The Arsenal Inspection
“It cannot be done!”
“I understand your opinion well enough.”
“It is not an opinion, Your Majesty. It is simply impossible. David Bloomfield as representative? It cannot stand!”
“Herbert, Herbert… Look closely, Archbishop Herbert.” Richard snatched the letters patent from Herbert and thrust them back at him. “Look carefully. There is not a single word about a ‘representative’ here. It merely states this.”
“By the grace of Her Majesty Queen Richelle of Zylan, the following is permitted: the administrative authority over Jihan shall be delegated to David Bloomfield. Have I misread anything?”
Richard walked on again. Though much smaller than Herbert, her stride was so swift that he struggled to keep pace. She spoke. “It is different! Of course it is different! That man Bloomfield is not Jihan’s representative.”
“He is Your Majesty’s proxy,” Herbert replied. Richard corrected him at once.
“Master.”
“A slip of the tongue, Master. In any case, whether he is Jihan’s representative or Her Majesty the Queen’s—Your Majesty’s—proxy, what difference will it make to the people of Jihan?”
“Mind your head.”
“Aagh!”
Herbert barely ducked in time as a pole swung toward his head from outside his field of vision. The laborer with a bundle of timber lashed to his shoulder offered no apology; he did not even seem to realize he had nearly struck him. Herbert’s hat was knocked off, though his skull was spared. He bent to retrieve it, only for another foot—appearing from nowhere—to stamp down on the feathered brim.
“Herbert!”
He abandoned the hat and hurried after the fleet-footed tyrant. Though the gap between them was barely ten paces, the distance felt vast amid the roar of molten metal, the clang of hammers, and the shouts of workmen. Unlike his master—who slipped nimbly between laborers, vaulted over stacked materials, and dodged laden shoulders—Herbert collided with workers, stumbled over obstacles, and finally crashed headlong into a pillar after failing to watch where he was going.
Fortunately, someone caught and steadied him.
“Careful there, my lord! Lie there too long and you’ll be trampled—or scorched by splattering metal.”
“Th-thank you.”
Herbert thanked the laborer, rose, and brushed the dust from his backside while searching for Richard. The heat haze rising from the foundry made it nearly impossible to distinguish faces even a few steps ahead, let alone locate a woman a head shorter than most of the workmen. He sighed and scratched his scalp. He could not simply shout for her; even if his voice could carry over the din of mold-making, chain-hauling, and pouring metal, there was another problem: one could not call out to someone who was not officially present. Queen Richelle was still, in the public record, at her desk in Venterum Castle; this visit to the Polbury Arsenal had been conducted in strict secrecy.
He craned his neck once more, trying to spot Richard among the laborers’ heads. Of course, he saw nothing. He took a few steps in the direction she had likely gone, but nothing caught his eye. He merely stood there, hoping to glimpse her.
The air inside the arsenal was hot, damp, and thick with the acrid stench of metal and oil. Simply breathing it seemed to drain one’s strength. Herbert regretted following Richard to Polbury. Even if political rights were being granted to Jihan, there was still time before the letters patent needed delivering—and delivering them inside this sweltering foundry was hardly appropriate. The regret, however, did him no good. A week had passed since Queen Richelle’s accession. For him, his master, and a few others close to them, the days had been frantic and shocking, yet the world itself had scarcely changed. A new queen’s coronation did not spare anyone from hunger or the need to visit the privy. Even if one could forgo meals and avoid the latrine, the arsenal could not be allowed to rest.
This was Herbert’s first visit to any arsenal, but he was certain none could be larger or more vigorous than Polbury’s. The cannon foundry building alone rivaled Venterum Castle’s main keep, and inside it teemed with massive cranes, bellows, crucibles, heaps of earth, ingots of copper and iron, and countless workers. Two more identical foundries stood nearby. If Richard had moved to another building, his chances of finding her were nonexistent.
He was beginning to wonder whether he ought to return to Venterum when someone tapped his shoulder from behind. Turning, he found himself facing a man whose face was blackened with soot.
“Oi, my lord—are you Herbert Eastport?”
“Eastport?” Herbert’s brow furrowed at the odd surname. The man looked uncertain.
“No? Must’ve got it wrong.”
“I am Herbert, though I doubt I am an Eastport.”
“Don’t confuse a man, my lord.”
“Precisely—did I not just say I am not an Eastport?”
The soot-stained commoner grumbled but pressed on regardless. “Some young lady told me to fetch you to the rear yard.”
“Wearing white hose and a pale-yellow doublet?”
“That’s her. Sword at her hip, too. Thought she was a fine young lord at first glance, but up close she’s clearly a lady. Even noble blood shouldn’t put a woman in breeches and a sword.”
It was unmistakably Richard. Her disguise had evidently fooled no one. Herbert thanked the laborer, rose from where he had been sitting, and prepared to leave. When the man bid him farewell, Herbert caught his arm.
“Which way is the rear yard?” he asked, ignoring the laborer’s irritated expression.
==========
By the time Herbert arrived, Richard was already being attended by arsenal servants. Their use of “Your Majesty” suggested the secret inspection had come to an end. As Herbert approached at a brisk walk, Richard gave him a withering look.
“You truly are useless as an aide.”
“……Because Your Majesty keeps running off to places where no aide can follow.”
Richard caught the muttered remark. “What did you say?”
“Why do you ask?” Herbert replied innocently. Richard frowned.
“I could have sworn you said something……”
Herbert changed the subject. “Why did you need me in a place like this?”
“It was not my original intention, but there is something I wanted you to see.”
Whatever Herbert might have mumbled was of no consequence. Richard grinned and jerked her chin toward the rear yard. The term was something of an arsenal slang; the space was far too long to be called a mere backyard, yet far too narrow for its length. It resembled an archery range more than anything else—though firing an arrow that distance would have required the strength of ten Richards. In truth, it was no archery range at all. Herbert followed her gesture to the nearer end of the long, range-like space, where a gleaming golden hexagonal pillar and a pitch-black cylindrical one lay aimed toward the far end. One of them was immediately familiar.
“That is a cannon, is it not?”
Anything golden and gleaming inside a cannon foundry could only be a cannon, so recognition came easily. The identity of the black one, however, eluded him. Richard spoke.
“Not one. Cannons.”
“Cannons? That black thing?”
Cannons were properly made of bronze. Of course, the period during which a cannon shone with golden brilliance was brief. Bronze quickly acquired a patina, and even diligent polishing usually left it a dull, bluish-black. Yet no amount of verdigris could turn a cannon as utterly black as the one before him. It was almost as though……
“That black cannon looks as if it were made of iron.”
“Correct. Iron. An iron cannon.”
“Is that possible?”
As far as he knew, iron was base, cold, and brittle—unsuitable for cannon-making. Cannons ought to be cast from noble bronze. Forging a cannon from iron seemed unthinkable. He fixed Richard with a skeptical gaze, demanding an explanation. His queen did not respond. The voice that answered belonged to a youthful boy.
“It is possible, Your Grace the Archbishop.”
Herbert turned toward the speaker who had suddenly interjected. Prince Leo stood behind him.
“Prince Leo? What brings Your Highness here?”
“Have you forgotten? My office is that of Ordnance Secretary. Coming to the cannon foundry is only natural, is it not?”
Leo walked over to stand beside Richard as he spoke. The two looked identical, as though cast from the same mold—same white hose, same pale-yellow doublets, even the swords at their hips matched. The only way to tell them apart was by build: Richard was smaller and more feminine, while Leo was larger and more womanly. Herbert marveled at the irrationality of the thought. The two women—though calling them both women was an affront to each—conversed in rapid tones.
“……But maintaining the current process will drastically reduce productivity.”
“We cannot use cannons riddled with blowholes, either.”
“It may be a matter of wax quality.”
“Spending more on wax would be better than using bronze.”
“Tin supply is the issue.”
“I have just had a splendid idea. Why not demand a tin mine as part of Philip’s ransom?”
“Will the Derimites keep their word?”
“That is also a problem.”
The conversation was ill-matched to their youthful appearances, yet both wore grave expressions. Herbert found no opening to interject. Had the arsenal overseer not approached to announce that the firing range was ready, a new invention might well have been born on the spot. Only then did Herbert manage to address Richard.
“Might I ask a question, Your Majesty?”
“Go ahead.”
“I cannot say I fully understand how iron cannons are possible, though I accept that they are. But why must I stand here watching them being test-fired?”
“Because you are the one most likely to provide the information I need.”