Eyes of the Calculor (47 page)

"Oh yes, and my spies in Griffith say that my mother is looking rather pregnant."

"But you said—"

"I have done some research, which indicates that after you escaped my mother you spent the night with Mica, you randy little devil. Now, when I took my gun barrel out of her medician's mouth yesterday he was good enough to tell me that she is due to give birth in June."

"Julica?" Martyne shouted. "Pregnant? But she said it was not a problem."

"What specifically?"

"You know, amorous activities."

"Not a problem because she wanted to bear your child, no doubt."

"She sees me from time to time, I sometimes drink in the tavern where she works. She's never mentioned this."

"I have a feeling that she soon will, she's due in four months. My condolences, she was probably more fun than Mother—whatever went on there. But cheer up, Martyne, it may not be you."

"Velesti, even you could get pregnant and insist that I am the father. If you had a sufficiently good lawyer you could also convince a magistrate. There would then be exceedingly strong legal pressures to marry or pay ruinous fines, be indentured for the next twenty years, and so on."

"True."

"So I must get myself killed, flee, or marry her."

"Who? Two women are pregnant; it must have been quite a night. Just be thankful you're a Christian instead of Gentheist, otherwise you would have to marry both."

By now Martyne was kneeling and banging his head against the floorboards.

Velesti hauled him to his feet. "Here is a little free advice, Martyne. The nightmares are bearing down on you as fast as their wings can carry them, but they are not here yet. Now get out there and do something, anything, romantic with Frelle Samondel while you are still a free man."

Damondel was walking alone in the market, buying fruit, when the stranger accosted her. He did not seem strange or suspicious, just a well-dressed, prosperous-looking man of average height and perhaps in his sixties. He bowed to her. She blinked in surprise, then returned his bow.

"Frelle Leover, Serjon will meet you here on the sixteenth day of March at this exact hour," he said in Austaric, then bowed again and turned to go. Samondel darted after him and grasped his arm.

"I—what? Waiting! Who—"

He gently detached her hand from his arm. "I was told to tell you as much, Frelle. I know nothing else whatever, and on that date I shall be a very great distance from here. The compliments of the day to you."

He was quickly lost amid the shoppers, leaving Samondel speechless. She had done the impossible and survived. Now Serjon had done the impossible and found her.

Ilyire was dressed in just a kilt as he preached, but although his hair and beard were long, they were well brushed and clean. Martyne and Samondel stood listening near the front of the crowd of students.

"My word is a true word, as true as my name is Ilyire of Glen-ellen. The Call has ceased as a sign of goodwill from the cetezoid creatures, they have realized that we all have to share this world. This I say to you, intelligence is intelligence no matter what color or shape the body that harbors it. I also say to you that I am an aviad."

The crowd murmured, but did no more.

"I say to you that my sister, the great Abbess Theresla of Glen-ellen, spoke with the cetezoids just as easily as I speak here today. She preached to them that rogue aviads were harming the humans, she preached to them that soon those rogue aviads would turn upon the cetezoids. That is why the Call ceased. The rogue aviads have now been vanquished, and the cetezoids are content to leave the lands to humans and aviads if we will leave the seas alone. Our world has changed very much in a mere six months."

"But Learned Ilyire, what of the doom from Mirrorsun?" called an intense, wild-eyed girl close to the front of the crowd.

"Mirrorsun I do not speak with, but let me ask you this: When did all electrical essence machines burn, and when did Mirrorsun grow those great light sails and begin spinning?"

Incredibly, nobody else had made that connection thus far. Again there was a great deal of murmuring.

"Mirrorsun is like humans, like aviads, like cetezoids. We are all intelligent. If you piss in a river, does that not eventually foul the water that the cetezoids inhabit? If the cetezoids drive shoals of fish ashore while hunting, does not the stench of their rotting render the air that we breathe foul? If Mirrorsun drinks sunlight to spin its body, might it not somehow foul the electrical essence that we can use but really do not need? I say to you that there is no doom other than what we fashion for ourselves. God, Allah, Deity, whatever and whoever you worship, is not involved in the issues that trouble your hearts. Open your hearts and live well, do not hate, take glory from diversity, and strength from your own kind."

Ilyire now held out his hand. "Will anyone here lend me a knife?"

Several knives were proffered, handle first. He selected one.

"I have come here from the coast because I have heard of heresy preached, hate spread, and lies offered to you as the Word of the Deity."

He held up the knife.

"Here is a tool of intelligence."

He grasped his long hair.

"Here is the hair of my head and the gift of the Deity."

He sliced his hair off just above shoulder level. There was a loud gasp from the crowd. He held the severed hair high.

"Bring me a lighted torch."

Moments later a student came pushing through the crowd with a torch that had been stolen from a wall and lit at the laundaric. Ilyire set the severed hair afire.

"Here is fuel that might drive a steam engine, fuel that is a gift of the Deity and which the Deity will grow back. It is not evil to burn what can be grown back, it is only evil not to grow it back. Burn the Deity's bounty in whatever grate, furnace, or engine you will, then glorify the Deity by planting a thousand seeds. That is all that I have to say to you, my fine and clever young people. Go your way and think, but before you do, come to me, whisper your concerns and have your hair trimmed. After all, why look as old and ugly

as I do when you are forty years younger? Indeed, and who would be weighed down with as much hair as Jemli of Kalgoorlie wears?"

From a nearby building the Overmayor was watching, flanked by Highliber Dramoren and the University Librarian.

"I am strangely moved by his words," she admitted quietly.

"He has a good heart sharing his body with a good mind," replied Dramoren.

A pair of scissors was fetched for Ilyire and a bonfire was made of wood stolen from the refectory kitchens. Ilyire began to trim beards and cut hair while the students gathered around.

"His words, are noble, sensible," said Samondel.

"Speaking as a theologian, I say they are the most sensible I have heard preached in the ten years past," replied Martyne.

"Am agreeing. Never had hair cut. Must have hair cut."

Just then there was a disturbance at the edge of the crowd, and Martyne feared that another riot was beginning. Velesti marched through as the students parted before her, leading a group of her Baleshanto students. The tension evaporated as she bowed before Ilyire.

"Master, will you cut my hair?" she asked, then went down on one knee.

"Friend, people have been telling me their concerns as I have barbered them," he said as he trimmed a lock of her hair.

"In that case, thank you for the brief and frantic lesson in camel riding."

Ilyire struggled to hide his astonishment. He had only ever taught one person to ride. That had been Lemorel Milderellen, and he had seen her die.

"But you were killed, shot dead," he whispered.

"I was called back for the same reason that you are here, Ilyire of Glenellen. Are you finished?"

Ilyire cast Velesti's hair clippings into the fire.

"What is it like, in the grave?" he asked as she stood up.

"Very dark and very cold, but then that was the way I lived. This is my chance to make up for all that."

Samondel had her hair trimmed to halfway down her back, indeed more hair was cut off than remained.

"I have been sleeping with a married man, but I love another," she whispered.

"These matters are your own business, do not let others preach to you," he advised.

Ilyire's answer was not what she had expected, but was curiously reassuring. The crowd cheered as her hair was dropped into the flames. Martyne knelt before Ilyire.

"Not much hair," said Ilyire.

"Not much sympathy for the Prophet," Martyne replied.

"Have you concerns?"

"Two woman are pregnant by me and two women have died for me. I love another, but I am afraid of cursing her with misfortune, like the others."

"Then protect your beloved, and the future will happen."

Again there was a disturbance at the edge of the crowd. People rushed to get out of the way and Velesti and her students formed a line as a group of guardsmen marched for the center of the gathering. Martyne hurried to stand with his friend, and Samondel came after him, drawing her flintlock. Other students began to rally behind the Baleshanto students. The guardsmen stopped.

"You have no business here, this is a peaceful rally," said Velesti.

"We have orders—" began the guard captain.

"Ilyire of Glenellen is a holy man, we shall not let him be harmed or imprisoned," said Martyne.

"We have orders to escort the Overmayor to Ilyire of Glenellen," explained the guard captain. "She wishes to have her hair cut."

A path was cleared for the Overmayor, who walked up to Ilyire and knelt before him.

"Master, my motives are less than altruistic," she whispered as he trimmed her hair to shoulder length.

"As are mine, but they are more altruistic than those that I oppose. Is this bad?"

The Overmayor stood and turned to go, and found that her squad of guardsmen were lined up behind her with their helmets removed.

There were loud cheers as her trimmings were dropped into the flames. When Martyne and Samondel left for the day's riding lesson the crowd was still swelling.

I his time Samondel managed to urge her mount to a canter as she and Martyne returned to the stables at the end of the ride. It was evening as they walked to the inner city over the stone footbridge that was reserved for pedestrians.

"Am wondering," she said as a barge with about twenty revelers, a small band, and one weary-looking poleman passed beneath them, "Few horses, seeing at inner city."

"The inner city is small and the roads are narrow—except for the Avenue, that is. It is not hard to walk from place to place, and the paraline has a terminus just inside the walls. Horses are not needed, and would only add to the crowding. There are moves to ban horses from the inner city altogether, but there are religious objections to that."

"Religious? Are serious?"

"Oh, yes. The Prophet says that horses are a symbol of natural muscle that the Deity has provided for us to use. The Highliber says that they poo in the streets, and that if people want to live in inner Rochester they can put up with handcart deliveries and higher prices. It is likely that the Highliber will soon only allow horse transport there between midnight and dawn every second day, for the sake of good economics and religious tolerance."

"Confusing. Where, ah, I am coming from, issues decreed. Centuries pass, no change."

"This place must be confusing for you, and distressing."

"No. No, no. Most romantic city, anywhere."

Romantic! A surge of adrenalin slashed through Martyne's body, almost doubling him over.

"A lot of people love Rochester," he responded, his voice almost cracking.

"Is me also, loving it."

Slowly Martyne's physiological state began to return to some-

thing resembling what was generally called normal in textbooks. They reached the city gates. Samondel bought a packet of roasted chestnuts from a vendor, and they shared them as they walked along toward the university. They talked easily, working to improve Samondel's grammar, and as the sky colored to darker shades Martyne suggested that he buy them dinner. With a stroke of boldness that he did not realize he was capable of, he lightly placed a hand on Samondel's shoulder and gestured to Cafe Marellia. The door was painted green, and there were two red hearts encircled by a ring of silver stars. Beneath this was a brightly polished brass plaque. Samondel leaned over to read it, her hands on her knees.

" 'By Appointment to Overmayor Cybeline.' Is famous ruler?"

"She is the one known usually as Zarvora," said Martyne as he pressed the latch down and pushed the door open.

"Ah, the great leader. Highliber, and first overmayor."

They were greeted by a waiter with heavily waxed silver hair, and a long, waxed mustache.

"Most beautiful young Frelle," he said with a wide smile, taking Samondel's hand and kissing it. Then he turned to Martyne and bowed. "Dashing young Fras, welcome, both of you."

"Fras Manuel, it delights me to visit your legendary house instead of merely hearing about it," said Martyne.

Martyne blinked. Had he really said that?

"Delightful Frelle, eyes like violet sapphires, hair like sunset when a storm has just passed. What is your name?"

"I—I—Samondel Leover," Samondel stammered softly.

"Samondel," said the waiter, as if savoring the word in his mouth like a delicious pastry. "A name almost as beautiful as yourself, most enchanting Frelle. Please, this way. I must apologize, but the lute player is sick tonight. Only my humble self to play a little harpsichord for the mood of—"

"Asti!" Samondel exclaimed as she caught sight of the instrument in one corner. "Fortepiano ni, tarie s'il demi clavicytherium horizar —ah, sorry. Keyboard player. That. Strange, being."

"Frelle Samondel is from a very distant mayorate," explained Martyne. "She is here to learn Austaric."

"You know the playing of keyboards?" asked the waiter.

"Girls must, in royal house—" began Samondel.

"Frelle Samondel would love to play it," Martyne hastily cut in, but the word 'royal' was already loose and free to do damage.