"Even without language I managed to extract some sense from him," explained Lengina. "With some signs and prompting he traced a path from our continent here, across this blue area of water—"
"The Pacific Ocean."
"—to here."
"North America."
"He calls it Mounthaven, but yes, he is from America. Think upon it. The aviads can fly too, and they may have weapons such as this. If not, the Americans can soon supply them."
"Pah, why should the Americans side with a lot of admittedly clever but very poor Avianese when the wealth of Rochester could be opened up for trade?" asked Dramoren.
"Because we have just fired upon an American flying machine. The Americans and Avianese combined could wipe us out."
"But we treat our aviads well. Years ago we passed laws outlawing the killing of aviads, provided they register and then present themselves for chaining during any Call. Our laws are the most enlightened on the continent."
"Except for the aviad agents being hunted down by your Espi-
onage Constables as they try to smuggle aviad children to their feath-erfields."
"Wingfields, Your Highness. And my Espionage Constables are merely obeying your laws."
"You know I can't change them all overnight. The people need to be coaxed to tolerance. Pah, what a dilemma. If we adopt Prophet Jemli as our religious leader can we retain even the few tolerant laws that exist? Food for thought, Highliber."
"In the meantime, Your Highness, all laws must be upheld. Remember, too, that organized aviads tried to take control of the Dragon Librarian Service in the not-too-distant past. Aviads are forbidden to organize or associate with any group other than family under pain of death, and marriage and procreation between certified aviads is similarly forbidden. We are at war with aviads as a group. My own Espionage Constables are your warriors, hunting their agents within the Rochestrian Commonwealth—in your name."
"Do your Espionage Constables do anything to enforce the current laws protecting aviads when those laws are flouted by the occasional lynch mob?"
"When they are in the right place at the right time, yes. I enforce all laws, Your Highness."
"Well, I suppose that having charge over such weighty issues is why you live in Libris and I live in a palace. What are we to do about the flying American? His name is Alarak."
"I can confine him in Libris with some of our best linguists so that an exchange of languages might take place."
"Good, do it. We have some words unraveled already. He said this thing is called a reaction pistol. My finest armaments artisans have taken measurements and are even now duplicating its individual components. Given perhaps two years, we may have a working prototype."
"A thousand aviads waving these things could conquer the Commonwealth within months."
"Very true, Highliber. Perhaps Jemli the Prophet could offer up some prayers on our behalf."
IVIartyne watched as the goldsmith examined a gold bar that had been brought into the shop. It bore no stamp. In the front of the shop a man with a grubby, brownish coat, drooping hat, and lank, black hair was waiting.
"Worth eight royals," said the jeweler. 'The gold is of a somewhat more pure type than is to be found in the Rochestrian Commonwealth."
"Offer him two," said Martyne quietly. "Then let him beat you up to something more realistic."
After ten minutes of haggling, the man departed with five royals added to his purse. He was even smiling.
"Are you not going to follow him?" asked the jeweler.
"I know who he is, and I know that he will not return to the one who gave him that bar."
"He has taken quite a loss on it."
"Yet he took it easily. He may have paid as little as three royals for it."
"What do you make of that, Fras?"
"I do not intend to tell you, Fras."
I he Filthy Swine was a tavern frequented not only by militiamen and musketeers; spies and Espionage Constables were also numbered among its patrons. Martyne had many contacts who were regular drinkers there, and some patrons were wanted by the very same people who were unknowingly drinking beside them. Martyne leaned against a wall, having discreetly spilled enough of his drink on the floor to give the appearance of a genuine drinker. Another drinker strode across and clanked his tankard against Martyne's.
"Need a message, Hakara," said Martyne.
"Outward?"
"Yes."
"Text?"
"No."
Martyne slapped the man on the chest, as if to emphasise something, but slipped the little gold bar wrapped in grease paper into his pocket. Next he backhanded Hakara against the chest and laughed, as if they were sharing a joke.
"Tell the Highliber," said Martyne softly, "this is circulating, so there may be another man from the flying machine."
'The gold could have been gathered from the crash site."
"That is possible, but I want that to be proved to me."
I error squads have arrived at night since time immemorial. At night people post more guards, lock secret doors, and leave tripwires attached to bells. The University's laundaric did nearly all of its covert business by day, however. As he waited in the queue, Dellar could see that many of the patrons were paying for very small amounts of laundry with quite large quantities of silver, while others were given packages and even things that looked like weapons wrapped in cloth mixed in with their clean clothing. Two features common to all laundarics were that they were open long hours and that everyone had a good reason to visit them frequently. This laundaric was apparently using those features to cover the laundering of far more than clothing.
Skew was a ratty-looking little war veteran who looked to be in his forties, while his helper had a shaven head and was much younger. The University of Rochester's laundaric had been established in 1337 GW, for the better hygiene of the sons—and now daughters—of gentlefolk while they went about their studies without the benefit of family servants.
Dellar waited patiently in the queue, and slowly worked his way toward the desk. Skew, the small cripple, was serving at the counter. At last it was Dellar's turn.
"Just this coat," said Dellar, putting a stained promenade coat on the counter.
Rangen reached out to smooth it flat—and Dellar snapped his ratchet shackle down around his left wrist.
The little veteran bellowed in a mixture of surprise, fear, and
outrage as he tried to pull free. Chained to Skew, Dellar was dragged almost over the counter. By now the other students in the laundaric were screaming, shouting, and scattering. A crush of bodies jammed the door, but one of those from the queue was Martyne. The eunuch hurried in from the back, saw what was happening and drew a knife. Martyne cross-blocked the knife, twisted his arm around, doubled him over, and kneed him in the face. He collapsed. Dellar pointed a pistol between Skew's eyes.
"Best not to move," he advised.
Martyne presently had four other customers laid out on the floor. The rest had fled by now, but there was shouting outside. Martyne came over to Dellar.
"Good work, we had to catch this one even if all the others got away," said Martyne. "Now raise your scarf."
They pulled their scarves up to their eyes just as three militiamen entered. These began shackling those on the floor after a deferential bow to the two masked youths. Brindilsi was carried out on a stretcher, leaving Skew alone with his captors. Skew's wrist was skinned and bleeding where he had fought and struggled against the ratchet shackle.
"Only work 'ere!" protested Skew.
"You certainly do work here," agreed Martyne's fellow Espionage Constable. "It's the word 'only' that I take issue with. Lie on the floor."
Skew was stripped naked, and it very soon became apparent that he had no war injuries whatsoever. Furthermore he had the skin of a teenager—including acne. A wet cloth removed the pox scars on Rangen's face to reveal half a dozen very ordinary pimples.
"I do believe we have caught Fras Rangen D
erris," said Martyne.
"There is a twenty-royal reward for him," said Dellar.
"Lucky us," said Martyne.
"Ten royals each"
"Correct."
All through Rochester there were raids by squads of Tiger Dragons, Espionage Constables, and even the ordinary Constable's Runners. For ninety minutes on that clear, warm, windless January day,
law enforcement in the capital of the Rochestrian Commonwealth ceased altogether while the raids netted 340 unregistered numerates and dozens more sympathizers and associates. Rangen's invisible paraline had ceased to exist.
IVIartyne sat with Dramoren in the Highliber's study amid the towers and roofs of Libris, sipping coffee and munching on macadamia nut shortbread.
"Another piece of shortbread?" asked Dramoren, holding the plate out to Martyne.
"No, thank you, Fras Highliber, I have had two already."
"Are you sure? They're by mayoral appointment."
"My training partner has me on her lean-muscle-mass diet. She would be cross if she knew I had had more than one."
"Well then, more coffee?"
"Just half a mug—but no honey."
They sat back, looking out over the roofs at the clear blue sky of summer through the open leadlight windows. A warm, gentle breeze had sprung up around noon, moderating what would otherwise have been a fairly hot day.
"Well now, I can only say that I am overwhelmed by the complete and thorough perfection of your operation," declared Dramoren, raising one foot and placing the heel firmly on the list of names on his coffee table. "Most of the finest numerates known to us are now being prepared for training as components in the Calculor. Who would have thought that Rangen's invisible paraline was not to smuggle unregistered numerates out of Rochester but to disguise them and keep them in Rochester?"
"Did you hear about the fugitive numerate who said no?" asked Martyne.
"No," replied Dramoren, although he caught himself almost immediately, and laughed.
"Highliber, humor is all about looking at things laterally, and for that reason humor is the highest and finest form of human thought. Look at any problem laterally and you have generated a new idea. I
did just that with the fugitive numerates. I am doing just that with several other potential threats to our Commonwealth."
"Oh ho, so what threats are these?"
"Some that you know of, others perhaps not."
"Name one."
"A second crew member from the flying machine."
Dramoren sat up instantly. "You—" He stared at Martyne, then allowed himself a shallow smile. "How soon can you bring him in?"
"Not so fast, Highliber. I have some observations to make first. In fact it may be more constructive not to make an arrest at all. Do you catch my meaning?"
Dramoren considered this option, settling back in his chair. "The man that was captured by the city militiamen does not speak Aus-taric, although my finest linguists have been putting in fourteen-hour days with him in an attempt to exchange languages. How is conversation with your man?"
"Who said that I had spoken with anyone?"
"Martyne?"
"Yes, Highliber?"
"Damn you."
"At once, Highliber."
"More to the point, Fras, I intend to have your authority within the Espionage Constables raised."
"I do not want a promotion, Highliber. It would cause me difficulties—"
"No, it will not. As Dragon Silver you shall have access to increased human and material resources on your own authority, rather than having to petition me directly as was the case with this morning's raids. Are you sure that you do not want any monetary reward for masterminding the operation?"
"Quite sure, Highliber."
"But why? Look, I can put a few hundred royals into a secret bank tally for you."
"No, thank you."
"I have never known anyone to refuse money before."
"Perhaps you need to know that I am beyond corruption, High-
liber. I cannot be bought, I can only be trusted." Martyne stood up. "Be pleased to remember that, Highliber, especially if you hear anything strange about myself or my actions."
Dramoren now stood up. "Nobody is truly trustworthy, Martyne, and there is nobody but myself that I trust without reservation. Nevertheless, I am very curious to see what you can do for the Commonwealth. The afternoon's compliments to you."
"And to you, Highliber."
i
ACE OF THE ENEMY
Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
V elesti had been working hard to gather a big audience for the demonstration of her self-defence guild's way of fighting. Although she had only just met Frelle Corien at an orientation tutorial, she quickly convinced her to come along. When Corien suggested that her friend from Jarbrovia might be convinced to come along as well, Velesti agreed to speak with her.
"The quite notorious Mayor Glasken once stayed here," said Corien suavely, tapping a plaque beside the main doors of Villiers College.
"Ah yes, I have met him," replied Velesti casually.
Corien swallowed. "Ah, indeed? When and where?"
"An important diplomatic reception, some time ago. I was a lot younger."
Corien cast a suspicious glance at her.
"What was he like?"
"He was a big, fit man, around fifty. He had an eye for the ladies, especially ladies with substantial but shapely bottoms and breasts."
"All of that is public knowledge." Corien laughed as they made for the stairs. "What else?"
"Glasken had a pointy waxed beard, and while bowing to an important official's wife he dipped it into her cleavage. She seized
his head and pushed his face into the very same cleavage, saying 'If you like them so much take a really good look!' He was a trifle misunderstood, but a dirty old man nevertheless."
Corien put a hand to her face. That sounded very much like the man who had struck her now-elderly uncle with a bag of stolen coins three decades ago. More than anything else, the words "dirty old man" convinced Corien that at least something of what Velesti had said was true. Most tales of the legendary Mayor of Kalgoorlie painted him as a great and romantic adventurer, but thanks to her uncle, Glasken was known as nothing more than a tasteless lecher in the Meziar family. Velesti's Glasken definitely sounded more like the Glasken of reality.
They walked down the residency wing's upper corridor. Corien rapped at Samondel's door.
"Waiting, please," called a voice from inside, then the latch clacked and the door was pulled open.
Samondel stood before them wearing a long promenade jacket over a calf-length skirt, with lace-up sandals on her feet. Her hands were demurely clasped before her, and her hair had been braided into a single plait that hung over her right shoulder and reached down to her knees. Her violet eyes were huge and winsome in the dim light.
Velesti gave a gasp of astonishment and scrambled behind Corien. Corien cast a puzzled glance back at Velesti, then looked back to the equally puzzled Samondel.
"Frelle Samondel, the afternoon's compliments," said Corien. "May I introduce Frelle Velesti Disore?"
"Frelle Disore, afternoon's compliments," said Samondel cautiously.
Corien stepped to one side and drew Velesti forward by the arm.
"Frelle Velesti is in our applied theology tutorial group. She is in the Dragon Librarian Service, and has just enrolled at the university to further her career. She ... is also a little timid around strangers."
Corien was not sure whether that had been the cause of Velesti's reaction, but it did seem like a diplomatic thing to say.
"Er, greetings—and the afternoon's compliments!" said Velesti, slowly regaining her composure.
"Our first Applied Theology tutorial is at four p.m.," said Corien.
"Time, I have remembered," said Samondel. "Now is not time, also."
"Ah, but Frelle Velesti has a demonstration for a new guild she is establishing. It is o
n the cloister lawns, very soon."
"Ah, religious readings?" asked Samondel.
"Well, no. This guild is to help female students, ah—"
"To improve their confidence," interjected Velesti.
Samondel reached out and took Velesti by the hand.
"Is wonderful and worthy, Frelle. Believe in confidence, girls, having plenty."
"I'm sure you do," responded Velesti.
"Without confidence, long journey here, is impossible. Alone, I have traveled."
"I have no doubt of it," said Velesti.
"Shall come along, friendly faces in crowd, for you. Corien and I. Yes?"
"Look, this type of confidence development may come as something of a shock," warned Velesti.
"Oh, but learning, my purpose, here is."
The main cloisters of the university were three sides of a square, but with a curved stone amphitheater for the fourth side. There were thirty or so girls and a scattering of male students on the stone steps and as many again watching from the covered cloisters. Velesti watched as Samondel and Corien took seats near the front of the amphitheater. Martyne arrived just as they were seated.
"Time to start, Fras, are you ready?" said Velesti.
"Yes, Frelle. What about you? You look a trifle nervous."
Velesti had a great number of things on her mind, and was uncharacteristically ill at ease.
"Martyne, do you think they will laugh at me?" she whispered behind her hand.
"Laugh? Why?"
"Well, I feel so foolish, like, being a girl. . ." Her voice faded.
"Why is today different?"
"There are some very pretty girls watching, and some youths as well. I look, well, different. They might laugh."
"Gasp yes, laugh no," said Martyne. "Nevertheless, if any youth does laugh I shall haul him out here to demonstrate a few of the more painful armlocks. Come on, brave and deadly Frelle, let us start your guild."
They walked out onto the lawn, and the students began applauding. They both bowed to those on the amphitheater seats. Samondel and Corien clapped enthusiastically, then sat forward and gave Ve-lesti both their full attention and wide smiles.
"I am Frelle Velesti Disore, Dragon Blue Librarian, and student of this university. Some time ago I was most brutally attacked in my home city, and as a result I have been taught certain arts to prevent this ever happening again. I now wish to teach other women and girls, such as yourselves, to use these arts so as to walk the streets and roads of this commonwealth without fear. This man is Fras Martyne Camderine, an edutor in theology in this university. Without further talk, I propose to demonstrate some techniques to you. Sen-sei, shall we begain?"
Eyes of the Calculor Page 30
