Eyes of the Calculor (43 page)

"I call myself a gentleman!"

"Well, even as a gentleman you need to speak to women as a gallant valiant. You must suggest great strength, even though you win their admiration with charm alone."

"How would you know?"

"What are these?" asked Velesti, hefting her breasts.

"You are not typical."

"Practice on me. Look into my eyes and tell me that you see the soft, delicate glow of a sunrise in early spring."

Martyne peered at Velesti's eyes.

"Velesti, as I look deep into your eyes ... I see the dangerous glint of a violent and unstable psychopath."

"Oh, really?" she responded, batting her eyelashes and giving him a coy push. "You're not just saying that, are you?"

"Velesti, just how much did you bet with your scabby students of Baleshanto that you could get me into bed with Samondel?"

"Thirty silver—" began Velesti before clapping her hand over her mouth.

"Why is that amount so significant?" sighed Martyne.

"What is wrong with sex?"

"Nothing, but just now I feel like some sort of sex slave."

"I'll see what I can buy for you."

"Stop it! Follow your advice and I would end up looking like a fool."

"You are a fool already, Martyne. Whether you look like one or not is up to you."

Damondel did not go Corien's room to tell the day's story, but went straight to bed and lay thinking of Martyne for many hours. A great number of men had paid her attention in the five weeks since she had crashed in Rochester, but unlike the others Martyne did not swagger and posture, and had no sense of self-importance. It was almost as if he were trying to cover up much of what he was. Over and over she played through the scene of Saresen kneeling in agony on the floor, his gun pinned to his hand and Martyne standing with one arm protectively around her shoulders. True, his heart was not free to give, but it was no crime to dream.

The following day she met Corien in the refectory during breakfast. The girl was always surrounded by friends, but Samondel soon took her aside and arranged a rendezvous beneath one of the ancient eucalyptus trees on the lawns.

"Saresen had suggested, tuition of privacy," Samondel explained as they lay in the early morning heat. "My Austaric, lacking quality, having special needs."

"All of that is true," said Corien.

"Meeting in his room, sat together, discussing my writings. He was friendly, joking, patting hand, patting knee. Were discussing regeneration vectors for power for things. I asked, what is example of regeneration vector. He said, for humans, I show. He showed. Am shocked. Slap face. He seizes me, rolls on me, pins arms. I scream, he says nobody to hear. Regeneration lesson, he says. Make baby human. Pulls me along, dress rides up."

"Sounds like he's had practice, poor Frelle."

"Was helpless, but screamed, screamed. Suddenly door smashed open, Martyne there. Fought Saresen."

"It must have been a one-sided fight," said Corien.

"True. Few seconds, all over."

"Perhaps Velesti was right. Sometimes we can't rely on chaperons, lovers, or even weapons to be with us when we need them. Strange, Saresen never tried such advances with Velesti or me."

"Important relatives, are having. Also I am looking vulnerable, perhaps."

"Yes Frelle, you do have a timid bearing about you. We should definitely get you a lover."

"Not needed, have Martyne."

"What? But he's betrothed already!"

"Have Martyne, as Baleshanto instructor. Only."

"Oh. Of course. Silly of me. Well, my dear Frelle, I think we should see my uncle and the Academician General of the Faculty this afternoon to press the complaint. Edutors like Saresen cannot be allowed to go unpunished. We can get the League behind us."

As it happened, Saresen was found dead in the university's ornamental lake the following morning. A statement from the Espionage Constables quickly cleared Martyne of any involvement.

Siding Springs, the Central Confederation

VJvermayor Lengina declared a fortnight of public revelry and feasting to celebrate the news of both Mirrorsun's threat passing, and of Ilyire's revelation that the cetezoid elders had decided to end the Call as long as humans never again returned to the sea or killed whales. After two thousand years without contact with the sea, it was hardly a factor in human society or economics. The Avianese had flight technology, so apart from accidents they had no reason to come in contact with the sea either.

Farther west, Jemli considered the news about Mirrorsun as merely confirming her teachings, while condemning Ilyire's pronouncement on the end of the Call as heresy by a fellow Gentheist. Overmayor Lengina immediately declared that Ilyire had the unconditional support of the Commonwealth to preach what he wished, and ordered that he be protected from violence wherever he went. This generated outrage among the local Reformed Gentheists, which in turn produced tension between the Rochestrian Commonwealth and the Woomeran Confederation. At last Lengina's fondest political

wish was coming true: international relations were deteriorating, but she was holding the moral high ground.

To the north, science stepped in to confuse everyone's political and religious agendas. Using the largest of the telescopes at the Siding Springs Monastery, Brother Torumasen had been studying the inner surface of Mirrorsun. This was generally featureless, except at the reflection point, but it was known to have very occasional meteor strikes. These appeared as tiny flashes that faded after a second or so, just long enough for the velocity of the band to be measured. Over the months of his study, he had been able to observe five strikes, and they provided him with a confirmation of Mirrorsun's increasing speed. They also revealed something totally unexpected.

"There is an inner band, about a quarter of Mirrorsun's width," he announced as he stood before the abbot's desk. "It is rotating at just sufficient speed to maintain itself in orbit."

"There are two bands?" gasped the abbot, rising to his feet.

"Yes. I checked the actual Mirrorsun reflection itself, the reflection of the sun on the inner surface of the band. Once I knew what to look for I found it quickly: a slight, sharp line through the reflection pattern. Parallax estimates with Euroa put the bands about ten miles apart."

"This . . . is . . ." Words failed the abbot. He sat down again. "What does it mean?" he finally asked.

"I cannot say, Reverend Abbot, I am an observer, not a theoretician."

"Just as long as you are not a prophet. Bring a chair over, sit down. You must help me to compose a very creatively worded announcement."

Rochester, the Rochestrain Commonwealth

In all of her life, Samondel had never been so very close to such an enormous animal as a horse. The stables were on the edge of Lake Rochester, and a selection of docile, placid mounts were available

for riding lessons. Martyne hired two horses for the afternoon, then took Samondel firmly by the hand and led her to the stalls. He had selected two geldings and had them saddled.

"Why are so big?" she asked, trying to keep Martyne between her and the two mountains of flesh and muscle that he was leading.

"They eat lots of grass."

"Am frightened."

"That will pass once you are riding one."

"Ride? Too frightened."

"They expect to be ridden. It's their job. How else can they earn their grass, hay, and oats?"

Samondel was unsure whether or not he was being sarcastic.

"Which mine?"

"The brown one. Take this apple, introduce yourself."

Samondel stood before the horse with the apple in her hand.

"Ah, compliments of noonday, I am Samondel Leover and I—"

She shrieked. The horse had neatly removed the apple from her hand and begun munching it.

"Took apple!" wailed Samondel, hiding behind Martyne again.

"It thought you were offering it."

"Never said thank you."

"Horses can't talk."

"No? Then—Martyne! He looked at me!"

So this is the deadly warrior airlord from North America, thought Martyne. He would be having some very sarcastic things to say to Velesti after Friday's Baleshanto training.

Persuading Samondel to get into the saddle took a rather considerable time, even though the horse was tethered and munching on a pile of hay. Martyne was not entirely sure how she managed to get on backward the first time, but after another ten minutes she was in the saddle and facing forward. He led her mount around the dressage track.

"Martyne! Too fast, am frightened."

"I'm only walking."

"And too high! Might fall, want smaller horse."

He would never, never let Velesti hear the end of this, he swore

to himself. At the end of another hour Samondel's bottom was aching as she hobbled out to a limewater vendor by the front gate. They had still not left the yards, and Martyne had done no more with his own horse than pat its neck.

"Daft bird ye got there, Fras," said a stableboy, who had been observing proceedings from time to time.

"You think this is news to me?" replied Martyne.

At the end of the third hour Samondel was riding the horse around the dressage track by herself and could persuade it to start walking, but not to stop. When it did stop—to eat an apple that Martyne had dropped—Samondel tumbled right down its neck and to the ground, then was dragged three feet by the stirrup as the horse sauntered over to a second apple. To Martyne's surprise, she got straight back into the saddle. By the end of the fourth hour Martyne was riding beside her along the lakeside esplanade, and she was generally guiding the horse herself.

Only after six hours did Samondel give up and limp back over the long bridge to Inner Rochester, her hands and knees bloody, her clothes filthy with dust, and smelling little different from any stable hand.

"When returning tomorrow, no damn nonsense from any horse!" decreed the Airlord of Highland Bartolica.

"Samondel, I have to work tomorrow," said Martyne.

"No matter, know procedures now. Shall practice. Solo."

Suddenly it was the warrior of the skies speaking, after a very bad day testing a particularly awkward new prototype. In six hours she had gone from hiding behind Martyne and screaming to seriously considering the idea of riding alone.

"On Saturday we can ride to Bektyne Forest—" he began.

"Ah! Yes, and musket to hire, shoot from saddle. Must learn."

Samondel bought them rice pies at the Gaudeamus Tavern, although she was nearly ejected for violating the establishment's minimal dress and hygiene standards. For courage, determination, and raw dedication she could have given any Balesha abbot serious competition, thought Martyne. He also noticed that his mouth was dry,

his hands were trembling, and that the prospect of leaving her at the Villiers College door was filling him with genuine anguish.

"Shall not be beaten!" declared Samondel, snarling down at her tankard. "Is war. Objective: learn to canter."

Martyne looked around the room. Samondel was at the focus of a least a dozen admiring stares. The most beautiful woman on Earth has just bought me dinner, he thought.

"What is horse command, Do not shyte?" asked Samondel, who had experienced a particularly unpleasant incident involving that function late in the afternoon.

"There is none."

"Ach, bad design."

After seeing Samondel to Villiers College, Martyne started out for his own room. He was surprised, but not unduly surprised, when Velesti fell in beside him. Mothers scooped children out of her path. The occasional shadowboy turned and fled.

"How is Rochester's newest lancer progressing?" she asked.

"Amazingly well, she has the dedication of a roomful of chief librarians, the willpower of a Balesha exam candidate, and the drive of a galley engine. Six hours, torn clothes, bloody knees, yet not a complaint—and she's going back by herself tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Look at that sunset, she might be riding in rain."

"Yes, yes, and have you noticed the way her hair glows red, just like that sky?"

"Speaking of tomorrow, how is the register analysis going on the smuggling syndicate case?"

"I'll do it tonight, have it at Libris by the tenth hour."

"No hurry, my people don't need it until the afternoon market checks."

"No, I'll do it tonight. I was thinking of helping Samondel with her riding again."

"Martyne, you are in love."

"I—what?"

"Not a pretty sight. Enough to make strong men vomit and women run screaming."

"You have done neither." "I'm trying not to look."

3ix weeks of particularly intensive language classes had given Alarak a working command of the Austaric language, but neither the navigator nor his edutors had learned a great deal. The American's aircraft had been shot down, after all, and by mere commoners. Although not of the nobility, the little American had a very strong sense of class distinction and quite definite ideas on matters of chivalric behavior. The problem was that of just how nobility was defined in Australica.

In the Mounthaven domains, librarians were just people who looked after rooms full of books and took orders from artisans and engineers—who were the right hand of the nobility. In Rochester, librarians ran the state and gave orders to artisans and engineers. Worse, the nobility did not fly or fight, they just ran their estates and lived comfortably. The more dynamic of them acted in various public positions, such as magistrates, senior academics, and inspectors of taxation. True, surplus sons tended to be sent off to the military and surplus daughters to the Dragon Librarian Service or nunneries, but Alarak did not find himself viewing these people with anything like the respect that the flying wardens of America commanded.

Dramoren had ordered the prisoner moved up to one of the Libris towers, after having the windows securely barred. The American was provided with a comfortable bed, the same food as the Dragon Librarians, a selection of carefully chosen books, and clothing that would not be out of place on a reasonably prosperous merchant. His reasoning was that the man must have been a member of the nobility wherever he came from, and should be treated accordingly. After another six weeks the Highliber decided that Alarak's interrogation and education were going nowhere.