Dramoren stood watching the dials showing ground speed, wind speed, wind direction, rail inclination, absolute drag, and forward thrust. Every so often the captain would adjust a wheel, dial, or lever.
"We are tethering," explained the captain, noticing that Dramoren was taking an interest in operations.
"Tethering?" echoed Dramoren.
"Stealing a small forward vector from the slipstream of the galley engine in front."
"Ah, clever. Is it an old technique?"
"Goes back a ways centuries."
"Your Great Western people are sharp on ways to boost efficiency."
" 'Twas as Brunei taught."
"Ah yes, the pre-Greatwinter engineer that you worship."
"Not worship, Highliber. He was just the greatest of engineers, and we follow his way."
"I read that he built steam trains and steam ships."
"The world was different then."
"The Gentheists of Prophet Jemli have declared him an abomination."
"That they did."
"How did you react?"
"I moved from Kalgoorlie to Rochester and converted to Christianity."
That gave Dramoren pause for thought. The captain checked the rearview mirror, then began working the semaphore lever to signal the galley engine in front.
"We'll be docking in a few minutes," he announced. "You can cross to the galley engine through the forward hatch."
"Thank you. Tell me, how is the Prophet regarded on the paraline network?"
"We seniors say she treats us like a privy. She has to use us, but we're given no honor."
"So she is not in favor on the paralines?"
"She's in high favor by those toadies she's promoted, but all experienced and dedicated Great Western workers have been driven out. Most moved to the Commonwealth, like me. I'm lucky, I have a train. There's former captains who are tending gearboxes, or even pushing pedals in the galleys. Steady yourself now, we're about to dock."
There was a lurch and heavy boom as the engines coupled.
"Tell me, is the captain of the galley engine ahead also Great Western?" asked Dramoren.
"Oh, aye, and a fine, steady woman."
"A woman? As captain of a galley engine?"
"Aye, there's three of them, the first in history. The Great Western Paraline Authority is very progressive."
Dramoren was thoughtful as he transferred to the galley engine,
followed by his medician, staff, and guards. A minute later the engines decoupled and the low, streamlined galley engine pulled away from the wind train, driven by the powerful legs of its team of human pedalers.
Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
Uramoren surprised the galley engine captain by ordering a stop at the maintenance yards in the artisan area of Rochester. It was evening, but the dismissal bell had not yet rung. There were both wind and galley engines under repair, and others being built. Windmills drove the lathes and forge hammers in the workshops, while smoke from wood-fired forges poured into the coloring sky. Dramoren made for the administration building, but word of his arrival had rushed ahead of him and the yard foreman met him at the base of the signal tower.
"Highliber, we had no warning of your visit—"
"I thought to make this visit only moments ago, Fras Foreman," said Dramoren, waving him silent with his good arm.
"Is there anything you'd like to see in particular? The drafting house library, the archive, the school for apprentices?"
"The yards and workshops themselves, Fras, and I want to meet as many Great Western refugees as can be mustered."
The dismissal bell rang, but everyone was too curious and excited to leave. Dramoren was no engineer or artisan, but he was certainly an experienced scholar. Many times he had managed to pass examinations on the strength of a day's study done after a term of stolen wine, drunken singing in the monastery walnut groves, nocturnal card sessions betting for raisins, and an incident with a female wine buyer that earned him twenty strokes of the abbot's cane and a month of cold baths. Thus the Highliber was skilled at becoming an instant expert. After broaching the subject of the Gen-theists and the Great Western Paraline Authority with Captain Tarv-eran, he had been subjected to seventeen hours of her opinions on
Gentheist persecution, Great Western standards, Brunei, battles involving the Authority, and the evils of any paraline gauge other than seven feet and a quarter of an inch. In the Great Western circles there were two classes of people: the initiates and everyone else. Dramoren now knew enough to impress the initiates, and that effectively made him one also.
The foreman, the artisans, the apprentices, everyone who spoke to Dramoren was astounded by his knowledge, perception, and common sense. Many were refugees from Gentheist persecution, and they poured out their stories to him. At last Dramoren turned back to his galley engine, escorted by the foreman.
"There are long stretches of paraline in the former Calldeath lands, built by the aviads," said Dramoren as they walked over the rails. "The Overmayor has been thinking of enhancing and expanding them."
"They're piddling, three-foot-gauge thing; nowt can be done there," said the foreman bluntly.
"Well, indeed. But I have noted that there are many Great Western Paraline folk in the Commonwealth. I thought we might use their skills to do things properly in the new territories. They would be given a free hand, but apart from upkeep the payment could only be in land grants."
The foreman had already realized that a very senior member of the government was seriously sympathetic.
"Our people want only to build and maintain good paraline systems," he replied. "Given a free hand and resources, we'll build you the finest paralines in the world."
"Mind, I only want Great Western people," insisted Dramoren. "No riff-raff who have to be trained, or who would rather follow Prophet Jemli than Brunei's way."
"Ah, there's thousands of us, Highliber, we can spread the news and recruit the very best folk all the way to Kalgoorlie and beyond—"
"Discreetly, if you please. We must not risk persecution."
"The Authority has ways, Highliber. We look after our own."
Dramoren boarded his galley engine, which then slowly rumbled
between ranks of cheering Great Western Paraline workers, artisans, gangers, navvies, and engineers. Soon they were among the cottages and apartments of the outer city, gliding through the smoke and cooking smells of thousands of hearths and stew pots. Then they rolled out into the clear air over the lake as they crossed the bridge to the inner city. The Overmayor was waiting at the terminus as the galley engine came to a stop. Dramoren stepped onto the platform, the white cloth of his sling standing out against his jacket and long coat.
"You could have sent an envoy," Lengina said as they set off down the platform.
"I carry more authority than an envoy. That which I had to present required authority."
"But it was just an invitation, it could have been sent over the beamflash. You were shot, you might have been killed."
"Ah, but I am alive. How has the news been taken here?"
"With outrage. The Dragon Librarian Service is held in high regard in the Commonwealth, it—and you—hold the Commonwealth together more surely than I do. That you should be shot while under diplomatic immunity is barbarism."
"Well, then, I obviously had more impact than an envoy, Over-mayor."
The road to the palace was lined with even more cheering people than had been there to welcome him at Peterborough. Many had never before set eyes on the Highliber, but now he was highly popular, and known to be a hero.
IMot among the onlookers for the Highliber's return from the west were Marelle Glasken and Velesti Disore. Marelle's tavern was open for the night, but the floor wardens were keeping the patrons away from one particular table. Marelle sat at the table alone, sipping at a drink and tapping her foot impatiently. A woman appeared at the door and made to enter. The guard at the door stepped across her path. Ther
e was a brief scuffle and a shriek of pain. The guard
dropped to the floor. Velesti stepped over him, surveyed the interior, and made for Marelle's table.
"The night's compliments, Frelle Glasken; and your father sends his compliments," she said with a shallow bow.
"The night's compliments, Frelle Disore. Will you not have a seat?"
Velesti sat down.
"A drink?" asked Marelle.
"Actually, no."
The two women assessed each other across the table, Marelle with a generous cleavage on display and Velesti with her jacket and blouse both buttoned up to the throat.
"So, you say you knew my father," said Marelle.
"You were five years old when he caught you posing nude while Gerric Binkstym painted your portrait. He was six."
Marelle's mouth opened, and stayed open.
"When you were fifteen he surprised you with the Mayor of Cambala's son in the north tower's spare bedroom."
"But he had gone there with the Mayor of Cambala's wife."
"He thought fifteen was too young—" began Velesti.
"He was just fourteen when he first did it. John Glasken was a buffoon. Just what were you to him, that he told you so much?"
"We were on a long journey. He needed to learn my language, so we talked a lot as I taught him words."
"Including words of seduction?"
"Frelle, I could no more tolerate a man's embrace than Fras Glasken could have."
"Could have. So he is definitely dead?"
"Yes."
Marelle raised her glass and drank a toast to her dead father. Velesti sat motionless.
"He killed Warran," she added.
"My half brother is no loss. He was a monster."
"Fras Glasken said to seek out you and your mother, Varsellia, to tell you about many enchanting things he has seen."
"Doubtless all of them naked women."
"Oh no, they were snow-smothered peaks as far as the eye could see, canyons big enough to swallow cities, valleys carpeted in wild-flowers, and strange civilizations."
Marelle shook her head. "He'd have traded it all for one drunken revel, followed by a night spent bundling into some wench."
"You forget that he mellowed. After all, he married, became a successful merchant, and was even Mayor of Kalgoorlie for a time."
"During which he established the Kalgoorlie Beer Festival, featuring such events as the stolen keg in the wheelbarrow gymkhana, vomiting contests, team drinking races, and tag mud wrestling for drunks—both in pairs and mixed doubles."
"Well, yes, he never let himself outgrow a little revelry with his mates."
"Unlike the long-suffering women associated therewith," added Marelle coldly. "Ah, but you are a woman, Frelle Velesti, he would not have told you of all that."
"Your words ... do sour my memory of him," Velesti admitted reluctantly.
"If I asked you to name the ten most enjoyable moments of John Glasken's life—from what you now know of it—how many of them would involve getting a leg over some willing wench?"
"Then what are your best moments, if you are so superior to him?"
"Seeing my stepmother, Jemli, lose power as mayor, leaving home, establishing this tavern, being serenaded by a prince. All come before my most enjoyable night in bed with anyone. I treat sex the same as I do a bowl of whipped coffee cream and apricot liqueur sprinkled with chocolate chips. I hog it down when it is put within my reach, but I do not live for it." Marelle looked down at the table and shook her head. "Still, Papa was brave, loyal, generous, a good father to all his children, and—except for quite a few affairs—honest. That's why I love him still, and that's why he is still mourned by dozens today, if not hundreds."
Velesti's eyes had been flickering around as Marelle spoke, and now she fixed on someone. Marelle noticed that a young man wear-
ing an edutor's cloak had entered the tavern. Velesti stood up and bowed to Marelle.
"I must go," the librarian said brusquely. "Glasken's compliments to you—and mine."
"As you will."
Without another word Velesti strode away, straight to where the young man sat at a table beside a window facing over the street. She said something. He looked up but did not reply. She spoke again. He took out a letter and waved it at her. Velesti held out her hand for it. He shook his head, put the letter back in his jacket and folded his arms very tightly. She tapped the table several times with her finger. He shook his head. She strode out without another word.
"May I get you another drink, Mistress?" another jarmaid asked Marelle.
Marelle inclined her head to the lone man seated by the window. He was by now cradling a glass flute of some golden drink in his hands and staring into space.
"What do you think of him, Nereli?"
"Looks lonely," replied the jarmaid.
"Fetch me a spiced wine," said Marelle as she stood up.
Marelle minced over to the youth's table, stopping before him with much of her left thigh showing through her split robe and with her arms folded.
"The evening's compliments, Fras Edutor," she said in a husky voice.
He looked up slowly. "Evening's compliments, Frelle Mistress."
"Something seems to weigh heavily upon you. Would you like another drink?"
"What I have is enough, but I shall buy another if you let me sit here."
"The drink was to be provided by the house."
"Ah, thank you. That was generous."
"I own the house."
"Oh."
"May I sit down?"
"It is your house, Frelle Mistress."
"I am Marelle."
"And I am Martyne."
Marelle was given her spiced wine, and she sat opposite Martyne.
"I realize that I'm intruding," she began.
"You are."
"But if you had not wanted company, you could have bought a jar at the market and brooded somewhere more private."
The observation caught Martyne by surprise. He had not realized that he tended to drink alone but in public.
"I have a lot of unwelcome thoughts, Frelle," he admitted. "Perhaps you do provide a distraction from them."
"Ah. So should you not share them with me, and ease your burden?"
"No."
"What burdens can an edutor have? Have you rendered some student pregnant?"
"No." Martyne laughed.
"Then tell me who you are."
"I am an edutor in theology at the University. Before that I was a monk for five years. I am nineteen years old, and not a virgin."
Marelle considered. "That all raises more questions that I can begin to ask. So you were a monk. Were you caught with some girl and ejected from the order?"
"Not quite. I renounced my vocation to avenge my sister, who had been most brutally raped and murdered. Then I discovered that fourteen of her tormentors had been killed. It was sheer chance that reserved just one for me to exterminate."
Marelle tried to weather the intense onslaught of misery with composure.
"Do you share a bed with a Dragon Librarian named Velesti?"
Martyne laughed. "Velesti? Even a flea would not dare to share a bed with Velesti. No, I just teach her some fighting arts and try to keep her out of trouble. She tours the taverns, hoping for men to grope at her breasts or bottom so that she can maim them hideously. Last week one of her victims died from her attentions, I had to testify to the magistrate on her behalf. Being an ex-monk, my word is re-
spected. I felt like saying that unlike the five or six dozen others that she has killed, the latest slaying had in fact been an accident. Anyway, she was let off with a caution."
"Who does keep intimate company with you?" "Nobody. Mine is a strange, twisted, but interesting existence." Marelle began to laugh, but not loudly. Martyne shrugged, and took a delicate sip at his drink.
"Look about the room, Fras Martyne," she said. "What sorts of men do you see?"
"Prosperous men, hap
py men, drunk men, sullen men—" "Most are in search of amorous adventures. Most would cheerfully leap through hoops of fire to be sitting in your chair, speaking with me."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize," Martyne began, standing up. "Sit down!" Marelle snapped, slapping her palm down on the table. Martyne slowly lowered himself to his seat again. "Fras Martyne, you are meant to be the hunter and I the hare, that is the way of things. This reversal business does not come easily to me." "Am I to understand that you wish to seduce me?" "Martyne, this is all wearing my patience a little thin—" Her voice failed her in midsentence. Martyne had seized the rim of his glass and was squeezing it between his thumb and forefinger. Small standing waves were set up on the surface of his mead, then the glass snapped. Most of the shards fell into the drink, but one fell onto the table. Martyne flicked it with his finger, and it embedded its point in the back of Marelle's chair, just below where her arm was draped. Nobody else noticed.
"Just because I am pathetic, Frelle Mistress, do not make the mistake of thinking that I am not very, very dangerous. I am enchanted by your quite delightful body, I certainly do admit that, but there is seduction in my past that has caused a great deal of grief for me. I am in no hurry to add the tribulations of yet another to my already burdened mind. Now, then, I believe that I have created a small disturbance and the sign above the serving bench says that patrons creating a disturbance will be asked to leave."
Marelle cringed back as Martyne reached over the table, but he merely plucked the silver of glass from the chair and dropped it into his drink. As he stood up he took a silver noble from his purse and placed it on the table.
"That should cover the cost of your glass, and now I must—"
"No!"
"No? How much do these new glass goblets cost, then?"
Marelle stood up too, but she hesitated to touch him.
"Martyne, I—I can't pretend not to be frightened of you."
"No need, my manners are awfully good. Now I really must be going."
"Martyne, stay with me."
"Frelle, as I have said, I have more burdens than I can manage already."
"Silly Fras, I own this tavern, I am not some wench in search of a husband to support her. I want nothing from you but company. Interesting company."
Eyes of the Calculor Page 25
