. One of them was Ilven Zavotle, and another was Gollav Amber—an experienced man who had been short-listed for the proving flight. The third was a thick-bodied red-bearded man in his forties, who wore the uniform of a skycommander. After a moment’s thought, Toller identified him as Halsen Kedalse, a former aircaptain and royal messenger.

“…decided that we will travel in separate ships,” Leddravohr was saying as his gaze flickered towards Toller. “Maraquine—the one officer who has experience of taking a ship past the midpoint—will have the responsibility of piloting my father’s ship. I will fly with Zavotle. Prince Chakkell will go with Kedalse, and Prince Pouche with Amber. Each of you will now go to his designated ship and prepare to ascend before littlenight is on us.”

The four pilots saluted and were about to walk to the enclosures when Leddravohr halted them by raising a hand. He studied them for what seemed a long time, looking uncharacteristically irresolute, before he spoke again. “On reflection, Kedalse has flown my father many times during his long service as an aircaptain. He will fly the King’s ship on this occasion, and Prince Chakkell will go with Maraquine. That is all.”

Toller saluted again and turned away, wondering what was signified by Leddravohr’s change of mind. He had been quick to take the point when Toller had said he was suspicious about Lain’s death. My brother is dead! Was that an indication of guilt? Had some grotesque twist of thought made Leddravohr unwilling to entrust his father’s life to a man whose brother he had murdered, or at least caused to die?

The unmistakable sound of a heavy cannon being fired somewhere in the distance reminded Toller that he had no time to spare for speculation. He looked around for Gesalla. She was standing alone, isolated from the surrounding activity, and something about her posture told him she was still in extreme pain. He ran to the gondola where Prince Chakkell was waiting with his wife, daughter and two small sons. The pearl-coiffed Princess Daseene and the children gazed up at Toller with expressions of wary surmise, and even Chakkell seemed tentative in his manner. They were all deeply afraid, Toller realised, and one of the unknowns facing them was the nature of the relationship to be dictated by the man into whose hands chance had delivered their lives.

“Well, Maraquine,” Chakkell said, “are we about to leave?”

Toller nodded. “We could all be safely away from here in a few minutes, Prince—but there is a difficulty.”

“A difficulty? What difficulty?”

“My brother died yesterday.” Toller paused, taking advantage of the fresh anxiety he had glimpsed in Chakkell’s eyes. “My obligation to his widow can only be discharged by bringing her with me on this flight.”

“I’m sorry, Maraquine, but that is out of the question,” Chakkell said. “This ship is for my use only.”

“I know that, Prince, but you are a man who understands family ties, and you can appreciate that it is impossible for me to abandon my brother’s widow. If she can’t travel on this ship, then I must decline the honour of being your pilot.”

“You’re talking about treason,” Chakkell snapped, wiping perspiration from his bald brown scalp. “I … Leddravohr would have you executed on the spot if you dared disobey his orders.”

“I know that too, Prince, and it would be a great pity for all concerned.” Toller directed a thin smile at the watchful children. “If I weren’t here an inexperienced pilot would have to take you and your family through that strange region between the worlds. I’m familiar with all the terrors and dangers of the middle passage, you see, and could have prepared you for them.”

The two boys continued to gaze up at him, but the girl hid her face in her mother’s skirts. Chakkell stared at her with pain-filled eyes and shuffled his feet in an agony of frustration as, for the first time in his life, he had to consider subordinating himself to the will of an ordinary man. Toller smiled at him, falsely sympathetic, and thought, If this is power, may I never need it again.

“Your brother’s widow may travel in my ship,” Chakkell finally said. “And I won’t forget about this, Maraquine.”

“I’ll always remember you with gratitude too,” Toller said. As he was climbing into the pilot’s station of the gondola he resigned himself to having hardened the enmity that Chakkell already felt for him, but he could feel no guilt or shame this time. He had acted with deliberation and logic to achieve what was necessary, unlike the Toller Maraquine of old, and had the further consolation of knowing he was in tune with the realities of the situation. Lain—My brother is dead!—had once said that Leddravohr and his kind belonged to the past, and Chakkell had just vindicated those words. In spite of all the catastrophic changes which had overwhelmed their world, men like Leddravohr and Chakkell acted as though Kolcorron would be created anew on Overland. Only the King seemed to have intuited that everything would be different.

Lying on his back against a partition, Toller signalled to the inflation crew that he was ready to start burning. They stopped cranking and hauled the fan aside, giving him a clear view of the balloon’s interior. The envelope, partially filled with cool air, was sagging and rolling between the upraised acceleration struts. He fired a series of blasts into it, drowning out the sound of the other burners which were being operated all along the line of enclosures, and watched it distend and lift itself clear of the ground. As it reached the vertical position the men holding the crown lines closed in and fastened them to the gondola’s load frame, and others rotated the lightweight structure until it was horizontal. The huge assemblage of balloon and gondola, now lighter than air, began to strain gently at its central anchor as though Overland was calling to it.

Toller leapt down from the gondola and nodded to Chakkell and the waiting attendants as a sign that the passengers and belongings could go aboard. He went to Gesalla and she made no objection as he unslung the bundle from her shoulder.

“We’re ready to go,” he said. “You’ll be able to lie down and rest as soon as you’re on board.”

“But that’s a royal ship,” she replied, unexpectedly hanging back. “I’m supposed to find a place on one of the others.”

“Gesalla, please forget all about what was supposed to happen. Many ships will fail to leave this place altogether, and it’s likely that blood will be shed in the fight to get on to some of those that do. You must come now.”

“Has the Prince given his consent?”

“We talked it over, and he wouldn’t even consider departing without you.” Toller took Gesalla by the arm and walked with her to the gondola. He went on board first and found that Chakkell, Daseene and the children had taken their places in one passenger compartment, tacitly assigning the other to him and Gesalla. She winced with pain as he helped her climb over the side, and as soon as he had shown her into the vacant compartment she lay down on the wool-filled quilts stored there.

He unbuckled his sword, placed it beside her and returned to the pilot’s station. A heavy cannon again sounded in the distance as he reactivated the burner. The ship was lightly loaded compared to the one he had taken on the proving flight, and he waited less than a minute before pulling the anchor link. There was a gentle lurch and the walls of the enclosure began to slide vertically past him. The climb continued well even when the balloon had fully entered the open air, and in a few seconds Toller had a full-circle view of the Quarter. The three other ships of the royal flight—distinguished by white lateral stripes on their gondolas—had already cleared their enclosures and were slightly above him. All other launches had been temporarily halted, but he still felt the air to be uncomfortably crowded, and he kept a careful watch on the companion ships until the beginnings of a westerly breeze had brought about some dispersion.

In a mass flight there was always the risk of collision between two ships ascending or descending at different speeds. As it was impossible for a pilot to see anything directly above him, because of the balloon, the rule was that the uppermost of a pair had the responsibility of taking action to avoid the lower. The theory was sound as far as it went, but Toller had misgivings about it because almost the only option available in the climb phase was to climb faster and thus increase the risk of overtaking a third ship. That risk would have been minimal had the fleet been able to depart according to plan, but now he was uneasily aware of being part of a straggling vertical swarm.

As the ship gained height the scene on the ground below was revealed in all its astonishing complexity.

Balloons, inflated or laid out flat on the grass, were the dominant features in a matrix of paths and wagon tracks, supply dumps, carts, animals and thousands of people milling about in seemingly aimless activities. Toller could almost see them as communal insects labouring to save bloated queens from some imminent catastrophe. Off to the south, crowds formed a variegated mass at the main entrance to the base, but the foreshortened perspective made it impossible to tell if fighting was already breaking out between newly sundered military units.

Sketchy lines of people, presumably determined emigrants, were converging on the launch area from several points on the field’s perimeter. And beyond them the fires were now spreading more quickly in Ro-Atabri, aided by the freshening breeze, stripping the city of its ptertha defences. In contrast to the seething turmoil engendered by human beings and their appurtenances, Arle Bay and the Gulf of Tronom formed a placid backdrop of turquoise and blue. A two-dimensional Mount Opelmer floated in the hazy distance, serene and undisturbed.

Toller, operating the burner by means of the extension lever, stood at the side of the gondola and tried to assimilate the fact that he was departing the scene for ever, but within him there was only a tremulous void, a near-subliminal agitation which told of suppressed emotions. Too much had happened in the space of a single foreday—My brother is dead!—and pain and regret had been laid in store for him, to be drawn upon when the first quiet hours came.

Chakkell was also looking outwards from his compartment, arms around Daseene and his daughter, who appeared to be aged about twelve. Toller, who had previously regarded him as a man motivated by nothing but ambition, wondered if he should revise his opinion. The ease with which he had been coerced in the matter of Gesalla indicated an overriding concern for his family.

Spectators could be seen at the rails of two other royal ships—King Prad and his personal attendants in one, the withdrawn Prince Pouche and retainers in another. Only Leddravohr, who seemed to have decided to travel unaccompanied, was not visible. Zavotle, a lonely figure at the controls of Leddravohr’s ship, gave Toller a wave, then began drawing in and fastening his acceleration struts. As his ship was the least burdened of the four he could leave the burner for quite long periods and still match the others’ rate of climb.

Toller, who had settled on a two-and-twenty rhythm, did not have the same latitude. As a result of what had been learned from the proving flight it had been decided that the migration ships could safely be operated by unaided pilots, thus freeing more lifting ability for passengers and cargo. During a pilot’s rest periods he would entrust the burner or jet to a passenger, though always continuing to monitor the rhythm.

“Littlenight is almost here, Prince,” Toller said, speaking courteously to make amends for his earlier insubordination. “I want to secure our struts before then, so I must request you to relieve me at the burner.”

“Very well.” Chakkell seemed almost pleased at having something useful to do as he took over the extension lever. His dark-haired boys, still shooting timid glances at Toller, came to his side and listened attentively while he explained the workings of the machinery to them. By the time Toller had hauled in and lashed the struts to the corners of the gondola, Chakkell had taught the boys to count the burner rhythm by making a chanting game of it.

Seeing that all three were engrossed for the time being, Toller went into the compartment where Gesalla was lying. Her eyes were alert and the strained expression had left her face. She extended a hand and offered him a rolled-up bandage which must have come from her bundle of possessions.

He knelt beside her on the bed of soft quilts, reviling himself for the flicker of sexual excitement the action brought, and took the bandage. “How are you?” he said quietly.

“I don’t think any of my ribs are actually broken, but they’ll have to be bound if I’m to do my share of the work. Help me up.” With Toller’s assistance she gingerly raised herself to a kneeling position, half-turned away from him and pulled up her grey shirt to expose a massive bruise at one side of her lower ribs. “What do you think?”

“You should be bandaged,” he said, unsure of what was expected of him.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Nothing.” He passed the bandage around her and began to lap it tight, but his actions were made awkward by the constrictions of her waistcoat and gathered shirt. Time after time, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, his knuckles brushed against her breasts and the sensation darted through him like ambersparks, adding to his clumsiness.

Gesalla gave an audible sigh. “You’re useless, Toller. Wait!” She pulled open her shirt and removed both it and the waistcoat in a single movement, and now the slimness of her was naked from the waist up. “Try it now.”

A vision of Lain’s yellow-hooded body turned him into a senseless machine. He completed the bandage with the efficiency and briskness of a battlefield surgeon, and allowed his hands to fall to his sides. Gesalla remained as she was for a few protracted seconds, her gaze warm and solemn, before she picked up the shirt and put it on.

“Thank you,” she said, then put out her hand and lightly touched him on the lips.

There was a blaze of rainbow colours and suddenly the ship was in darkness. In the other passenger compartment Daseene or her daughter whimpered with alarm. Toller stood up and looked over the side. The fringed, curved shadow of Overland was speeding towards the eastern horizon, and almost directly below the ship Ro-Atabri was a tangle of orange-burning threads caught in a spreading pool of pitch.

When daylight returned the four ships of the royal flight had attained a height of some twenty miles—and were accompanied by a loose cluster of ptertha.

Toller scanned the sky all around and saw that one globe was only thirty yards away to the north. He went immediately to one of the two rail-mounted cannon on that side, took aim and released the pin which shattered the bilobed glass container in the gun’s breech. There was a brief delay while the charges of pikon and halvell mixed, reacted and exploded. The projectile blurred along its trajectory, followed by a glitter of glass fragments, spreading its radial arms as it flew. It curved down through the ptertha and annihilated it, releasing a fast-fading smudge of purple dust.

“That was a good shot,” Chakkell said from behind Toller. “Would you say we’re safe from the poison at this range?”

Toller nodded. “The ship goes with any wind there is, so the dust can’t reach us. The ptertha are not much of a threat, really, but I destroyed that one because there can be some air turbulence at the edge of littlenight. I didn’t want to risk the globe picking up a stray eddy and moving in on us.”

Chakkell’s swarthy face bore an expression of concern as he stared at the remaining globes. “How did they get so close?”

“Pure chance, it seems. If they are spread out over an area of sky and a ship happens to rise up through them, they match its rate of climb. The same thing happened on the…” Toller broke off on hearing two more cannon shots, some distance away, followed by faint screaming which seemed to come from below.

He leaned over the gondola wall and looked straight down. The convex immensity of Land provided an intricate blue-green background for a seemingly endless series of balloons, the nearest of which were only a few hundred yards away and looking very large. Many others were ranged out below them in irregular steps and random groupings, progressively shrinking in apparent size until they reached near-invisibility.

Ptertha could be seen mingling with the uppermost ships and, as Toller watched, another cannon fired and picked off a globe. The projectile quickly lost momentum and faded from sight in a dizzy plunge, losing itself in the cloud patterns far below. The screaming continued, regular as breathing, for some time before gradually fading away.

Toller moved back from the rail, wondering if the screams had been inspired by groundless panic, or if someone had actually seen one of the globes hovering close to a gondola wall—blind, malignant and utterly invincible—just before it darted in for the kill. He was experiencing relief tinged with guilt over having been spared such a fate when a new thought occurred to him. The ptertha had no need to wait for daylight before closing in. There was no guarantee that one or more of the globes had not driven itself against his own ship during the spell of darkness—and if that were the case neither he, Gesalla nor any of his passengers would live to set foot on Overland.

As he tried to come to terms with the notion he slipped a hand into his pocket, located the curious keepsake given to him by his father, and allowed his thumb to begin circling on the ice-smooth surface.