Eyes of the Calculor (8 page)

With such an emergency as the clocks, calculors, and other electrical devices suddenly melting and burning it was not long before a lackey was sent to inform the Overmayor. He found the scene of a murder-suicide. Shrieking for the guards, he turned and fled. Jemli arrived with the first of those guards and watched attentively as the captain examined both bodies with care and an open mind.

"Powder burns on both of them," he concluded. "Both were shot from close range, the Overmayor between the eyes, the girl in the mouth. Both were standing when shot, facing the door, yet the girl's laces are undone and her breasts are hanging out. This Morelac was in her hands."

"I heard the shots," said Jemli. "Two shots."

"Someone walked in on them, someone with authority to be in this part of the palace and who knew where they were to be found. He shot them both, then tried to make it look like the courtesan was responsible. The bodies are still as warm as in life, so this happened only minutes ago."

"The lackey who found them must have come past very soon after the killings," said Jemli. "Did he see anyone?"

"He reported seeing nobody."

"How very convenient."

The captain's thoughts slid smoothly into a path in which everything fitted together very simply.

"He would not have been alone," replied the captain. "He had little rank or influence. By the Deity, look at what's inscribed on the Morelac's handle: 'Once the weapon of Lemorel Milderellen.' "

"That is mine!" exclaimed Jemli. "I reported it stolen months ago, it is a highly prized relic, a symbol of charisma and power."

"Aye, and I remember writing the report."

"The lackey worked for Sariach," Jemli pointed out.

That was no revelation. All the lackeys and officials of the palace worked for Sariach, and Sariach was the Overmayor's named successor. Overmayor Amarana had been in the very best of health, and would have had decades in office stretching ahead of him.

"These are very serious implications," said the captain, who was also within Sariach's chain of command.

"How loyal are the men of the palace guard?" asked Jemli.

"They are loyal to the Crown, but—"

"But who wears the crown, and with what right?"

The captain did not answer.

"Put the palace on invasion alert and have the overhand of the city militia proclaim martial law," said Jemli, gambling everything on the authority in her voice and bearing. "Have the lackey brought here, then send for Fras Sariach. Tell him that it is to do with the succession."

For a single, agonized moment the captain hesitated, his face alive with internal conflict. . . then he saluted.

It was now seven minutes since the electrical devices had begun to burn. Six minutes later Sariach arrived to inspect the scene of the tragedy that had elevated him to the highest office in the southwest of the continent. The bodies still lay where they had fallen, and present were the lackey who had discovered the deaths, six guards and the guard captain. Jemli was also there, the tall principal wife of the Overmayor. Sariach made to push past her, eager to check that the Overmayor was really dead.

Jemli's fist slammed into his abdomen, and he doubled over with a soft wheeze.

"That is for ordering this little rat to kill the Overmayor," Jemli said slowly and clearly. "Captain, have him bound, gagged, and locked in the south tower. Torture this lackey until he confesses to everything."

The guardsmen, the royal court, the militia—in fact, everyone— was more concerned with having a strong leader in a time of extreme uncertainty and danger than with questions of who actually had the right to the throne. The lackey was not suited to enduring torture, and had gathered that people suspected him of committing the murders by order of Sariach. He confessed accordingly.

By midnight over two hundred palace officials and courtiers had been arrested, along with the Overmayor's other wives and courtesans. Jemli donned her old mayoral robes and called a great meeting

of Kalgoorlie's citizens in the square before the palace. Rocked by the events of only four hours past, over a hundred thousand people crowded together to hear Jemli speak by the light of lanterns. She was familiar to them, as she had ruled before. The year of her rule had been a quiet, prosperous one for the may orate. She also had big lungs and a commanding voice; she sounded like a leader.

"Citizens, the Overmayor has been murdered."

Everyone knew this, of course, but they were there to hear it announced by someone in authority. Jemli knew that making the announcement gave her authority.

"Sariach was behind the plot, and he has been arrested. He will be tried by a martial law committee."

Now there were cheers. The Overmayor had not been unpopular, and people generally liked to see justice done.

"As your new Overmayor, it is my duty to warn you that the voice of the Deity has spoken to us all today."

Jemli enjoyed swaying crowds and she was very good at it; it ran in the family. After a major revelation she always allowed time for people to whisper to each other, to build up anticipation, to make them hungry for the answer that only she had. The voice of the Deity had spoken! Why had they not noticed?

"The Deity has cast heaven's fire down to burn all electrical engines. Those engines are hateful in His sight, but out of love and compassion He has allowed not a single one of us, His loving worshipers, to die in the conflagration."

There had actually been half a dozen deaths in the fires across Kargoorlie, but nobody was inclined to argue.

"All faiths—Gentheist, Christian, and Islamic—have prohibited engines that use fuel for two thousands of years. Those engines fouled the face of His creation and afflicted us, His people, with the blights of pollution, Greatwinter, and killing machines. For two millennia we lived happily without engines, but twenty years ago that evil band in the sky, Mirrorsun, struck down His angels. The electrical engines came back to scourge us."

She pointed up to the band that stretched across the sky, blotting out a strip of stars with darkness, and adorned by a splash of orange

light reflected from the sun that was currently shining on the other side of the planet. The ancients' vast and powerful machine was an immense distance away in orbit, and was thus a safe target for invective and any accusation that came to mind.

"Tonight the Deity has made it clear that electrical engines are no less hateful in His sight than steam engines. We must go forth and destroy all devices that burn electrical essence, whether in the deepest tunnels or shielded cages. The Deity will smile on you, He will send a sign of His blessing."

Jemli stepped down to a thunderstorm of cheering and applause. The captain of the palace guard was waiting with an escort for her.

"I have important orders to give," she said as she strode away with them. "I want five dozen runners and couriers lined up at the door to the Overmayor's chambers in a few minutes. See to it."

Jemli's seat of power was the center of a wide, semicircular desk of bloodwood. She sat back in the padded, comfortable chair, glowing with energy and excitement that was virtually sexual in intensity. In four hours she had risen from mistress of her own study to Over-mayor and Prophet. Although she had been quick with her planning and actions, one thought lingered before her like a divine vision. Surely she could not have risen so far and fast without the genuine favor of the Deity. The first of the couriers arrived.

"It is proclaimed that the beamflash signal tower service, which has been in decline since the advent of electrical machines, is to be restored under my control," Jemli said slowly as the scribes copied her words onto poorpaper. "Have this known in every city, town, and village."

After an hour of proclamations, declarations, and orders, Jemli had the captain called in. She told him to close the doors.

"Of all the people in the Kalgoorlie Empire, I know that I can trust you," she began. "You are to take a galley train west, to the capital of the Confederation of Woomera. I shall write out your orders and my message while you pack, and you must leave within the hour."

2 < - ^^

tetJLOF THE VICTIM

Rochester

Uramoren was the first of the continent's leaders to be given the unbelievable news about the Call ceasing. The message had originated at Seymour, a large township at the edge of the Calldeath lands bordering the Commonwealth. After being relayed through the flashing signal mirrors of the Rushworth beamflash tower, forty-five miles to the north, it had been sent another fifty miles northeast to Rochester.

The Call had ceased in the Calldeath lands. There was no longer any trace of it.

"Confirmation, I want confirmation!" demanded Dramoren, snatching the chalkboard bearing the message from his lackey.

"Highliber, the—"

"Get out!"

Dramoren slammed the door on his lackey and depressed the OVERRIDE lever at his calculor console. Nothing happened. Suddenly he remembered: the electrical calculor had burned the night before. He stood up, strode to the door, and flung it open.

"Vorion!" Dramoren shouted as loudly as he could.

"Yes, Highliber?" Vorion replied from beside the door.

Dramoren looked down at him. "I want all references to the Call

ceasing. Now! Any new reports are to be sent to me as soon as they arrive."

"I have the current reports in this folder, Highliber."

Reports from Echuca and Darlington described moving Calls suddenly vanishing. Not stopping in the same place for the night but vanishing completely. Dramoren immediately sent out commands that the Bendigo and Inglewood beamflash crews check on the state of the Calldeath lands to the south of their towers, while putting in a request for confirmation at Seymour. Within a half hour the reports came back: the Call had ceased totally, and the Calldeath lands were safe to enter for the first time in two thousand years.

"An area the size of the Rochestrian Commonwealth itself has suddenly been opened up to human settlement," said the perplexed Highliber.

"Highliber, wonderful news!" exclaimed Vorion, clapping his hands together.

"Allow me to rephrase that. An area the size of the Rochestrian Commonwealth populated by heavily armed and very dangerous aviads has suddenly been opened up to human settlement."

"Oh," responded Vorion.

"Send a runner to the palace, get me an interview with the Over-mayor. Request it with the Invasion priority code."

"Very good, Highliber, consider it done. And where will you be waiting for the reply?"

"At the palace gates, you idiot. Now run!"

It was a mere twenty minutes later that Dramoren was ushered into the audience hall of Overmayor Lengina. The young Overmayor had been installed in office a mere twenty days before Dramoren's appointment, and had only met the chief civil servant of her Commonwealth the day before.

"Grave and disturbing news, Frelle Overmayor," said Dramoren as he walked through the double doors of filigree relief mountain ashwood. "The Call has ceased completely."

The former mayor of Inglewood was more used to being told

grave news along the lines of hailstorms wiping out the year's grape crop before the harvest had begun. Having no Call sweeping over her realm was simply incomprehensible. It was like being told that dogs no longer had tails.

"Are your sources reliable?" she asked, leaning forward and pressing her chin against her fist.

"They are both reliable and independent," Dramoren assured her. "From Seymour to Inglewood, the Calldeath lands may now be entered by humans. What is more, reports have come in of active, moving Calls just ceasing to exist."

The monarch of the entire Commonwealth thought both quickly and deeply, but it did her no good.

"This matter has no precedent in two thousand years," Over-mayor Lengina pointed out, quite correctly. "What do you recommend?"

Dramoren hoped that his relief did not show. He was obviously first with the news, ahead of her military overhands, economic advisors, and court nobility.

"The Calldeath lands are full of aviads," he replied. "We must keep them separated from settlers and adventurers, else there will be much bloodshed. Order that roadblocks be set up by local militias along the Calldeath borderlands, and suspend paraline traffic for a day. That will slow the flow of human settlers until we have had a chance to think."

"They are extreme measures," replied Lengina. "Commerce will be affected."

"Extreme measures show that we are taking the matter seriously, Frelle Overmayor."

"But how can we be sure they are correct?"

"We cannot, but then we only have to seem to be in control to keep the confidence of the citizens. Give people a firm order in difficult times and they will be relieved, not resentful."

The Overmayor frowned for a moment, staring directly at Dramoren.

"Your words might apply as much to me as to my subjects," she replied.

"Precisely, Overmayor, but notice that I have at least been honest with you."

Again Overmayor Lengina considered. Dramoren had given her a sensible course of action, but with no options. Lengina was uneasy when she had no options.

"Remind me of what will be achieved by your recommendation," she said.

"A lot of your subjects will be kept out of trouble and kept alive, Overmayor. You will also be given a few days to consult with your advisors and client mayors to determine a long-term policy appropriate to our new circumstances."

"Your advice seems both sensible and altruistic, Highliber."

"It is the role of librarians to keep government running in difficult times," replied Dramoren. "Librarians are the last line of defence against chaos."

Balesha Monastery, Western Australica

I wo thousand miles to the west, the horse that Brother Martyne Camderine had stolen was rapidly tiring. It was better suited to the millwheel's treadcircle than desperate flight across the desert. The young escapee had managed to put fifteen miles between himself and the Christian monastery of Balesha before his escape had been discovered, but his pursuers were quick to run him down. Martyne had abandoned his horse in rolling, scrubby hills as soon as he saw dust being raised behind him, but this bought less time than he had wished. A riderless horse follows a less purposeful path, and the three monks soon turned back to search out the fugitive.