siastical orbital dynamics specialists to verify the mathematics. He had forgotten that the mathematically skilled beamflash operators could interpret his message about as easily as a dog could recognize a bone in its food bowl.
The message went out over the beamflash network on October 4th. By the night of the eclipse, nearly every set of lenses within a hundred miles of a functioning beamflash tower across the entire continent was trained on the moon. In addition to Brother Tontare's five sketches of the original eclipse, millions of sketches, paintings, projection tracings, and team drawings were made of the serrations passing across the face of the moon at the edge of the Mirrorsun shadow. Of all those doing observations, no more than a few thousand understood the mathematics of what they were seeing, but this in turn led to some quite wild rumors. Principal among them was the Prophet Jemli's opinion that the Deity had afflicted Mirrorsun with huge and terrible pustules.
At Siding Springs, Brother Tontare had access to the largest telescope for the first time in his life. He chose to do a projection tracing using a team of observers. The light from the moon was focused down onto a projection table, where a dozen monks stood ready with quills dipped in black ink. Tontare assessed the serrations passing across the lunar face, turned to the reciprocating clock on the wall, waited for the second hand to reach the precise time written on his slate, then called "Mark black!"
A dozen monks marked the precise location of the serrations, points where Mirrorsun's shadow met the edge of the lunar disk, and the central peaks of certain craters. Seconds ticked past. Monks in the background exchanged the quills dipped in black ink for quills dipped in red. "Mark red!" called Brother Tontare, the word "red" precisely on the second. A second set of observations was marked down on the sheet of poorpaper pinned down to the surface of the projection table. More quills were exchanged, blue ink was to be next. "Mark blue!" Outside the dome the tramp of neophyte monks on the treadmill driving the huge telescope sounded, just slightly out of syncopation with the clacking of the reciprocating clock. The op-
erations monk kept the central peak of Thyco Crater precisely at the center of the crosshairs in his tracking refractor. "Mark green!"
The skywatch monk outside was watching scattered cumulus cloud with anxiety, continually estimating drift speeds and times. Mars gleamed brilliantly a few degrees from the moon, like a luminous spot of blood. Cloud drifted across Mars and smothered its ruddy light.
"One minute to cloud cover, estimate five to seven minutes of cover!" called the skywatch monk.
"Mark yellow!" called Tontare, reaching for a chalk. He wrote down a new time. Thirty seconds ticked by. "Mark violet!" Quills were exchanged again. Tontare wrote down another reference time.
"Ten seconds to cover," called the skywatch monk.
"Cloud contact, image fading," called the operations monk.
The image on the projection table began to fade. Tontare stared at the second hand on the reciprocating clock, willing it to move faster. "Mark orange!"
"Baseline lost!" called the operations monk at almost the same moment.
Brother Nikalan shuffled out of the background shadows, from where he had been watching proceedings.
"Seven out of ten, not a bad result," he decreed, although Tontare was muttering something that sounded like the words of an excor-cism at the clouds visible through the slit in the observatory dome.
"Echuca reported clear skies in their last beamflash message," called the skywatch monk through the door.
"Good, we shall have an excellent baseline to work from, to make up for the brown, gold, and silver coordinates that the devil robbed from us here," said Tontare.
Using dividers and standard tables, Tontare began to call coordinates from the colored figures marked on the poorpaper. A neophyte scribed them down, while Nikalan listened, staring up at the blank slice of sky visible through the slit in the dome. Tontare took the clipboard and checked the figures from memory, but was satisfied that the youth had not made any mistakes.
"Brother Nikalan, you can commence work now," said Tontare.
"Mirrorsun has increased its speed of rotation by nine-tenths of one percent," said Nikalan, looking away from the sky. "The margin of error is two-tenths of one percent, due to these observations being so much better than yours of the previous month, but there is a definite increase in rotational velocity of no less than seven-tenths of one percent."
Now the abbot and Brother Disparon walked forward from where they had been watching and listening.
"Brothers Tontare, Nikalan, and Disparon, you have brought yet more honor and recognition to our monastery, order, and faith," declared the abbot. "Tontare for the discovery, Nikalan for the interpretation, and Disparon for convincing the rest of us to take it seriously. Brother Disparon, beamflash the results to the other three observatories, along with the results of Brother Nikalan's calculations. Inform the Bishop of Griffith, the Overmayor of the Confederation, the Mayor of Tenterfield, and the Overmayor of the Rochestrian Commonwealth as well. They were mightily annoyed to hear of this secondhand last month, so this time make sure that they are the first."
Had Brother Disparon died and been admitted to paradise he could scarcely have been happier than to have been sending a personal message to the head of the largest Christian church on the continent, and its two most powerful secular rulers. The moon was shining again as he stood in the monastery's beamflash tower, dictating his messages and appending "Brother Disparon, Project Coordinator, on behalf of Abbot Pelvar." So much had happened since Nikalan had forced him to think. He had made the most inspired judgment of his life, he had become famous, he had become a project coordinator for the first time, and his name would live forever in Church and secular histories. Yes, thinking was a good idea; he definitely had to do it more often.
As he stood on the gallery balcony of the beamflash tower, Brother Disperon looked up to Mirrorsun and thought again. Mirrorsun was speeding up, but nobody knew why. Mirrorsun might well burst and fly apart into fragments whose highly elliptical orbits
would send them high into space only to rain down on Earth. Had he discovered the end of the world? Brother Disperon wondered.
An hour later an acknowledgment and personal note of thanks arrived at the monastery's beamflash tower from Rochester. Disparon read the operator's transcription listlessly, then called for a runner to take it to the abbot in the main observation dome. What good was being immortalized in history if the end of history was approaching? wondered Disparon.
Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
IVIartyne rode slowly to the Avenue Bridge, a long, multiarched causeway across the lake that divided Inner Rochester from the rest of the city. By now his hair was longer and his clothing dusty with travel. Rising above the walls was the mighty beamflash tower of Libris. Already the tallest structure on the continent, it was currently having another hundred feet added with a wooden extension. The clear sky of early spring was giving way to clouds, and all around Martyne people were hurrying to complete business before the rain began. Horses were barred from the inner city, except for the early hours of the morning, so Martyne signed his horse in at a stable and set out across the bridge on foot.
The walled island on which the inner city was built contained most of the really important buildings of Rochester: Libris, the palace, the University of Rochester, the cathedral, the main market, the city watchouse, and the paraline terminus, along with a fairly large proportion of the city's older housing. The mansions of the wealthy were in the outer city, sharing it with the warehouses, workshops, barracks, garrison, and most of the population. The inner city was in fact becoming a university town, but not all of it was picturesque academic cloisters and palatial towers. The Weapons Research Workshops had been established in an ancient walled citadel in the southeast corner ten years earlier and were under heavier guard than the palace.
The stableman advised Martyne about accommodation, prices, and good taverns to eat at, and his
conclusion was that the best and cheapest living was to be found in the old quarter near the main gates of the university. Martyne walked the stiffness out of his joints and muscles as he crossed the long bridge, and presently he reached the university. The cloisters of the Guild of Students provided addresses of various rooming houses and hostelries, and the rates were generally reasonable.
"The Toad and Tankard has clean rooms and great discretion, Brother Camderine," advised a man to Martyne's right, who stood with his arms folded behind his back as he gazed at the notice board.
Martyne turned and regarded him carefully. The man was significantly taller than Martyne and had something of a military bearing, but was dressed as a university edutor.
"I do not believe we have been introduced," he replied.
"Of course not, you were pointed out to me no more than thirty seconds ago. Go to the Toad and Tankard, secure a room, have a bath, change into the best clothes you have, and then wait in the taproom."
"Wait? For who?"
"For my master."
"I do not see the Toad and Tankard on this board."
"Walk with me, I shall take you there."
"What are the rates like?"
"Reasonable. Your room has been paid for six months in advance."
Suddenly everything seemed obvious to Martyne.
"Dammit, I told Frelle Disore that I did not want help!" said Martyne, annoyance strong in his voice.
"Who is Frelle Disore?"
This was not the answer that Martyne had expected.
"Who are you? What is this about?"
"I am unimportant; you will probably never see me again. You are being offered employment, Brother Camderine of Balesha."
I he Toad and Tankard was an alehouse that had taken over the hostelry beside it and been transformed into quite a large inn. It was clean, quiet, but crowded as Martyne entered, and true to the stranger's word there was a room booked in his name. A room with a very advanced, five-tumbler lock on the door. He bathed, changed into the cleanest of the clothes in his saddlebags, and went down to the taproom. A plaque on the fireplace declared it to be the Glasken Memorial Hearth, whatever that was. As Martyne turned to warm his back he found a serving maid before him.
"Fras Camderine, your guest is here," she said softly as she beckoned Martyne to follow.
The room that he was led to was small, and hung with tapestries. A thick Northmoor carpet stretched so precisely from wall to wall that it might have been woven for that very room. The maid's voice seemed dull and leaden as she told him to wait. The room was furnished to absorb sound, Martyne realized, even the chairs were padded and the tabletop covered with dark felt. The door opened again, and Martyne's patron entered.
The man had blue eyes, and a thin face that featured a very impressive scar. His rain cloak was wet from the rain that was now falling, and as he unpinned it and handed it to one of his escorts Martyne saw that he wore a long coat over the uniform of a senior Dragon Librarian. Martyne was on his feet by now, and as the door was pulled shut they bowed.
"Brother Camderine, I am most relieved that you agreed to this meeting," he said in a quiet yet sharp voice as they sat down.
"I have been expelled from Balesha and renounced my vows, so I am merely Fras Martyne Camderine now," Martyne pointed out. "Also, forgive me, Fras, but I have not yet had the pleasure of an introduction."
"Ach, my apologies, I am so used to people knowing who I am." He produced a black pass-card with silver script from within his coat: "Franzas Dramoren, Highliber of Libris."
There was very little that anyone could have said to that, and Martyne merely swallowed, and managed, "Delighted."
"My time is not my own, Fras Camderine, so I shall come straight to the point. Have you heard of the Espionage Constables?"
"They are spies. I believe that they used to be known as the Black Runners."
"Correct. They are an arm of the Dragon Librarian Service, and they do intelligence work for the Rochestrian Commonwealth. I wish you to join them."
"Me?" exclaimed Martyne, almost as surprised as when he had learned Dramoren's identity. "But I am a foreign national and not even a librarian. More to the point, I know nothing of spying."
"Five years in Balesha have given you a finer background in spying that anyone else in the Commonwealth. To be ordained a monk you had to study as hard as any student at a secular university, so the University of Rochester can award you a degree in theology at my word. With such a degree, you can join the Dragon Librarians at the rank of Blue. You can, of course, never wear the uniform."
"This seems reasonable. Having spies in uniform rather defeats their purpose."
"Nevertheless, you would need to be seen to be employed. I know that this afternoon you applied to the university to be employed as a part-time edutor in applied theology."
"Indeed, but because I have no degree my application was rejected. I was going to visit the cathedral tomorrow and—"
Dramoren dropped two scrolls in front of Martyne. Martyne unrolled the first. It was the testamur for a degree in theology, dated that day. The other was articles of edutorship at the university. Martyne placed the scrolls at the center of the table.
"My mother always told me not to accept presents from strangers," said Martyne, clasping his hands and staring Dramoren in the face.
"My mother always told me never to speak to strange librarians," replied the Highliber of the Rochestrian Commonwealth.
"Why this generosity?"
"You are from Balesha. You have martial abilities that other mortals can only dream about, along with an education. You could easily become a master of espionage and assassination."
"Monk I may no longer be, but man of principle and honor I still am," Martyne declared as he stood up. "I am certainly no assassin. Thank you for your hospitality and offer, Highliber, but I intend to apply to be a gardener at the cathedral tomorrow."
"If you are no assassin, why did you renounce Balesha and come two thousand miles to avenge your sister?"
Martyne sat down again. "That was a matter of family honor."
"This is a matter of family honor as well!" insisted Dramoren.
"I do not follow your words' intent, Highliber."
"I have known about you for some time, Martyne. I contacted the new abbot at Balesha. He gave you a character reference and security ratification that certainly meets the standards of the Espionage Constables. Your childhood medician, Glin Torumasen, is also a close friend of mine; he once falsified a medical record to protect my life. He also testified to your character and loyalty."
"Loyalty?" Martyne laughed. "I was born in the Central Confederation, and lived there for my first decade and a half. I then spent five years in a monastery in the Kalgoorlie Empire. I have now been within the borders of the Rochestrian Commonwealth for all of two days and you expect me to be a loyal citizen and work for your most secret espionage service! Forgive me if I find this a little strange."
"You were brought up in the Christian Church of Supreme Knowledge, Martyne. Tell me about it."
"What is there to say? Prayers every Sunday morning for tolerance, wisdom, and understanding within the world, projects in the natural sciences every month, some field of study to pursue for the greater glory of God and the betterment of my fellow man, then five years of learning to inflict everything between excruciating but harmless pain and instant death upon my fellow man—also for the greater glory of God. Except for Balesha, the CCSK is a caring and tolerant religion. It generally does not meddle in the bedroom practices of its members, which is a fairly good guide to tolerance."
"And that probably contributes to its large membership," said Dramoren. "Did you know that out of every twenty members of the
Dragon Librarian Service, five are agnostics or athiests, eleven are CCSK, and the rest are Gentheist, Islamic, and other faiths? What does this tell you?"
"That the Dragon Librarian Service has very close ties to one of the few constants in my
life," replied Martyne, now nodding as he comprehended.
"Now how do you treat my proposal?"
"I still do not do assassinations on demand."
"Nobody in the Espionage Constables does that. All such assignments are voluntary."
Martyne locked stares with Dramoren again.
"It does not take any stupendous feat of deductive logic to show that I have no real choice here. I now know too much to go free, should I reject your offer."
"How so? I offered you a place in the Espionage Constables, in my capacity as their head's supervisor. Everything except my offer to you is public knowledge." The Highliber leaned forward over the table, his hands clasped. "Only truly free people can be expected to be truly loyal, Fras Camderine. What do you say?"
Martyne sighed quietly. This was almost like what little he could remember of being seduced by Frelle Disore: he was really not happy about it, but what could he do?
"I do believe you have a recruit, Fras Highliber."
Immensely relieved, Dramoren called in one of his staff to induct Martyne as both a Dragon Librarian and member of the Espionage Constables. When they were alone again the Highliber ran his finger over the felt on the table, leaving a faint impression. Martyne saw that he was drawing a picture.
"Can you tell me what that is?" he asked.
"It looks like a large fruit bat, the kind known as a flying fox."
"A fox that can fly, Fras Camderine. It stands for something that is of great concern to me, and also to you. Let me tell you all about it."
The rest of their meeting took two hours, and at the end of it Martyne returned to his room with two scrolls, a small drawstring purse of silver, several memorized code words and names, and a lot of astonishing revelations. His life suddenly had direction, even
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