find us, all right, but in their own good time.”
“Can't you make your prentice be quiet?” Ambrosia asked her brother.
Morlock smiled. “No.”
“Hmph,” Wyrth said, to keep the conversation going. “Listen to this: I say we let the horse go.”
The Ambrosii said nothing. The expression of pain sternly repressed was stamped on both their faces, bringing out the most fugitive likenesses. If it were possible Wyrth would have made them both be still and take some healing. Since it was not, he was determined to distract them.
“No, really,” he said, as if they had answered him. “It—”
“We need the horse, Wyrtheorn,” Morlock cut him off.
They proceeded through a silence punctuated by Wyrth's wisecracks. The sun was gone behind the dusty gray hills to the east, but its light was still in the sky and its heat was still in the dead valleys.
“Here,” said Morlock.
Wyrtheorn looked around.
“There.” Morlock scuffed a mark in the crumbling gray earth.
“Get away; I'll do it,” the dwarf said irritably.
Morlock did not argue, but sat on a slope a few feet away. “Dig a square perhaps as long as my arm.”
“Which arm?” the dwarf retorted, digging rapidly in the dry earth with his hard blunt fingers. It was not long before he laid bare a crystalline blade, blazing with white light. There were darker thornlike shapes within the light. Beneath the sword was a large pack made of dark canvas. Between pack and sword two small boxes made of translucent shining metal.
“What is that? ” the dwarf said, pointing at the boxes.
“Aethrium,” Morlock replied.
“And inside them?”
“Phlogiston.”
“From…”
“I dephlogistonated the armor I fashioned, and most of the metal in the smith's shop.”
The dwarf laughed in pure delight. “That was generous of you!”
“It was a partial payment for the trouble we put him to. A dephlogistonated implement is harder, denser, more durable.”
“And you, of course, brought this dangerous matter away with you?”
“I saw a use for it.”
“You will kill me with wonder, someday, Master Morlock.”
“What's phlogiston?” Ambrosia asked.
Her brother replied didactically, “Phlogiston is the element in matter which is responsible for combustion. Burning, in fact, is simply the release of phlogiston resident in a given object.”
“Does metal burn?”
“Everything burns,” said Morlock, “unless it has been dephlogistonated. Metal burns in a peculiar manner, though. When a log burns and you weigh the residue, it weighs less than the original log. If you burn a piece of metal, the residue weighs more than the original piece.”
“Then metallic phlogiston,” remarked Ambrosia composedly, “weighs less than nothing.”
“Considerably less. This has certain obvious uses…”
he King of the Two Cities was coughing quietly in the darkness underneath the enclosure seats.
“Be quiet, please, Your Majesty,” the Legionary captain, Lorn, whispered.
“It's the dust,” the King explained, whispering back. “I'm sorry.” He added impulsively, “I'm sorry for everything.”
“You? Sorry?” the Legionary said incredulously. “No, Your Majesty. My fate was sealed when I set your Grandmother, as you call her, free. And yours was sealed when you declared her free. But free she was, and the Strange Gods can seize anyone who says otherwise, Protector's Man or no.”
“I thought you were a Protector's Man, when you came to get me,” the King confessed.
“I wasn't but three steps ahead of them, and that's the truth. Traitorous bastards. We're not all like them in the City Legion, Your Majesty—you mustn't believe that. If we get you back into Ontil, you'll be safe enough.”
“But how will we get there?”
“We'll wait until it gets a little darker; then we'll make our way out of the enclosure. My squad will be waiting out there, as if on perimeter guard. Then we'll go to a city gate manned by loyal soldiers. From there on,
“Can't you make your prentice be quiet?” Ambrosia asked her brother.
Morlock smiled. “No.”
“Hmph,” Wyrth said, to keep the conversation going. “Listen to this: I say we let the horse go.”
The Ambrosii said nothing. The expression of pain sternly repressed was stamped on both their faces, bringing out the most fugitive likenesses. If it were possible Wyrth would have made them both be still and take some healing. Since it was not, he was determined to distract them.
“No, really,” he said, as if they had answered him. “It—”
“We need the horse, Wyrtheorn,” Morlock cut him off.
They proceeded through a silence punctuated by Wyrth's wisecracks. The sun was gone behind the dusty gray hills to the east, but its light was still in the sky and its heat was still in the dead valleys.
“Here,” said Morlock.
Wyrtheorn looked around.
“There.” Morlock scuffed a mark in the crumbling gray earth.
“Get away; I'll do it,” the dwarf said irritably.
Morlock did not argue, but sat on a slope a few feet away. “Dig a square perhaps as long as my arm.”
“Which arm?” the dwarf retorted, digging rapidly in the dry earth with his hard blunt fingers. It was not long before he laid bare a crystalline blade, blazing with white light. There were darker thornlike shapes within the light. Beneath the sword was a large pack made of dark canvas. Between pack and sword two small boxes made of translucent shining metal.
“What is that? ” the dwarf said, pointing at the boxes.
“Aethrium,” Morlock replied.
“And inside them?”
“Phlogiston.”
“From…”
“I dephlogistonated the armor I fashioned, and most of the metal in the smith's shop.”
The dwarf laughed in pure delight. “That was generous of you!”
“It was a partial payment for the trouble we put him to. A dephlogistonated implement is harder, denser, more durable.”
“And you, of course, brought this dangerous matter away with you?”
“I saw a use for it.”
“You will kill me with wonder, someday, Master Morlock.”
“What's phlogiston?” Ambrosia asked.
Her brother replied didactically, “Phlogiston is the element in matter which is responsible for combustion. Burning, in fact, is simply the release of phlogiston resident in a given object.”
“Does metal burn?”
“Everything burns,” said Morlock, “unless it has been dephlogistonated. Metal burns in a peculiar manner, though. When a log burns and you weigh the residue, it weighs less than the original log. If you burn a piece of metal, the residue weighs more than the original piece.”
“Then metallic phlogiston,” remarked Ambrosia composedly, “weighs less than nothing.”
“Considerably less. This has certain obvious uses…”
he King of the Two Cities was coughing quietly in the darkness underneath the enclosure seats.
“Be quiet, please, Your Majesty,” the Legionary captain, Lorn, whispered.
“It's the dust,” the King explained, whispering back. “I'm sorry.” He added impulsively, “I'm sorry for everything.”
“You? Sorry?” the Legionary said incredulously. “No, Your Majesty. My fate was sealed when I set your Grandmother, as you call her, free. And yours was sealed when you declared her free. But free she was, and the Strange Gods can seize anyone who says otherwise, Protector's Man or no.”
“I thought you were a Protector's Man, when you came to get me,” the King confessed.
“I wasn't but three steps ahead of them, and that's the truth. Traitorous bastards. We're not all like them in the City Legion, Your Majesty—you mustn't believe that. If we get you back into Ontil, you'll be safe enough.”
“But how will we get there?”
“We'll wait until it gets a little darker; then we'll make our way out of the enclosure. My squad will be waiting out there, as if on perimeter guard. Then we'll go to a city gate manned by loyal soldiers. From there on,
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