Eyes of the Calculor (71 page)

Once more the world breathed easier, and those in search of any reasonable or unreasonable excuse for a revel opened their jars of beer and wine at venues across the continent. Reformed Gentheists held prayer vigils outside those venues against what they denounced

as blasphemous acts of debauchery, while revelers bared their breasts, buttocks, and genitalia from the rooftops and windows, and flung down empty jars.

Back in Siding Springs the abbot and monks in the observatory toasted Venus with jars of unconsecrated altar wine liberated from the cellar by the abbot himself. Venus dropped below the horizon. The monks had by now begun singing the more tuneful hymns in organum. By midnight they had added lewd words at strategic places, and by the time the bishop arrived in the morning to congratulate them, they were all so sick that they regretted ever having been born.

Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Although Velesti was still Overseer of the Rochester University Bal-eshanto Guild, a real monk from the Balesha order was now sensei. She and Martyne stood watching the monk take a training session on the university lawns, noting certain subtle refinements in style that had evolved since they had last trained in the monastery.

"He is good, but he is not coping well," said Velesti.

"I think he is training them extremely well," replied Martyne.

"I mean with the girls. What are the odds that he will lose his virginity within a lunar month?"

Martyne shook his head. "I know the man. He is pious, temperate, ascetic, dedicated, and has a very highly developed sense of self-discipline."

"Truly?"

"I'd give him two months."

Velesti smirked, then turned to the youth at her side. "What do you think, Fras Alaxis? Would you like to learn Baleshanto?"

The newly promoted Dragon Orange thought for a moment. "Might it improve my coordination?"

"Sure to."

"Then I shall join."

"Sensei Ortano, another recruit for you," called Velesti as she took Alaxis over to be introduced.

Presently she returned to Martyne, and they began to walk away across the lawns.

"We should mark the half-year anniversary of Samondel leaving you," Velesti suggested, with no sense of tact whatever. "She has been gone six months today."

Martyne had come to expect nothing less, and took no offense.

"She adored me," he said, "and I adored her. I still adore her."

"Once, long ago, someone adored me," said Velesti. "/ betrayed my adoring lover."

"Congratulations."

"Given my time over again . . ."

"You would not have betrayed him?"

"Her, and I would not have entered the liaison in the first place. Martyne, any reasonable person would say that Samondel is dead as far as you are concerned. Perhaps in fact, as well."

"Are you telling me that it is time to stop waiting for her?"

"Well, yes."

She draped an arm over his shoulders, then drew him close and whispered something in his ear. The astonished Martyne pulled away, his eyes bulging.

"You cannot possibly mean it!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, yes, I do."

"But how?"

"Because I am on good terms with the Eyes of the Mirrorsun Calculor. Will you be my companion?"

"How can I refuse?"

Condelor, North America

I he dray cart was towed by a team of thirty men and women, and was loaded with eleven rotary compression engines that had either been recovered from old gunwing and sailwing wrecks or had lain

unused in the gunwing halls of now abandoned wingfields. All but one were rusted, and some even had grass growing from between their cooling vanes. The country was dangerous, yet what the draymen had for sale was heavy and not easily stolen. Only in Condelor would the engines command a price for being what they were. Everywhere else they were scrap metal, to be melted down into tools, nails, and guns.

One welcome feature of the east road into Condelor was that it was downhill, and while the team pulling the dray had to remain at their push bars, much of the work was done by the two men working the brake blocks on the wheels. A sign appeared ahead, and a cheer went up from the team. Glory Bend was near the end of the journey, and as they rounded it they saw Condelor and its palace sprawled before them. The sight was truly glorious, all towers, spires, arched coronet fancies, and domed cathedrals. Flying low over the city was a merchant sailwing, clawing for height with four engines roaring, weighed down with a rich cargo of bullets, hunting rifles, medicines, and tools.

"Give a sixmonth, these engines will be ascending on a few o' those wings," said the draymaster to his two brakemen.

The last fifteen miles tended to be where the drays lost most members of their teams. It was not due to accidents, outlaws, exhaustion, or disease but to the fact that Condelor was in sight. Those travelers pulling the heavy dray were mostly there for the security of numbers against the outlaws and petty warlords who were rapidly taking over the mountains between Highland Barto-lica and South Bartolica's capital. Those travelers who could not afford to ride the steam trams had to walk, and those who walked alone were always bailed up. If they were lucky, they would just be robbed, if they were less lucky they would be abducted and sold into slavery. If they were very unlucky or put up a fight, they would be shot. On this particular dray the packs of all those in the team were carried with the engines, and they were not to be returned until they had reached the walls of the city.

Fifteen miles is seven hours if one is walking at the pace of a dray pulled by people, and although the sunrise was behind them

when they rounded Glory Bend it was midafternoon before they dragged the dray through the gates and drew up beside a canal. Here there were barges and cranes, and the first of the engines was loaded onto a barge. The members of the team that had brought them from Montpellier and past Bear Lake claimed their packs and began to disperse. One woman, still shrouded against the dust of the mountain road, paused to put her hand out and touch a fire-blackened cylinder of one of the compression engines. When the draymaster barked a caution at her, she walked away without another glance.

"Best of the batch," said the draymaster to the guildsman who was in charge of the barge. "A little singed, but when rebuilt it will sing like a guitar."

"What happened to it?"

"The airframe burned. Bought it from the former Airlord of Highland Bartolica."

"Samondel?"

"That's her."

"I hear she vanished."

"Aye, probably into a six-foot hole. Same Yarronese contractor that chopped her also torched her sailwing, I'd say."

Once away from the dray, Samondel removed the gloves, hat, scarf, and dust cloak that had disguised and protected her for the trip's duration, found a stall in a gateside market, and sold them for a few coins. Walking through the streets with her carbine, she now looked like an artisan's daughter returning from a day's fruitless hunting in the nearby mountains.

All around her were the signs of a civilization that was, if not in decay, at least in severe trauma. People now lived in Condelor not because it was a desirable place but because of the banditry beyond its walls. The city no longer had a mighty empire whose taxes kept it well maintained and beautiful. The place was a mixture of poverty and fortune, and there was a quite unfamiliar cocktail of stale scents on the air: rotting vegetables, swinelet droppings, urine, unwashed people, and pools of stagnant water from blocked and broken drains. Samondel hurried on.

The grounds of the airlord's palace were something resembling

a wilderness more than a garden, but they were still well guarded. Several of the priceless horses from Australica could be seen grazing there, while carbineers took riding lessons on others. Samondel reached the gates. When the guards challenged her she produced papers and a scroll.

"Samondel Leover is my name, I am a warden in the employ of the airlord," she explained when she was brought before the seneschal of the palace. "The airlord is leasing my gunwing, Star-flower."

"Yes, all of that is understood and in order," the seneschal replied. "And what brings you here?"

"I wish to claim my right to fly Starflower in the service of the airlord."

She was allowed to bathe and provided with clean clothing. When she was taken for her audience with the airlord she was wearing her new flight jacket, one that she had just spent months embroidering.

"Such a pity you sold your rank," the airlord said as they had drinks together in an overgrown little courtyard. "We could have married, and merged our domains."

"But we did not, and now I am a warden without lands," she replied. "And I claim the right to serve in Starflower"

"Former wardens are thick on the ground, while gunwings are not. I can only give you lodgings, food, and an allowance as a reserve flyer."

Samondel had expected this. At least she would remain on a wingfield, and would occasionally be flying. One night she might steal a fully fueled, unloaded sailwing and fly to Hawaii. Such dreams were all that she had.

"Flight preserved my pride, and I value my pride. I shall fly for you."

"You have been missing for a long time since your sailwing burned."

"I was in mourning for it."

"A stranger was looking for you, a foreigner. Money was offered for your location."

A Yarronese agent, thought Samondel. Sartov's man, seeking to kill her body after having wounded her soul.

"Well, I am safely in your service now, Airlord Loring."

Loring raised his right hand and waved it in a horizontal circle. A squad of guards converged on Samondel.

"So, I am neither safe nor in your service, Airlord Loring."

"I was offered a great deal of money as well as a treaty, Warden Samondel. I made a mecantile decision."

Samondel was held under guard for some hours, and although she was treated well, she was kept under close watch. Evening came, and the scent of roasting meat wafted through the palace. Samondel was taken from her room and marched through the corridors until she was just outside the great hall where she had once presided over feasts as Airlord of Greater Bartolica. That had been less than two years ago. How much more could happen in another year, she wondered.

"I propose a toast to our former enemies but future merchant allies," Airlord Loring was saying. "We have fought too long as clever and dedicated adversaries. It is time that we pooled our wealth and wits to form the greatest alliance of domains the world has ever seen. An alliance of air merchants! We are the only two major air powers left, but we shall grow, and we shall dominate the trade in the air, and on the ground. To the air merchants!"

A new alliance of South Bartolican and Yarronese air merchants, Samondel suspected. She knew what was going to come next. She had been in the wilderness, pushing a dray, for too long. She had forgotten how fast the world could change in mere months.

"And now, most honored guest and partner, for your last night in Condelor I have arranged a present for you. You have, as we all know, offered a huge reward for a certain woman who has proved very elusive, even to the finest of Yarronese and South Bartolican agents. Rest easy, however, for she is here, and securely held by my guards."

The company gave a cheer.

"Rest even easier, for in honor of our new mercantile alliance, I now present her to you to take home when you ascend at dawn—

and I shall claim not one single gold coin of your generous reward, only your esteem and goodwill."

"And most favored trading domain status!" someone called out, and they all laughed.

"Bring in Warden Samondel Leover," Loring ordered.

Once again, I am led into my own hall in captivity and humiliation, thought Samondel. She was led between two rows of feasting tables, mostly bordered with merchants, traders, and even a scatter of wild-looking men who were quite obviously petty warlords from the nearby mountains. Loring was seated and smirking at the high table, but the place at his right was empty. A woman in a familiar but grossly out-of-place Dragon Librarian's uniform was coming around the table and descending the steps.

"Velesti!" Samondel screamed in astonishment, then she ran from her guards and flung her arms around her.

The entire company rose, cheering, hooting, and applauding.

"Is this your idea of a bloody joke?" Samondel demanded in Old Anglian.

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact," replied Velesti.

"You're herel How?"

"That is a long story, but we shall have a lot of time for explanations tomorrow, on the flight to Australica."

I he following day they were still over the North American continent as Velesti related how the Moonwing had appeared low in the sky over the Monastery of St. Roger, its compression engines already misfiring as the compression spirit ran out. The wingcaptain brought it down in an open pasture, and although the rough ground damaged the wheels, the super-regal came to rest in one piece. The monks had entered the dauntingly large flying machine and found the wing-captain dead but still warm. Written in blood on the bulkhead fabric was the message, Holy Artisans, a Gift to the Featherhead-Hating Humans of Australica. Ferry Your Warriors over the Water. Burn the Featherheads in Their Nest.

"So this was a gift made in hatred?" asked Samondel.

"Yes. The idea that humans might not hate aviads was unthinkable to the wingcaptain. It took a very long time for the monks and artisans at St. Roger's to make the Moonwing airworthy again, but at least they had money from Rochester and advice from Alarak. He was made a Dragon Green Librarian for that, and for training all our navigators. He now works in the Libris map archive. Martyne made the first ascent from the newly built St. Roger Wingfield. The whole Moonwing venture was kept secret for a long time. Theology, you know. Theological theory had to be approved to allow Moonwing to be operated, but that has obviously been done."

"I thought Martyne would have been on this flight," said Samondel wistfully.

"The command of this venture was offered to him, but he declined. Both he and Alarak feared a warm reception in Mounthaven. Alarak for being a traitor, and Martyne for just being an aviad."

They shared time at the controls, and nineteen hours after crossing the coast they were within sight of the Hawaii wingfield.

"So many days between us still, so much flying to go," Samondel sighed as they descended. "Still, it is for the best. I am tired, grubby, smelly, and ill groomed from the long flight, and I want to be bathed and brushed to perfection when I meet Martyne again."

What Velesti had not told her was that Martyne had commanded the compression spirit ferry trips from the new Northmoor Wingfield in Australica to Samoa and Hawaii. It was a well-scrubbed, fully rested Martyne who was waiting at the Hawaii wingfield to greet Samondel.

"Sorry, should have warned you to clean up," said Velesti to Samondel as the former airlord pointed through the cockpit canopy and took a very deep breath.

"You beast!" she shrieked. "You knew all along!"

"Well, sort of."

"Beast, beast, beast! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Er, surprise?"

"Look at my hair! What am I going to do?"

"There's a comb in the chart drawer."

The following morning Martyne and Samondel were lying in each other's arms in a tent on the edge of the Hawaii wingfield. Although spartan as accomodation went, it did feature real sheets and pillows flown all the way from Rochester.

"Fras Martyne?" whispered Samondel.

"Frelle Warden?" he responded.

"Months ago, to kill you, I attempted."

"Not this again."

"You are not, ah, annoyed?"

"For the thousand dozenth time, no. Fortune favors those unlucky in love, so I was sure I would not die."

"Know feeling. Now of true, real love, I learn, for first time. I love you. Always."

Martyne squeezed her hand. "And remember what I said after you shot me?"

"Remind me, Martyne, my only, my dearest."

"I said 'Ouch.' "

Samondel snatched up a pillow and pounded at his head.

"Beast! Beast, beast, beast! Horrid, smelly, Australican beast!" she cried as Martyne burrowed down under the sheets to escape her. The pillow burst as she slammed it down at the shape under the coverings, showering the inside of the tent with feathers. After wrestling each other for some minutes they lay still once more.

"Martyne, I love you," said Samondel again.

"And I love you, Mayoress of the Skies. All the pain was worth it, just to be in your embrace again."

f\ week later Samondel and Martyne stood kissing outside the door to Cafe Marellia in Rochester. The moon was just clear of the rooftops, and the air was slightly too cool to be comfortable.

"I remember first time we were kissing," said Samondel. "Moon was ascending, we had been at Cafe Marellia."

"But this time there is nothing between us," Martyne assured her.

"Soon married to you or wanting to know why not," she said as they began to stroll hand in hand down the darkened street.

Martyne opened his mouth, closed it, then swallowed.

"My parents, ah—and I, that is, would like that," he managed.

Samondel laughed.

"Next summer. Yes?"

"Yes. Did you know that aviad-human marriages are now encouraged by both the Commonwealth and Avian?"

"Very sensible."

They stopped and embraced for a time, indistinguishable from any of Rochester's other courting couples. The two Espionage Constables and Balesha monk who were loitering nearby knew who they were, however, and they were closely but discreetly attended all the way back to the safety of their suite at Libris.

Velesti and Lengina watched Martyne and Samondel arrive back in Libris from a tower window in the gatehouse.

"Are you happy now?" asked the Overmayor of Rochester.

"Yes," replied Velesti.

"Then sign this," she ordered, holding out a sheet of illuminated poorpaper.

Velesti began to read.

"I, Velesti Disore, Dragon Gold in the Dragon Librarian Service, do hereby accept my nomination to the position of Highliber of Libris and Commander of the Dragon Librarian Service—"

"Go on, sign!" snapped Lengina. "You've already read it twice."

Velesti signed, then returned the acceptance to Lengina. "I must have the Dragon Orange, Alaxis Sandar, as my personal lackey," she warned.

"Why tell me?" said Lengina. "Your appointments are your own business."

"I want ready access to him, he has . . . very useful contacts."

For a time they sat watching the moon climbing over the rooftops of Rochester. Lengina cleared her throat.

"I have arranged for a portrait of you to go with the diplomatic dispatch to Kalgoorlie announcing your appointment," she said.

"Jemli will think that Lemorel's ghost has become Highliber."

"Yes, the one person in all the world that Prophet Jemli really fears," said Lengina, rubbing her hands together. "That should dampen her ambitions to conquer the East."

"Is that why you made me Highliber?"

"Well... it was one of several reasons. But, Velesti, when you said your price for accepting the Highliber position was high, I never realized how high."

"Still, you paid."

"Unbelievable! You had me fund repairs to the Moonwing, build wingfields, build compression spirit distilleries, then pay for you to fly spirit and artisans to the abandoned wingfields on Samoa and Hawaii, so that you could establish a trade link to Condelor to hold trade talks. And why? Not for your greater glory, not for intercontinental peace, not even to improve the Commonwealth's balance of payments situation—"

"Which it did do."

"—but to get Samondel Leover and Martyne Camderine back into each other's arms!"

"I like a nice romance. Between others, anyway."

They lapsed into silence again. In the distance someone rang a bell and cried that all was well.

"Good to see you out of black," said Velesti.

"My six months of mourning for Dramoren are long over."

"But are you over himi"

"He will always have a place in my heart, but. . ."

"But?"

"I'm young, pretty, and single," declared Lengina. "I'm also bored."

"Good, that means that the Commonwealth is running well," responded Velesti.

"I'm still bored. Suggest something exciting that we can do."

"Loring, the young American airlord of South Bartolica, hosts rather good revels in Condelor. I thought he was a lot of fun."

"Condelor? It's half a world away."

"Samondel and Martyne managed."

Lengina considered this. Monthly trade flights to Condelor had been established using Moonwing. The prospect of a very exciting adventure was suddenly laid out before the young overmayor.

"And if I happen not to like Airlord Loring ... he will be half a world away when I return here!" she concluded aloud, looking very pleased with herself.

"Which is why I made the suggestion," replied her new High-liber.

KMLOGUE

IMo society is ever completely stable, just, fair, or enlightened, but as the moon rose over Rochester that clear, windless night the world was in fact entering a period of relative stability, steady progress, and general prosperity. Diversity and tolerance had been found to have value, and until that lesson was again forgotten, the four intelligences sharing Earth would live in something resembling harmony.

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