Eyes of the Calculor (54 page)

They stood apart, bowed, then Velesti walked away across the

tavern hall and through the door to the stairs. When she was gone one of the jarmaids came out into the hall with a polishing cloth.

"That's the Dragonliber, the lady spy," said Nereli wistfully as she began to wipe a tabletop near Marelle.

"I have heard rumors to that effect," replied Marelle, "but then there are such rumors about me as well."

"How exciting, how romantic. Having affairs with rich, handsome, and powerful men, living like a noble, and among the nobility."

"The reality is not nearly the same," replied Marelle.

"That's all right for you to say. I'm just a jarmaid, you had first right of refusal when Martyne Camderine was here—and you didn't refuse."

"Sometimes jarmaids make better spies than moderately prosperous tavern mistresses like me."

"I see no recruiting tables at the market."

"Frelle Nereli, if you wish to be part of a covert venture, I can arrange it."

"Me? What can a jarmaid like me do?"

"Take off your clothes for a start. If you impress the enemies with your body yet they have less-than-impressive bodies to impress you, what do you think they will do?"

"Spend money to impress me?"

"More than that. They will try to impress you with their secrets, to show how important they are."

"Ah."

"Would you like a simple assignment?"

Seymour, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Dhadowmouse walked straight from the Seymour paraline terminus to the nearest stables and bought a horse and saddle. At the stables he also asked about caravans, and he was told that one was due to leave later that day. He spoke with the caravan master, and had him-

self signed up as an outrider guard. For this he would be granted a land plot at the center of their planned town. Outrider guards were, however, the very last word in vulnerability. The shot that would kill Shadowmouse would be the shot that alerted the caravan to a freebooter attack.

Because land was available in what used to be the Calldeath lands, people with drive but limited prospects in mainstream society were flocking there in spite of the dangerous warlords, outlaws, freebooters, aviads, and wildlife. They traveled by horse, dray cart, two-wheeled gig, and even by foot. The better caravans traveled fifty miles per day. The group that Shadowmouse had joined was too big to be vulnerable to most groups outside Rochestrian law and justice, however, and the warlords were not interested in wasting warriors against people who were only passing through. Thus the journey was relatively free of incident for the first few days.

On the fourth day Shadowmouse rode away into the woods. Once out of sight he took a reaction pistol from his robes, checked its action, settings, and ammunition clip, then concealed it again.

Traralgon Castellany, Southeastern Australica

Iraralgon Castle was a long, low rambling wall enclosing the store halls, stables, and armory of Galdane's cavalry. The village supplied blacksmiths, leatherworkers, carpenters, and farm laborers, and the entire complex was extremely well patrolled.

Shadowmouse rode along the single path to the village, which was merely a pair of ruts for the supply carts. Galdane's lancers traveled the open country, holding roads in contempt. The warriors felt that only slaves and peasants used roads, and to be seen on one was an admission of just that status.

Three lancers burst out of the woods in the distance, galloping across the field of long grass. Their first shot struck Shadowmouse's gelding, but he rolled as he was pitched to the ground. The warriors

bore down on him, expecting him to surrender or run, but Shadow-mouse lay flat with the Clastini held in both hands. He fired.

The incident took place within view of Traralgon Castle, and it was not long before a squad of lancers rode out to investigate. Sha-dowmouse stood over his dead gelding, the Clastini in his right hand, pointed straight up to the sky. The warlord was at the head of the squad, and had his own Clastini. Galdane reined in his mount, surveying Shadowmouse, the Clastini, and the dead horses and lancers.

"This demands vengeance," began Galdane.

"Who owns these fools?" demanded Shadowmouse.

Nobody had ever spoken to Galdane like that. The intruder had one of the strange and wonderful gun machines. Galdane had used nearly all of his own ammunition impressing his men, but even owning a Clastini gave one a certain aura. Ever anxious not to lose face before either his enemies or warriors, Galdane thought quickly.

"My men were told to watch for a different warrior," rumbled the warlord.

Shadowmouse recognized the lie for what it was.

"I was told only to follow the path to Traralgon Castle," he replied smoothly.

"Everybody knows not to take the road unless wearing the yellow tunic of the slave or peasant—"

"Not from as far away as my people come from!" interjected Shadowmouse. "So, you are the warlord that my servant Serjon selected. Where is the wingfield?"

At the sound of Serjon's name Galdane's doubts collapsed. He ordered one of his lancers to stand guard over the bodies of the fallen while Shadowmouse took his horse. The other lancers were sent back to the castle.

"Those sons of slaves should have checked whether there were papers beneath your cloak before shooting," said Galdane as they set off. "You shall have their weapons, gold, and women."

"Thank you, but I live only to serve my airlord and may own nothing but my clothing and weapons. Has Fras Serjon been an agreeable envoy?"

"Yes, yes, he promised one of these pistol machines and a thou-

sand shots for every five fine, strong young horses. Two male and three female. I—"

"May I?" asked Shadowmouse, holding his hand out for the Clastini.

Galdane hesitated, then reluctantly surrendered the gun. Shadow-mouse examined it, checking the clip. The clip was down to five bullets, and there was grit in the mechanism already. Without proper maintenance it would soon fail. The option catch was set to reaction. Shadowmouse took three rounds from his pocket and added them to the warlord's. Galdane's eyes widened with the joy of a child confronted with a particularly large birthday present.

"See this catch?" he said as he handed the weapon back. "Push in and twist. That's right. Now fire."

Galdane aimed at a rock nearby, and a single shot barked out. He held up the gun and stared at it, then fired at the rock again.

"Hah! Now it shoots once for each pull of the trigger," Galdane exclaimed, not sure whether to be pleased or disappointed.

"Serjon should have showed you that option, it saves you wasting shots. In my may orate, reaction mode is said to be only for battle, or for the unskilled."

"But why did he not tell me?"

"To make you waste shots in reaction mode, to make you pay more horses for fresh shots. Here is a little secret, Fras Galdane. Serjon is a good and brave warrior but his father was a merchant. It is in his blood to haggle and swindle."

Suddenly Galdane caught on, and began to laugh. Here was a true noble from the distant mayorates. He could fight, ride well, he spoke with only a slight accent, and he held merchants in contempt. Soon the warlord was talking freely about Serjon's mishaps while learning to ride, and revealing when the sky machines arrived to carry off horses and certain mysterious people who arrived on foot, by the road.

"The sky machines come down every ten days, and one is due tonight," said the warlord. "Seven children and one guard are waiting at the wingfield."

"And horses?"

"Oh, yes, five fine young horses, just weaned. Young people and young horses, all will fly together."

All will fly, thought Shadowmouse.

They reached the wingfield, which was just a level stretch of land about half a mile long that trailed off into dense woodland. Piles of dry leaves and branches were at each corner of an oblong strip, and these had been built on the ashes of earlier bonfires.

"Listen, Galdane, the children's guard needs to learn the ways of horses and lancers, or he will become like Serjon," suggested Shadowmouse. "Why not take him back to your castle, riding this horse? Give him over to the women of the warriors that I killed, ply him with drink, teach him the way of lancers."

"That is very generous of you, the act of a true warlord. Ach, Shadowmouse, are you sure that you are not a warlord going about in disguise?"

"Truly I am not, Fras, but it is my duty to act as my warlord would because I act in his name."

The group of children was hidden in the trees as Shadowmouse dismounted, saluted Galdane with arms crossed over his chest, then walked over to where the guard stood. The man regarded him uneasily as he approached, but the reaction pistol was visible in his belt and gave him credibility.

"A change of orders, I am to fly out with the children," said Shadowmouse.

"What? It was my turn—I, I was not told."

"You are being told now! Fras Serjon says that Horsebreath over there needs to be watched more carefully. I had to kill three of his lancers on the way here."

"You—How?"

Shadowmouse tapped the Clastini with a finger. "We need an envoy in Traralgon, and Galdane has agreed to accept you."

"But what must I do?"

"Whatever is expected of you! Drink, fornicate, sing about fighting, and vomit when the need takes you. It should not be much longer than a month."

"A month," said the man, stroking his beard as he weighed up

the possible virtues of this temporary change in career paths. "No more than a month?"

"One month, and then you get a flight out, a medal, and a bath." Shadowmouse watched the guard ride away with Galdane, and he hoisted one of the children onto his shoulders to wave. The child was very light, and had a subtle fluffyness about his hair. Pyres were to be lit when a flare appeared in the sky one hour after sunset, the guard had said before leaving. Shadowmouse checked his pocket watch, then shepherded the children back among the trees to feed the tethered horses.

When the super-regal landed, it was all that Shadowmouse could do to keep his senses from giving in and leaving him reeling. A vast, silent blackness swept in over the woodland and came to earth with a squeal of wheels on the ascent strip's surface. The flames of the pyres were already dying down as Shadowmouse hurried over. By now the thing had begun chuffing softly in the darkness, and two darkly dressed men were there to meet him. First the horses were led up aboard, then the children followed.

"I note five horses, seven children, and you," said one of the dark figures in accented Austaric.

"Then you have us all," replied Shadowmouse.

"Give me your hand, feel that handle?"

"Yes."

"Well, start turning it, the hatch needs to be up and bolted before we ascend."

The engines revved, but at first they just taxied around the newly leveled turning circle. Abruptly the engines roared, and they soon had the sensation of speed, then everything tilted and the children screamed. The rumbling of wheels stopped, and there was a smooth, floating feeling, like that of cantering along on horseback at night.

Launceston, Tasmania Island

I he flight lasted two hours and a half, which was a lot less than Shadowmouse had expected. The first that Shadowmouse knew of arrival in Launceston was a heavy jolt and squeal of wheels, then they were rumbling along some wingfleld. The hatchway was opened, but this time there were lanterns outside. The same two men herded Shadowmouse and the seven children out of the Albatross.

Shadowmouse turned back to see ten huge, circular areas of shimmer at the rear of the wing, and the compression engines continued to chug. Two wagons of barrels were nearby, and teams of men and women were hard at work pumping fuel up into the body of the immense wing.

"No need to hurry or hide now; you are in Avian's capital," said a woman who had apparently come to take charge of the children. "There's hot drinks ready, and then you can watch the Albatross ascend."

Avian. The American flyers were dealing with the people of Avian. Shadowmouse struggled to make sense of it. The Avianese had no inhibitions about technology and engines, even the Liberal Gentheists among them believed that as long as the fuel came from harvested plants, then steam and compression engines were morally defensible. Shadowmouse sat down with his back against a stack of compression-spirit barrels, staring into space. He was here at last, to die, and soon he really would die. He began to weep with desolation. There was a touch on his shoulder. A child of about six was standing before him, a boy.

"You shouldn't let the other children see you cry, Fras," he said. "They would remember their own mothers and fathers, and how they'll never see them again, and soon everyone will be crying."

Shadowmouse sighed. "Quite right, young Fras. I was thinking of my lost Ladyfrelle. Very selfish of me."

"My mother and father are dead, so I know all about crying. I have had to look after the others for weeks. Cry, cry, cry, that's all they did."

The boy sat down beside Shadowmouse.

"So, what are you going to be?" Shadowmouse asked.

"A flyer," replied the child without hesitation. "And you?"

"Oh, a flyer too. But much sooner, I expect."

A quarter of an hour later Shadowmouse and his young friend watched the immense black patch of sleekness roar up into the now overcast night while the other aviad children clapped and cheered.

"Ah, Fras, forgive me, but I have not been told your name or skill," the woman said to Shadowmouse.

"My name is Shadowmouse, and I am here to see the mayor of this place," he bluffed.

"I am Mariar Lanstor, the mayor's wife," the woman replied. "What is your business with him?"

"I am a coordinator of Airfox, and I volunteered to come here."

"I do not understand."

"My identity has been exposed, and thus I am no longer of use to Airfox. I was told you have a use for the redundant."

"Were you indeed? Well, Fras, you do not look stupid, so you must be very, very brave. Do you have good eyesight, and how are your reactions?"