"Fras Wakefield, I had an order for a custom relay rack due next week, I thought I'd check on it," Rangen called across the shop.
"Better come back next month, Fras," the artisan called back. "There was a freak lightning bolt. It roasted every circuit in my shop."
Much to Wakefield's surprise, Rangen thanked him and hurried away without so much as a single curse. Mathematicians were being taken behind heavily guarded doors by Dragon Librarians, and after electrical switches had suddenly burned to cinders and slag. Years ago the manual, slave-powered calculors had been displaced by electrical calculors, but now the reverse was happening. Rangen Derris was one of the few mathematicians in Rochester to have reached the correct conclusion before the Highliber's net ensnared him. He turned down a laneway, then another. Crouching down behind a pile of rotting garbage he discarded his notes. Next he took a knife to his clothing before rubbing it into the grime on the cobblestones.
Before long a filthy beggar emerged onto the street, leaning heavily on a staff made from splintery packing-case wood. A length of cloth covered one eye, and he had hacked his lush, neat beard down to an unkempt stubble. He watched as fifteen men and women wearing crests of the Guild of Accountants were marched past by
the city militia on the way to . . . where? The watchouse was not in that direction, but Libris was. A few late-night revelers cheered to see the accountants being marched away. Nobody paid Rangen any attention.
Rangen sat down with his back against a wall, placed a broken pottery bowl beside his feet and sat in silence. For now he was safe, but what next? If he tried to flee the city there would be guards, inspectors, and Dragon Librarians at every gate. If he got past them, there would be more guards, inspectors, and Dragon Librarians in every regional city and town. A copper coin clinked into his bowl.
"Blessings of the Deity upon your house," said Rangen in a mixture of foreign accents.
Presently he fell asleep.
In the morning he awoke, and was dismayed to find that the past night had not just been a particularly harrowing dream. Again he sorted through his alternatives. If he fled to the frontiers, there would be bounty hunters waiting for anyone numerate enough to complain if they were not given the right change by a vendor. He would be safe enough in the wilderness, but he would not last long. He had only slept outdoors twice. Once had been when he had been too drunk to find his college after a revel and had spent the night in a flower bed in the university gardens. The past night had been the second time. Another copper landed in his bowl.
"Blessings of the Deity upon your house."
He had some silver in his purse, a gold royal concealed in the heel of each boot, an eating knife and the clothes that he was wearing. Clink.
"Blessings of the Deity on your house."
Clink
Three coppers, collected in as many minutes. Admittedly that had been during the rush after the shift change in a nearby bakery, yet three coppers would probably buy a cut of bread. This was certainly easier than hunting possums in the forests. The weather was mild, and he could probably crawl into the stables at the university and sleep on the straw.
He started off for the university, displaying a limp and hunching
his shoulders over. Before long a line of riders appeared ahead, escorting five covered wagons. Rangen cowered against a building as they passed, noting the faint, muffled sounds from the wagons as they passed. Gagged people would sound like that. Gagged people trying to attract attention before they reached the gates of Libris and vanished from sight forever.
When Rangen reached the university his worst fears were exceeded. Groups of students were huddled together, whispering, while cloaked editors scuttled between buildings as if afraid to be seen in the open. The doors to the Department of Mathematics stood open, and the latch had been smashed from the wood. Rangen looked longingly at his college dormitory, but he dared not enter it to claim the clothes, books, border papers, oddments, and money that were all his. Two mounted Dragon Librarians were observing the scene from near the gates, and more would surely be lurking about in disguise.
Rangen knew that without the protection of the Beggars' Guild he could be beaten up and robbed by any bully boy who thought that he might carry the price of a pint of ale, but to gain membership of the guild he had to be inspected by a medician. That was out of the question. He limped toward the laundaric and rapped timidly at the open door. The turbaned head of the washerman bobbed up from beneath the counter.
"Off, going away, out!" he shouted. "No beggarings!"
"Please, noble Fras, Fse wantin' work, like," replied Rangen.
"No beggarings. Out!"
"I can stoke tubs a-night, Fse lame, not weak."
The washerman of the laundaric pointed and opened his mouth again, but now Rangen was pointing—directly at him.
"Just a moment, now," he said, letting his new accent slip. "Northmoor sash tied up like an Alspring turban, a Kalgoorlie kaftan, and a very unconvincing Southmoor accent."
"I am Kamis bal-Krees, laundaric master from the distant may-orate of North—argh!"
Rangen had struck off his makeshift turban with his crutch.
"All the way from your father's estate in Rutherglen, by the look of your hairstyle."
"I surrender, I surrender!" the washerman cried, raising his hands. "Grand and merciful Dragon Librarian, master of disguise—"
"Shut up and keep your bloody voice down!" hissed Rangen, as he pulled the door closed. "Now, who are you—really?"
"I—I am Rhyn Ponsington-Taraven, student of general studies and youngest son of Lord Ponsington-Taraven, in the mayorate of Rutherglen."
"Ponsington-Taraven, ah yes, I have heard your name spoken among the mathematics editors. You took five years to pass some subject like Basic Arithmetic for Very Stupid People with Very Rich Fathers."
"I say, that's being a bit harsh. It was Introductory Mathematics and Commercial Methods ... or was it Introduction to Commercial Mathematics and, ah, er—"
"And my bet is that you dashed in here when the Dragon Librarians arrived to abduct anyone who could count more than their allocation of fingers and toes, noted that the washerman had already been carted away, and tried to take his place."
"Why, how did you—"
"Have you a razor here?"
"A razor? Why, yes. The former washerman's effects were left behind when he was carried away."
Rangen hurriedly sorted through a rack of clothing.
"Take this, this, and this, shave your head, then come back here. You are now Bandilsi ba'Krees, a refugee Southmoor eunuch."
"I say, but I was calling myself Kamis bal-Krees."
"Which is a mixture of Northmoor and Alspring words, and which would get you arrested just as soon as you opened your mouth and moved your tongue. You are now working for me."
"Oh yes, I—what? I say, I'm meant to be running this laun-daric."
"Where is the soap?"
"The soap. Ah . . ."
"That blue jar on your right with soap written on it. Where do you get water?"
"By lowering a bucket into that hole beneath the sign that says Caution—Well. Where is the register of garments?"
"What's that?"
"That book on the counter in front of you."
"Yes, well, er. . . granted, I have had little time to familiarize myself with the procedures here, but—"
"Fras Rhyn, a dog wearing an academic cloak who tells customers that their laundry will be ready by 'Woof! Woof!' would make a more convincing master of the campus laundaric than you. If you want to stay out of the new Libris calculor for longer than it takes for the next member of the Libris Espionage Constables to walk through the door, you will work here as my eunuch and do exactly as I say. Agreed?"
"Well, I do concede that I am not sufficiently endowed with lower-class cunning to maintain this disguise for long, but—but do I have to be a real eunuch? I mean I'm rather attached to—I mean it would probably hurt to—"
Before ten minutes had passed a new customer entered the laundaric. To Rangen's eyes she was no more genuine that Rhyn or himself. By now Rangen was dressed in the former washerman's tunic and apron.
"Ah, pretty Frelle, how can I be helpin' ye?"
The woman frowned at him, hooking her thumbs into her belt.
"I was told that the washerman had been arrested."
"Aye, ye were told truth."
"Then who are you?"
"I be Skew."
"I—what?"
"I be Skew, the washerman's deputy. I were a musketeer, aye, and a corporal. Bone in me leg were broken by a shot, but healed skew, like. Tha's me name, Skew, 'cause I'm, like, skew. I'se strong an' willin', but, and I can do anythin' if its not ter be done at a run."
"Can you count?"
"Aye, yeah, ter ten, aye. Like the washerman did the countin' till today, but nothin' cost more than ten coppers in here, so I'se able ter take over."
"So, you can count coppers when students pay for washing?"
"Ah, aye. I can write names, too. If anyone comes in, I takes their washing an' chalks their names on a slate ter go with the bag. And I'se got a eunuch fer to do stokin'."
"A Southmoor? Is he educated?"
"Fras Bandilsi? Nay. Can't write or count, but he's strong. Now, what can I be washin'?"
"Only yourself," muttered the Dragon Librarian, who turned and walked out again.
Rhyn emerged from the back of the laundaric. His head was shaved, but he had rubbed the umber brown into his face alone, leaving the rest of his head gleaming white. Rangen shook his head.
"Your wages are fifty—ah, fifteen coppers a day, and you can lodge in the lumber room."
"But, I say, there's no bed there."
"Yes, there is, it's cunningly disguised as a pile of hessian sacks. Just evict the cockroaches and it will be just like home."
As Rangen stretched out on the former washerman's bed that night he contemplated his good fortune. In just twenty-four hours he had become a fugitive, commenced a new career as a beggar, changed careers to work in the university's laundaric, and given himself a promotion to laundaric master. Now he had accommodation and financial security, but best of all he had anonymity.
Mounthaven, North America
Jn the other side of the world, it was late afternoon when the electrical devices of the world had died. It had been a day after a massive air battle over the wastelands of central North America. A
long and particularly brutal war had been won, a war engineered from a continent halfway around the world. The invaders and their allies had been crushed completely.
The following day, when dawn had risen over those celebrating victory in Forian, some scholars noticed that their experimental electrical devices had been reduced to char and metal slag. Few cared, for there were matters of much greater importance to deal with. The Call, the cetezoids' strange and deadly mind weapon, was gone. For two thousand years it had confined humans to tiny areas in the North American highlands, but with it gone there was suddenly a huge frontier to settle. However, the restraints of the Call had also shaped the American nations and royal houses, in fact it underpinned the very system. Already their rulers were feeling anxious.
It was late in the morning when the victorious Council of Mount-haven Airlords met to discuss the consequences of what had just happened. The walls of the Forian palace were still pockmarked with bullet holes and the glass was missing from many windows, but the jubilant Yarronese had cleaned away the dust and debris. In the Chamber of Deliberations tapestries had been hung over the worst of the damage to the frescos, and carpets covered the mutilated mosaics and tiles of the floors.
First there was the procession of airlords from the palace wing-field, where their tiny gunwings stood with the artisans and ground crews. Cheering, jubilant crowds flung spring flowers into their path while bands played marches and royal anthems, and for once the guards that marched with them were merely for spectacle. Wardens and other nobles marched too, all with their jewel-and-gilt-encrusted flight jackets sparkling and gleaming in the sun, although many wore bandages as well. Waves of louder cheers rippled out along the avenue as particularly well known heroes of the war passed. There was the invincible Airlord Sartov, who had transformed the Yarronese from being fugitives in their own domain to the leaders of a victorious alliance. Warden Bronlar Jemarial, with forty clear air victories, was the first and greatest of Mounthaven's female wardens. The bandaged Warden Serjon Feydamor who had bombed the royal pal-
ace at Condelor and killed the Bartolican airlord, came behind her. He had an unprecedented 104 victory symbols sewed in gilt onto the collar and shoulders of his flight jacket.
The vanquished Bartolicans were there too, having joined the alliance against the Australican invaders after Greater Bartolica was split into five lesser domains. Airlord Samondel of Leover, the Air-lord of Highland Bartolica, was the only female airlord ever to engage in clear air fighting, and had the symbols for two enemy gunwings and three sailwings sewn into the throat of her flight jacket's collar. At nineteen, she was also the youngest airlord alive. Rather than cheers, a trough of silence and muttering trailed through the Yarronese crowd as the Bartolicans passed. It was not the place of commoners to heckle American royalty, but nobody was forcing them to cheer, either. Eggs, rotten fruit, and vegetable scraps were reserved for the shabby line of captured invaders from Australica, whose hair had been soaked in lubricant grease and smothered in feathers. There were only nine of them, all captured aviad artisans. Their warrior masters had fought to the death, or killed themselves rather than submit to capture.
As the parade reached the palace gates, each airlord broke out and marched through alone while the others in the parade streamed off to the right and left to be cheered by yet more crowds. When the last of the Bartolican airlords had entered the palace, the battered, splintered gates were pushed shut.
Airlord Sartov gave the keynote address, and his words were crammed with warnings. The whole of the North American continent was suddenly open for all humans to settle. Mounthaven had the most advanced technology in the known world, but Mexhaven had several times its population. Mounthaven was at the crossroads of destiny only a day after its greatest victory in two thousand years.
"We could maintain our traditional way of life in Mounthaven and defend our frontiers," concluded Sartov, "but in a decade we would be ringed by Mexhaven farms and warlords. In two decades we would be running a trade deficit with Mexhaven settler domains, and in five we would be losing wars with them. Our only possible
course is to expand into the new and fertile frontier lands before anyone else. I favor claiming a vast stretch of frontier, and declaring that any Mexhaven settlers who enter it are subjects of the Mount-haven airlords. Palaces and wingfields can be built, and new domains can be proclaimed after a suitable time."
Sartov resumed his chair, and the herald announced that Airlord Samondel would now lead off the debate.
"As all of you know, much has been learned about Australican artisanry during the war," she began, standing at the podium with her arms folded and speaking without notes. "We know that humanity has split into two species there, the featherheads and humans like us. The featherheads' hair looks like long feathers under a microscope, but they are different in many other ways. The Australican humans have suffered just as much at the hands of the featherheads as we have, but there is evidence that some feather-heads of goodwill are allied with Australican humans. Most Australians support us, and I have interviewed one of the military advisors that they sent here to help us during the war. The linguist Darien has described how large animals have survived in Australia, large animals available to our ancestors when they began to settle this continent two thousand five hundred years ago. Horses, ponies, donkeys, camels, and cattle. They al
so have sheep and goats for the lush frontier grasses. Their kangaroos can thrive on near-desert forage, but most important of all are their horses. Horses can walk with loads over trackless wasteland, while eating whatever grows at their feet.
"Airlords can overfly any frontier, but it is those on the ground who control it. We could put in tracks for our steam trams and trains, but Mexhaven militias can tear up the tracks faster than we can lay them. Besides, according to my royal statistician, there is not enough spare iron in Mounthaven for such a venture. Squads of Mounthaven carbineers riding horses would be exceedingly fast and mobile, and could shatter the ranks of many times their number in enemy infantry. I propose that the entire wardenry of Mounthaven be sworn to both mapping the new frontiers from the air, and to procuring horses and other large animals from Australica. Thank you."
"Warden Drell of Montrass," called the herald as she sat down to a buzz of surprised comments and whispering.
"Saireme Airlord Samondel, I too have a royal statistician here," declared the young man, who was only months older than Samondel. "According to ancient maps, the overland route to Australica is over eleven thousand miles of ice, desert, forest, swamp, and jungle. It also involves crossing at least seven short stretches of salt water, and as we have been told by the Australican envoy, the sea intelligences have ended the scourge of the Call—but only as long as the seas are left to them. There can be no sea travel."
Samondel waved her interjection pennant.
"Darien said that on Australican shores, beached whale animals are rescued where possible, and in return they permit crashed flyers to swim ashore," she countered. "Semme Darien has assured us of this. It can apply to us too."
"Nevertheless, they are quite clear that no boats will ever be permitted," Drell countered. "Wingfields will have to be built to cross the stretches of seawater, transport wings the size of Yarronese super-regals will be needed to ferry humans and horses through the air, and fuel for the giant wings will have to be transported up to eleven thousand miles. My statistician estimates that the endeavor would take fifteen years and consume twenty-five times the money and resources that the war has cost Mounthaven. If hostile tribes are found anywhere along the way, it will add to the cost and take even longer. Besides, Darien also says that there are religious prohibitions against engines in Australica."
Eyes of the Calculor Page 4
