"Trying to tell myself that it is real, Fras."
"Oh, it is real enough as a wreck and as memories, but my queen
of the dark and cold skies has been dead for many weeks now." He reached out to caress the propeller as well. "Good-bye, Your Highness. I did enjoy serving you."
They rode back the way that they had come, in no particular hurry. Because so many folk visited the monster aircraft's remains, none of the locals paid them any attention.
"I have been back to the wreck twice," confessed Terian as they rode. "The first time was by myself, the second was with the two crew. This will be the last time, I shall not return again. You, young Fras, are the first of us Airfoxes who has neither flown in nor even seen a sunwing, so I thought it important that you see and understand just what we are struggling to replace."
They had ridden out from Rochester and spent the night at Ky-neton, then continued on to the wreck just after dawn. For the whole of the previous day Terian had kept his young recruit talking about himself, but now it was time to take him into the Airfox family. A low, bare hill commanded a good view of the sunwing's entire length, and they stopped at the summit, just as they had stopped as they had arrived. Other excursionists were arriving from Kyneton now, laughing and cracking jokes about bird people who could not fly. The pair quickly rode on down the other side of the hill, and back into solitude.
"The Titan and her sisters did their work well over the years," said Terian as they turned down the road leading to Rochester. "Twenty thousand aviads, Avianese citizens of Avian, now live on Tasmania Island. There are few adults left on the mainland, apart from agents like us."
"Yet aviad children are continually being born to human parents," Shadowmouse pointed out.
"Yes, but we have tracked down the main bloodlines and know most of those who are predisposed to occasional aviad children. Four out of five are smuggled away before the mobs come for them in the areas outside the Commonwealth. We feign their deaths and move them to oblivion on Tasmania Island. Even within the Commonwealth, under its new laws of aviad tolerance, we still move with stealth. Laws can be changed."
"With the sunwings destroyed, what can be done?" asked Sha-dowmouse. "Is the mayorate of Avian on Tasmania Island cut off forever?"
"Avian has other flying machines."
The revelation stunned Shadowmouse. To him the most advanced nonancient vehicle possible was a rail cart powered by one of the forbidden steam engines. To be able to build flying machines was almost beyond what he could comprehend. Visions of Avianese flying machines a half mile across glided through his mind.
"While we still had the giant sunwings we traveled the world, exploring other continents from the air," explained Terian. "In most places we found just wilderness, or at best feudal, subsistence communities of humans. On the North American continent it was different. Most of their civilizations were not as advanced as ours, but Mounthaven actually had small flying machines driven by compression engines. They were called sailwings, regals, and gunwings, they were tiny and underpowered, and only ten yards across. The biggest of them could carry no more than five or six people and could not fly very far. Still, we managed to, ah, obtain a few and tow them halfway around the world with our sunwings for our artisans and engineers to study."
Shadowmouse hung his head. The glorious dream of Avianese aircraft the size of small cities had crashed to earth, and all that they had left were unreliable toys.
"Can these American wings reach from Tasmania Island to the continent?" he asked.
"They can do that, and already some fifteen aviad children and babies have been flown from secret wingfields in the south to safety in Avian. There is hope, there is always hope. Only just before we left to come here I was given word that the first locally built wing has flown successfully. It is called a kitewing and is just a large box kite with wheels and a compression engine. Still, our people made everything from the airframe to the compression engine, so those skills can never be lost now."
"Will I be flying?"
The question was inevitable, as was the answer.
"No. Your work will be escorting aviad children to the hidden wingfields. The older girls will wear oranges down their robes and paint on their faces, and will carry babies supposedly their own. The boys will travel as your brothers or sons, and you will always go in small groups. Make no mistake, the work is as dangerous as flying, if not more so. Aviads are almost universally hated, and the flying machines are powered by compression engines that are just as reviled as steam engines by the religious authorities. The previous Shadow-mouse was shot in an ambush, but she managed to kill the three bounty hunters and get her children to safety before dying of her wounds. A tragic loss; she had only been with us two weeks. Children are our hope and our future, yet there is no part of us which is so vulnerable or frail as them. We Airfoxes are the most dangerous warriors on the continent, because we are always fighting for our children. You have a camo name because you cannot afford to be touched or to feel while on duty. Can you live up to this standard, Shadowmouse, or shall I pass the name on to someone else?"
"All my life I have been isolated, Fras, lashing out at humans but never fighting back. Now you show me that I have another family. Do you really expect me to walk away when I can fight beside you?"
It took most of the day to ride the forty miles back to Rochester, and the sun was down by the time they reached the outlying area of the city. One of the virtues of traveling by horse is that it is very hard to have one's conversations overheard by anyone hiding nearby, and by the time Shadowmouse climbed into his bed his mind was filled with names, dates, times, code words, safe-house addresses, and contacts. Nothing marked him as an Airfox agent, although he now carried new border papers that declared him to be a young married Gentheist of twenty, with an unspecified number of wives and babies.
Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
lor one who has always led a blameless life there is nothing quite so daunting as having to approach criminal circles. Rangen entered the Filthy Swine in his Skew persona, trying to disguise his nervousness as suave caution. He sat down to one side of the hearth, ordered ale, then rubbed his raw-skinned hands before the flames. The jarmaid returned with his tankard of ale.
"Ah, yer pardon, Frelle, but I were wonderin' where cheap par-aline tickets could be found hereabouts."
"Cheap anything's available if you know where to ask," she replied. "Are your passengers illegal, or just short of silver?"
"They be folk who need cheap travel and no questions. It's their luggage, ye know."
"I could arrange introductions, Fras? . . ."
"Skew. Fras Skew."
"And my name is Mica. In ten minutes, bide ten minutes."
"Ach, ye be too kind, Frelle," he said, pressing ten coppers into her hand.
True to her word, Julica had a contact for Rangen within ten minutes. The man was also vending false papers, and specialized in moving those in dispute with the law to regional centers, or even to Woomera or the Central Confederation. His price was fair, if not actually cheap.
"Gotta finance risk, you see," Fras Garmal explained when Rangen questioned the price. "High-risk venture."
"Got three souls, they've a wish to see Rutherglen next week. Can ye get them papers and tickets?"
"Aye. Do they wish to fill in their names themselves?"
"That they do."
"Then be here tomorrow, at this hour."
Rangen limped from the tavern glowing with triumph. Already he had five of his fellow students hiding in the laundaric, and the logistics of keeping them fed was proving to be a strain. He had hit on the idea of an invisible paraline one evening when the bickering
of his confined refugee friends had stretched his patience to the frontiers of reasonable limits.
"I say, any secrets to tell me?" asked Rhyn as Rangen returned.
"Were I to do so, they would cease to be secrets," said Rangen, stretching his legs.
"Oh, please. Thin
gs are such a bore in the laundaric. The liveliest thing that happened all last week was finding a condom in the University Constable's coat pocket."
"Very well, then. The good news is that our guests are soon to leave."
"What? Already? I've told them no more than a tenth of my favorite jokes and stories."
"Ah, then that's a bonus."
IVIartyne stared across the tavern crowd, looking for one of his contacts. Because he was concentrating on the door, he was among the first to see the girl enter. She was a little taller than average, wearing a rain cape, and she looked a little like Velesti. Her hair was dripping from the storm outside—she was Velesti. Martyne hurried across the floor and stopped before her, but she pushed past him with no more than a flicker of recognition from her eyes. He stared after her, rubbing the back of his head. It was definitely Velesti, but what was she doing in a lowlife tavern where sensible women never ventured and even the harlots only entered in pairs? She continued on toward a group of young officers.
"Lieutenants Vensig and Grammain?" she demanded.
A youth in the early stages of growing a beard, and a tall, rugged-looking man with a goose feather in his hat turned, both grasping for their weapons. Velesti's gunshot boomed like a thunderclap in the confined space, and Grammain's left eye splashed bloody. Velesti's second barrel misfired. Vensig's flintlock came free, but Velesti batted it aside with her own gun. Martyne's shot hit Vensig just in front of the right ear a moment before Velesti's knife slashed across his throat.
By now bedlam was fully established. Some drinkers dived un-
der tables or through windows, while a group of officers scrabbled for their weapons. Three knives flew in rapid succession, and three officers fell. A fourth managed to get his gun clear but as he brought his arm around, Velesti stepped into it, thrust her hip into his stomach, and slammed him to the ground as his gun discharged. Martyne saw him lying on the floor, stunned by the fall.
Now people were firing at each other in a blind panic in much the same way as had happened at the Griffith barracks, and the air was rapidly clouding with gunsmoke. Martyne ran forward and seized Velesti in an armlock, then rushed her out through the door and into the rain. After a few steps she tripped him and twisted out of his grip, but even as he rolled to the cobblestones he lashed out at the glint of a descending blade, sent her dagger spinning into the darkness, then bounced to his feet again and squared off with the shape in the gloom before him.
"Daft birdbrain, it's me, Martyne" he snapped as the rain hissed around them.
"Martyne?" replied Velesti uncertainly.
"Elsile's brother! Your best friend's brother^
"Elsile? My friend?"
"Hurry, we can't stay here," he said, holding his hand out to her.
Velesti would not allow herself to be supported, even though she displayed a distinct limp. Together they slunk away into the rain.
I hey entered Martyne's lodgings through the back entrance, and he pushed Velesti into his room before dashing out with one of his shirts and wiping her blood from the passageway floor. He returned to find that she had removed her rain cloak, boots, and trousers, and was squeezing what appeared to be a long but shallow wound in her right calf. Martyne closed the door and dropped his shirt under her leg, from which blood was oozing through her fingers.
For a moment the room reeled before his eyes, then he was a Balesha monk again. He took out another shirt and ripped it into four strips, then poured whiskey from a jar onto one of the strips.
"Clean it," he ordered.
Velesti reached up for both the jar and strip of shirt with bloodied hands, then poured most of the spirits onto her leg and clamped the cloth over it. She did not even wince, thought Martyne. This was definitely not the Velesti that he had once known.
"I'm going to sew the wound up," he said slowly.
"No. Give me the needle."
Velesti began to sew. To Martyne it seemed nauseating, slippery, traumatizing work, but the five-inch gash was soon closed. Velesti bound it with strips of shirt while Martyne sat back on the floor taking slow, deep breaths. Except for the blood and bandages, her legs were as white as milk and almost hairless. Martyne had limited experience with naked, female legs, but even he thought it unusual that these particular legs had such pronounced muscular definition.
"You are Martyne," Velesti said. "You came to dinner."
"They said you lost your memory," panted Martyne.
"True."
Around Velesti was a bloody circle of torn shirts, spilled whiskey, a field medician's kit, and a pair of trousers with a burn mark and hole. Martyne crawled across the room, tipped some wood shavings into the grate, and struck a spark to them from his tinderbox. Presently he had a fire going, into which he fed the remains of his shirts after he had wiped the floor with the cleaner pieces.
Without a word Velesti put her trousers back on. Martyne had noticed that she was wearing a Libris uniform and the colors of a Dragon Blue, but he was largely beyond surprise.
"You shot Vensig before I cut his throat," said Velesti. "I should kill you for that."
"Try," said Martyne, who was by now disinclined to tolerate nonsense of any kind from anyone.
Velesti regarded him steadily. Martyne stared back.
"So much as think about reaching for that knife and you will be wearing a fang-star between your eyes, Velesti. Think about it. You are good, but only weeks out of a long stay in bed. I have just escaped five years of Balesha training. As you just may have noticed from our little altercation outside the tavern, I am a lot faster than you."
Velesti's sharp, alert gaze softened into a sullen glare. Like it or not, Martyne was right.
"Why did you shoot him?" she asked, a tiny suggestion of resentment creeping into her voice. "My blade was already moving, his throat was wide open—oh, I cannot talk about it."
"Your gun misfired, he had his own gun out. How was I to know that you could fight like that? Three weeks ago you were lying comatose in your bed. According to your parents and Julica, you had all the martial prowess of a cabbage. Now, I. . ." Martyne's eyes narrowed. "I suppose that it was you who destroyed dormitory A2 in the Griffith Barracks and killed eighteen musketeers?"
"Most of them just got in the way. I meant to kill only nine."
"Those who raped you and killed Elsile?"
"Yes."
"You killed all those innocent bystanders as well!"
"Innocent?" asked Velesti with surprise in her voice. "Think of the Bridge and the Thousand dilemma."
"It is a theological exercise in morality. You are guarding a bridge against a thousand warriors. You are also guarding one child, and you are a better fighter than any of the enemy. You kill them as they come at you one by one. They keep coming. Do you kill a thousand men, good and bad, brothers, fathers, sons and lovers, just to guard one child?"
"I did."
"It is a flawed, simplistic question, Velesti! The child may be a prince that you have captured, and who can be ransomed to stop a war."
"Every musketeer and officer in the Griffith Barracks was questioned about the attack on me. All three hundred. Every one of them swore that nobody had left the barracks on that night, except for the one caught red-handed. I kept killing until those who attacked me were all dead. Then I stopped. The others had been shielding rapists and murderers with their lies. Knowingly. Explain to me now why they were innocent bystanders."
Martyne ran his fingers through his hair. Morally he was in a difficult position. He had intended to kill all her attackers as well,
but had also intended to take bit more care with those who blundered into the crossfire.
"But—but when I left for Balesha you could not even stand to squash a snail. You ate only vegetables, fruit, and nuts, and even then you mourned that the nuts would not grow up to become trees. Now you can shoot and fight, and, and you complain when I rob you of a victim!"
"Is this bad?" asked Velesti.
"Well.
.. it is a little surprising. I mean, I like a girl who can defend herself. It shows independence and spirit, but really!"
"Really?"
"Really! I would be surprised if less than a dozen innocent drinkers have not been carried from the Filthy Swine feet first tonight, for a free night's accommodation at the morgue."
"If they were in that place then they deserved to die."
"/ was drinking in that place."
"Then you deserved to die."
"I rescued you from the crossfire, and at great personal risk. Do I deserve to die for that?"
"No," conceded Velesti, then she stood up and limped over to the window. "The rain has stopped, I must get back to Libris."
"People are going to notice that limp," said Martyne. "Best to lean on me."
"I do not touch men."
"Except when you're killing them. Look, someone may have noticed that you were wounded, so the constable's runners will be looking for anyone limping tonight."
"So I'll kill them."
"No!"
"Then what do you suggest?"
"That I walk you back to Libris while you lean on my arm."
"But I do not want to touch you."
"Velesti! This is me, Martyne! Remember? We grew up together. Now I am trying to help. / don't like touching my own backside either, but I do it every time I sit down on the privy."
Hawaii
Iwelve days after Airlord Samondel had disappeared, the Yarron Star descended with another load of fuel and Airlord Sartov. Venture Australica would continue, but from now on it would be managed by Yarron's airlord himself. Realistic goals would be the rule now, not suicidal bravery.
"Note, all of you, that as soon as Airlord Samondel departed from her own principles of caution she lost her life," Sartov told the gangers, farmers, artisans and their wives who were crowded around the nosewheel of the Yarron Star where he was standing. "The next phase will be . . ."
His voice trailed off. Nobody was looking at him. Instead they were staring out to sea, where a sailwing was approaching in silence.
"Ghost," said someone, and nobody else dared say more.
The apparition was gliding low over the waves and slowly losing height. It was the Dove, and it was trying to make for the beach. It began to skim the wavetops, and in the last few feet before the beach it suddenly dug into the water, tumbled, and collapsed. Spray flew high into the air, and the assembled human population of Hawaii rushed down to the beach of black sand to where a figure with long, matted red hair was crawling out of the water.
Eyes of the Calculor Page 19
