Eyes of the Calculor (34 page)

"What's a numerate?" asked Julica.

"Nothing here," reported one of the other Constables.

"There's a reward, three gold royals," said the leader as he left.

Rangen jammed a chair against the door, pulled the shutters closed, and returned to the bed. A woman emerged from a hollow in the feather mattress beside Julica.

"This building will be watched for some days to come," said Rangen. "However, in three days your name will be discovered on an emigration register in Deniliquin."

"But Fras, an unescorted woman cannot cross the Southmoor border," said Frelle Sharmalek.

"Ah, yes, but the gate register will show one man too many passing through. That gate will then be watched carefully by our friends in the Espionage Constables for a very long time."

"I regret that I have closed down a path in your most humane invisible paraline network," said the woman.

"No matter, Frelle, we never railed people out through Deniliquin in the first place. Now then, we must be disguising you as Frelle Julica here."

Lake Taupo, New Zealand

Damondel and the others watched as two sail wings circled the Taupo wingfield. The wings had immense spans, and were pushed by three compression engines between a pair of booms supporting the tail-plane.

"In a storm those things would be torn to pieces," Samondel muttered to herself, but clearly there had been no storms for the past six thousand miles. With a stall speed lower than even the new super-regals', the first of the odd sail wings approached the new wingfield, did a single, shallow bounce and rolled smoothly to a stop. The eleven members of Lake Taupo Wingfield ran out to greet the new arrival. The hood slid back.

"Serjon!" Samondel shrieked.

Bronlar was in the second sailwing. It was quite some time before Samondel's former lover and his wife were able to tell their story. Over a meal of possum and wild potato stew he described how Bartolican artisans had been experimenting with extending the range of existing sailwings, rather than building the huge, heavy super-regals that had won the war for Yarron. Two of the sailwings had already undergone gliding tests when Bartolica had surrendered, and Airlord Sartov soon realized that they might have a range half again as long as his newest super-regals. The Yarronese took over the venture, and more were now in production.

"Those sailwings out there are wonders of the age," he said, pointing at them with a carved wooden spoon. "We could have bypassed Samoa to get here."

"I don't believe it!" exclaimed Samondel.

"True. They have a four-thousand-mile range, carrying one flyer, provisions for forty hours, and two reaction guns."

"Reaction guns?"

"Yes, with two hundred rounds."

"That must weigh at least a hundred pounds in total, you could have carried another six gallons of spirit," Samondel pointed out.

"Samondel, Samondel, we—"

"Compression spirit is worth its weight in silver here, and each gallon that you fly in is a miracle. What idiot authorized such a waste?"

"Gracious and beautiful airlord, have you forgotten what happened during the Great War, before the huge sunwings built by the ancients were destroyed? At least ten Mounthaven wings were towed to Australica by the aviads, along several of our artisans. They will have war flocks by now, make no mistake."

"I'm not believing what I hear. After all this time, distance, money, and effort, you just want to fight? This was meant to be a trade venture."

"And so it is, but we must approach in strength. Besides, our quarrel is not with the humans but the featherheads on Tasmania Island."

"When / approach, it will be in peace. So, the tanks of both your sailwings must be half-full—if they really have such a great range."

"Yes, we carried the maximum load of compression spirit, to build up the reserve here."

"Then transfer all fuel to one, and prepare it for flight. I shall leave for Australica in the morning."

"Impossible. You will need a conversion course first. The compression engines are quite different to the traditional designs, and the handling is tricky. Besides, they have been granted in lordship to Bronlar and me by Airlord Sartov, and you know what that means."

Samondel certainly did. A grant in lordship made the transfer of a wing absolute, and any use of it by another flyer would be an act of treason.

"Why are you here with those things, if not to make my work easier?" Samondel asked.

"When the first of the new super-regals flies out to Australica, we shall be flying an escort. That's what Airlord Sartov charged me with doing."

"Nothing was written to me about this."

"You are a long way from Mounthaven, and politics can change alliances and priorities very quickly. The aviads are known to be building wings and compression engines in the north of Tasmania Island, and these could be a very serious danger to the super-regals.

We cannot afford to lose either of the new ones. Only they can carry horses, and we need horses as quickly as possible. The Council of Airlords is desperate to stay in control, and the super-regals are needed to help them supply and rule our settlers in the wilderness. The fires of Mexhaven peasants can already be seen from Moun-thaven's borders in places. We need results, Samondel, and very quickly. Horses and cattle must be standing on a Mounthaven wing-field within a month, if more compression spirit is to be ferried six thousand miles to here."

Samondel rubbed her face in her hands.

"Well, I cannot flout the will of Airlord Sartov and his Council. I did lose the war with Yarron, after all."

"These are not orders to humiliate you, Saireme Samondel. The other airlords are walking a tightrope of thinly stretched resources."

"So am I, except that my tightrope is six thousand miles long. All right, then, you can escort the super-regal when it flies west. In the meantime will you sign over your sailwings to me as adjunct of Taupo Wingfield?"

"Of course."

"There is a dormitory tent behind this one; I imagine that you are weary."

I he following morning Serjon and Bronlar woke to the sound of a compression engine revving for an ascent. They rushed outside, then made for their sailwings. The two aircraft were neatly tied down and their engines idle. Out on the ascent strip the second engine of Sa-mondel's sailwing belched smoke as the compression charge was fired, and it began to chug. Samondel was beside it in her flight jacket. Her navigator was kneeling on the wing, screwing an engine access hatch closed.

"Ah, good, I was about to wake you," she said as Serjon and Bronlar arrived. "I have decided to leave for the large Australican city of Rochester that the aviad prisoners told us about."

"In the SwallowT exclaimed Bronlar. "Even with a full load of fuel you could only get there and halfway back."

"And last night you were saying that you have barely any compression spirit," added Serjon.

"That was before I drained the remaining spirit from your two sailwings. I can get as far as the city of Rochester and descend on one of the outlying roads."

"What?" exclaimed Serjon. "You had no authority to—that is—"

"Actually I did have authority to requisition your sailwing's compression spirit, as adjunct of the wingfield, while under orders from the most senior noble present—myself in both cases. If the humans are friendly in Australica, I should be back in a fortnight at most. They have seed oil and alcohol in Australica, so we should be able to distill compression spirit. If I do not return, fly your sailwing to a city farther north and parachute a diplomat down."

"And if that fails too?" asked Serjon.

"Then Project Tornado will be followed. By one means or another, we must have horses."

"But why all the haste?" demanded Serjon.

"Because you told me I am running out of time! Sair Vardy is hereby made adjunct in my absence, and I believe that you are the ranking noble, Serjon."

The Swallow made a long, labored run along the ascent strip, but rose smoothly into the morning sky and turned to head due west. Bronlar and Serjon examined their sailwings once she was lost to sight.

"Enough compression spirit for an hour and a half in the air for one of us, no more," reported Serjon.

"If we share it equally, we could fight off an attack by an aviad flock," Bronlar suggested.

"I would be surprised if the aviads are doing much more than learning to fly, just now."

"But they stole some very advanced sailwings and gunwings, not to mention guildsmen to maintain them."

"No more than ten, and their supply has been cut off. Bronlar, if I was an aviad mayor or airlord, or whatever they have to rule themselves, I would be learning to brew compression spirit and to build compression engines and airframes. If you ask me, the only

aviad sailwings being flown are locally built. I doubt that any of those has a range of more than two hundred miles or a speed above seventy miles per hour. There will be no raids on Taupo Wingfield."

Bronlar climbed into the cockpit of her sailwing, rummaged for a few moments, then let out a shriek.

"My Clastini! My reaction pistol is gone. And all the ammunition clips too."

Serjon checked his own cockpit, but he knew that his reaction pistol would be missing as well. In times of peace some people seem unremarkable, but give them a crisis and they can perform miracles. Serjon and Bronlar had turned out just that way, but who would have suspected that a spoiled and indulged princess like Samondel could have been hiding so much drive? Underlying Samondel's bravery and determination was one additional factor that everyone had chosen to ignore or overlook: the Airlord of Highland Bartolica was more intelligent than any of her peers and opponents.

Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Damondel looked down on the city of Rochester from a height of two thousand feet, noting that a large crowd was assembled in one of the plazas.

"A human city, even larger than Condelor," she said to her navigator. "Within the city, a lake, and on an island on the lake, an inner city. Look there, it must be one of their wind trains, the thing with rotor towers spinning and driving it."

"This is as far as I can take us," replied the navigator. "Now we need to be able to descend on a smooth, firm surface."

"There are outlying roads, Sair Alarak."

"There are indeed, Saireme Airlord."

"We shall—look, there!"

Rearing and plunging in their yards were horses and ponies, terrified by the noise from the sky. Pens with cattle were close by.

"Everything is here, everything!" said Samondel in triumph.

"Even horses. The Albatross could take four or five breeding pairs, provided they were juveniles."

"As many as that on the first trip?"

"Yes, while the price is low. The Australicans will soon realize that we have no horses or cattle at all in Mounthaven."

"Ah yes, and before you know it they will be demanding one diesel engine for every vole."

"I think the word is foal."

They circled the outer city at three hundred feet, the navigator hurriedly sketching and writing while Samondel called out things of interest. Samondel ordered that a parachute flare with a message be prepared to be dropped into the gardens of what looked like a palace on the central island.

"There are a lot of people crowded in there," warned the navigator.

"All the better, the message will be found quickly and taken to their, er, king. The smoke flare is harmless, it has guard mesh enclosing it."

"We have thirty minutes of compression spirit left for circling. Those headwinds over the salt water robbed us of a lot of margin."

"Indeed, but we are here and nothing else matters. Unseal that prepared message and attach it to the flare. I shall come low over that palace, just above stall speed."

The Swallow banked lazily to port, then flew out over the lake while slowly losing height. They passed over the island's ancient walls and the mansions, flying directly above a wide, straight avenue filled with people. They approached the palace.

Jemli had arrived in a train pulled by a galley engine, and under escort by two other military trains. Although her following was not particularly large or committed in the Rochestrian Commonwealth, a number of people lined the paraline trackway to see her pass. As she entered Rochester itself the numbers grew considerably, and an advance squad of organizers had distributed thousands of Reformed Gentheist pennons and flags for children to wave.

Jemli's train rumbled out onto the paraline bridge across the lake, and entered the inner city. Both the Overmayor of the Commonwealth and Highliber Dramoren were at the terminus to greet Jemli as she stepped down onto the platform. Trumpeters played a fanfare, and bombards thundered a response on the distant palace walls.

"Welcome to Rochester, Frelle Enlightened One," said the Over-mayor, although she did not bow.

"I am always pleased to be among the faithful," Jemli replied.

"I believe that you have met Highliber Franzas Dramoren, head of the Dragon Librarian Service?" said the Overmayor with a gesture to Dramoren.

Dramoren bowed, and Jemli nodded in his direction and granted him the hint of a smile.

"Have you been to Rochester before?" asked the Overmayor as they began walking to the carriage that was waiting.

"Over two decades ago I worked here as a clockmaker, Over-mayor. Hard work raised me above that, but the Deity raised me even further."

Forty of Jemli's own guard were with her, along with another nine dozen of her servants and priests. Many of these had already been in Rochester for weeks, making preparations. The carriage was driven through streets cleared of beggars, vendors, harlots, and refuse, then lined with cheering crowds. The square before the palace was already filled with crowds waiting to hear the Prophet's single, scheduled public oration. Once in the grounds of the palace she stepped down onto the pebblestone courtyard.

She stopped with a loud cry. Dramoren had just walked across to a line of ten Tiger Dragon Librarians who were standing with their long-barreled flintlock pistols held parade ready. Jemli strode over to the line of Dramoren's personal guard and stopped before one of the women.