"There is an inner band, about a quarter of Mirrorsun's width," he announced as he stood before the abbot's desk. "It is rotating at just sufficient speed to maintain itself in orbit."
"There are two bands?" gasped the abbot, rising to his feet.
"Yes. I checked the actual Mirrorsun reflection itself, the reflection of the sun on the inner surface of the band. Once I knew what to look for I found it quickly: a slight, sharp line through the reflection pattern. Parallax estimates with Euroa put the bands about ten miles apart."
"This . . . is . . ." Words failed the abbot. He sat down again. "What does it mean?" he finally asked.
"I cannot say, Reverend Abbot, I am an observer, not a theoretician."
"Just as long as you are not a prophet. Bring a chair over, sit down. You must help me to compose a very creatively worded announcement."
Rochester, the Rochestrain Commonwealth
In all of her life, Samondel had never been so very close to such an enormous animal as a horse. The stables were on the edge of Lake Rochester, and a selection of docile, placid mounts were available
for riding lessons. Martyne hired two horses for the afternoon, then took Samondel firmly by the hand and led her to the stalls. He had selected two geldings and had them saddled.
"Why are so big?" she asked, trying to keep Martyne between her and the two mountains of flesh and muscle that he was leading.
"They eat lots of grass."
"Am frightened."
"That will pass once you are riding one."
"Ride? Too frightened."
"They expect to be ridden. It's their job. How else can they earn their grass, hay, and oats?"
Samondel was unsure whether or not he was being sarcastic.
"Which mine?"
"The brown one. Take this apple, introduce yourself."
Samondel stood before the horse with the apple in her hand.
"Ah, compliments of noonday, I am Samondel Leover and I—"
She shrieked. The horse had neatly removed the apple from her hand and begun munching it.
"Took apple!" wailed Samondel, hiding behind Martyne again.
"It thought you were offering it."
"Never said thank you."
"Horses can't talk."
"No? Then—Martyne! He looked at me!"
So this is the deadly warrior airlord from North America, thought Martyne. He would be having some very sarcastic things to say to Velesti after Friday's Baleshanto training.
Persuading Samondel to get into the saddle took a rather considerable time, even though the horse was tethered and munching on a pile of hay. Martyne was not entirely sure how she managed to get on backward the first time, but after another ten minutes she was in the saddle and facing forward. He led her mount around the dressage track.
"Martyne! Too fast, am frightened."
"I'm only walking."
"And too high! Might fall, want smaller horse."
He would never, never let Velesti hear the end of this, he swore
to himself. At the end of another hour Samondel's bottom was aching as she hobbled out to a limewater vendor by the front gate. They had still not left the yards, and Martyne had done no more with his own horse than pat its neck.
"Daft bird ye got there, Fras," said a stableboy, who had been observing proceedings from time to time.
"You think this is news to me?" replied Martyne.
At the end of the third hour Samondel was riding the horse around the dressage track by herself and could persuade it to start walking, but not to stop. When it did stop—to eat an apple that Martyne had dropped—Samondel tumbled right down its neck and to the ground, then was dragged three feet by the stirrup as the horse sauntered over to a second apple. To Martyne's surprise, she got straight back into the saddle. By the end of the fourth hour Martyne was riding beside her along the lakeside esplanade, and she was generally guiding the horse herself.
Only after six hours did Samondel give up and limp back over the long bridge to Inner Rochester, her hands and knees bloody, her clothes filthy with dust, and smelling little different from any stable hand.
"When returning tomorrow, no damn nonsense from any horse!" decreed the Airlord of Highland Bartolica.
"Samondel, I have to work tomorrow," said Martyne.
"No matter, know procedures now. Shall practice. Solo."
Suddenly it was the warrior of the skies speaking, after a very bad day testing a particularly awkward new prototype. In six hours she had gone from hiding behind Martyne and screaming to seriously considering the idea of riding alone.
"On Saturday we can ride to Bektyne Forest—" he began.
"Ah! Yes, and musket to hire, shoot from saddle. Must learn."
Samondel bought them rice pies at the Gaudeamus Tavern, although she was nearly ejected for violating the establishment's minimal dress and hygiene standards. For courage, determination, and raw dedication she could have given any Balesha abbot serious competition, thought Martyne. He also noticed that his mouth was dry,
his hands were trembling, and that the prospect of leaving her at the Villiers College door was filling him with genuine anguish.
"Shall not be beaten!" declared Samondel, snarling down at her tankard. "Is war. Objective: learn to canter."
Martyne looked around the room. Samondel was at the focus of a least a dozen admiring stares. The most beautiful woman on Earth has just bought me dinner, he thought.
"What is horse command, Do not shyte?" asked Samondel, who had experienced a particularly unpleasant incident involving that function late in the afternoon.
"There is none."
"Ach, bad design."
After seeing Samondel to Villiers College, Martyne started out for his own room. He was surprised, but not unduly surprised, when Velesti fell in beside him. Mothers scooped children out of her path. The occasional shadowboy turned and fled.
"How is Rochester's newest lancer progressing?" she asked.
"Amazingly well, she has the dedication of a roomful of chief librarians, the willpower of a Balesha exam candidate, and the drive of a galley engine. Six hours, torn clothes, bloody knees, yet not a complaint—and she's going back by herself tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? Look at that sunset, she might be riding in rain."
"Yes, yes, and have you noticed the way her hair glows red, just like that sky?"
"Speaking of tomorrow, how is the register analysis going on the smuggling syndicate case?"
"I'll do it tonight, have it at Libris by the tenth hour."
"No hurry, my people don't need it until the afternoon market checks."
"No, I'll do it tonight. I was thinking of helping Samondel with her riding again."
"Martyne, you are in love."
"I—what?"
"Not a pretty sight. Enough to make strong men vomit and women run screaming."
"You have done neither." "I'm trying not to look."
3ix weeks of particularly intensive language classes had given Alarak a working command of the Austaric language, but neither the navigator nor his edutors had learned a great deal. The American's aircraft had been shot down, after all, and by mere commoners. Although not of the nobility, the little American had a very strong sense of class distinction and quite definite ideas on matters of chivalric behavior. The problem was that of just how nobility was defined in Australica.
In the Mounthaven domains, librarians were just people who looked after rooms full of books and took orders from artisans and engineers—who were the right hand of the nobility. In Rochester, librarians ran the state and gave orders to artisans and engineers. Worse, the nobility did not fly or fight, they just ran their estates and lived comfortably. The more dynamic of them acted in various public positions, such as magistrates, senior academics, and inspectors of taxation. True, surplus sons tended to be sent off to the military and surplus daughters to the Dragon Librarian Service or nunneries, but Alarak did not find himself viewing these people with anythin
g like the respect that the flying wardens of America commanded.
Dramoren had ordered the prisoner moved up to one of the Libris towers, after having the windows securely barred. The American was provided with a comfortable bed, the same food as the Dragon Librarians, a selection of carefully chosen books, and clothing that would not be out of place on a reasonably prosperous merchant. His reasoning was that the man must have been a member of the nobility wherever he came from, and should be treated accordingly. After another six weeks the Highliber decided that Alarak's interrogation and education were going nowhere.
Alarak was roused by the jangling of a bell, which was more of a signal that the door was to be opened than a request to enter. The Tiger Dragon on duty drew back the bolt, and a young man with an impressive scar down his face entered. He was wearing the jacket of
the Dragon Librarian Service under a long coat, and the insignia of rank that he wore was black. Alark remained seated beside the window, and after favoring Dramoren with a glance returned his gaze to the rooftops of Rochester.
Dramoren raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Two Tiger Dragons entered, followed by an edutor.
"Has this man been instructed about the ranking and peerage conventions in Rochester?" asked Dramoren.
"Yes, Highliber."
"So he knows who I am?"
"Yes, Highliber."
"Guards, do your duty."
The Tiger Dragons holstered their long barrel flintlocks, then marched over to Alarak. One hauled the navigator to his feet and pinned his arms, then the other backhanded him across the face. This was not just a formal slap meant to signify an insult but a blow delivered with all the strength of a very strong man. Stars flashed blue before Alarak's eyes, and he would have reeled with the shock had he not been held. Being a person who liked symmetry in everything, the guard now delivered in identical blow with his other hand. Blood began to flow from Alarak's nose. The Tiger Dragon placed his face very close to the navigator's. Dramoren had given him a raw clove of garlic to munch and swallow just before they had entered.
"Do I have your complete and undivided attention you filthy, insolent little man?" the Tiger Dragon shouted in Alarak's face.
"Y-yes," replied Alarak at once.
The guard delivered another two backhands to his face.
"That's yes, Fras Tiger Dragonl"
"Yes, Fras Tiger Dragon."
"What do you do when the second most senior noble in all of the Rochestrian Commonwealth enters your presence?" shouted the guard with undiminished volume and ferocity.
"I, I, I—"
"Let me remind you! You stand! You face him!" Alarak was hauled around to face Dramoren. "You bow!" Before Alarak was
even given the option of defiance or a bow, the guard kneed him in the testicles. He doubled over. The other guard tried to haul Alarak straight again, but his feet merely came off the ground and he remained doubled over. "You say, 'The afternoon's compliments, Highliber!' "
"The afternoon's compliments, Highliber," wheezed Alarak.
The other guard released Alarak, who fell to the floor. The guard kicked him in the ribs with a resounding thud that made even Dra-moren wince.
"Now get up and greet your patron, protector, and benefactor with the deference due to his rank!"
It was not as if Alarak were lacking in courage, but the sudden, catastrophic change in treatment had shattered his determination in a way that weeks of slowly escalating torture could not have. With his chest on fire from three broken ribs, his genitals feeling as if they were being massaged in broken glass, with blood pouring down over his lips and dripping from his chin, he got to his feet, straightened a little, bowed, and greeted Dramoren exactly as the Tiger Dragon had demanded. Dramoren began to circle him.
"Now, then, Fras Alarak, for six weeks we have lavished care upon you and in return you have given us your name, rank in the navigator's guild, and artisan's serial number—not to mention quite a lot of insolence. In my experience, this is the way of particularly stupid commoners when faced with exotic, foreign manners, and nobility. Having determined that you are a commoner, I have decided to have you flung into our lowest, most squalid dungeon and to have Fras Dangerdrine here put in charge of your interrogation. You will be most savagely abused, but kept alive for a long time nevertheless. I no longer care whether you tell me anything about anything, I just want you punished for the rest of your miserable life for insulting me. Occasionally I shall come down to listen, but only when I am in a bad mood and require cheering. Take him away, then have his smell scrubbed from the tower."
Dramoren broke off for the door without another word. Alarak was by now broken, but not only in the physical sense. He suddenly realized that he had grossly insulted one of his betters, that he had
been rude to the equivalent of an airlord, and worst of all that he was being regarded as a commoner. Should Samondel learn any of the foregoing ... A hand seized his collar.
"Highliber, pardon, pardon, pardon!" babbled Alarak as he attempted to drop to his knees.
Dramoren turned in the doorway to see Alarak suspended in midair, Dangerdrine holding him by the collar.
"Well?"
"Highliber, most apologies. No excusings insult. Deserve beatings more."
"Oh, that will be done, have no fear of that."
"Ask all. If say I can."
Dramoren walked back into the room. The Tiger Dragon put Alarak down.
"Where are you from?"
"Mounthaven, glorious Council of Airlords sending."
"Mounthaven in North America, I know the place. Why are you here?"
"Wishing trade—pardon, please."
"Trade? In what?"
"Horses trading. None, are having. In America."
This took Dramoren by surprise. Horses were seen as useful in the Commonwealth, but the idea that an air-going power might value them was not at all expected.
"Good, the Rochestrian Commonwealth is founded upon trade, and we have the finest work and cavalry horses on the continent."
It was now Alarak's turn for surprise.
"Honor, honor, honor," he said to Dramoren's boots.
"Why were you so insolent to my Dragon Librarians?" demanded Dramoren.
"Monthaven, librarians nothing. Flying noble everything. Stupid am, I being. Noble librarian, mighty librarian, wise librarian. Now know. Here no flying."
Dramoren returned to the door, glanced out and snapped his fingers, then turned back.
"Plug his nose, clean him up, then march him down to the Prom-
enade Courtyard," he ordered. "Oh, and one last thing, what is your rank in your North American peerage?"
"Ah, ah," began Alarak, wondering whether or not to confer rank upon himself. His nerve failed. "Like edutor, important edutor. Not warrior. Know maps, finding stars, using for direction."
"Ah yes, I see. A respected calling, but not nobility. Just as it is here."
"Wise Highliber, very right."
It was a half hour before Alarak was clean and sufficiently straight to walk down the three hundred stairs to the Promenade Courtyard. The place was a two-hundred-yard oblong, bordered by Libris buildings, and was alive with men and women engaged in fencing, flintlock practice, and general strength and fitness training. While they were all in exercise tunics, they still wore their colors of Dragon Librarian rank. Alarak was walked the entire length of the place, to where Dramoren was waiting beside a cloth practice dummy that was being used for knife throwing targetry.
"Fras Alarak, until six weeks ago the Commonwealth had no air machines at all, apart from tethered hot air balloons," Dramoren declared as he held up his hand.
All at once the general activity in the long courtyard ceased.
"Look to that tower behind you, the tall, central one."
Alarak turned in time to see something detach from the great beamflash tower, something in the shape of a wing. It gathered speed, flying straight, then banked to circle the tower once before
approaching the square. Alarak realized that a man was suspended beneath the wing, but that it had no engine and was just gliding. It flew the length of the courtyard, losing height all the time, then at about thirty yards distance there were two gunflashes from above the flyer's head. The glider swooped over them, then the flyer's feet touched the ground and he ran along until he had lost momentum. Two holes had been drilled through the cloth targetry dummy's head.
"We may be primitive, but we learn very, very fast," said Dramoren.
"All that, six weeks?" gasped Alarak.
"Less," said Dramoren.
Alarak could see that the flyer appeared to be a monk. This was not a surprise, for Mounthaven's monastic clergy also engaged in fundamental research.
"Like centuries past, warden duelwing gliders," said Alarak, realizing that the wing was armed with just fixed flintlock pistols. "Amazing. You are learning all, just having wreck. Sailwing of?"
"Yes," replied Dramoren.
"All this, such wonder."
"Come, talk as we return to your tower," said the Highliber, and again the groups of sweating librarians parted to let them pass. "What are wings used for in Mounthaven?"
"Dueling. Noblemen—and women—only. Gunwings. Have sailwings, carry important things."
"Important things?"
"Messages, gold, treaties, greetings. Sailwings, regals, using for."
"And you came in a sailwing."
"Yes."
"Tell me, what of your antiengine movement?"
"Pardon?"
"Your antiengine movement, the Christian Gaia Crusaders. Certain of my spies have reported that they oppose all fueled engines, like our own Revivalist Gentheists."
"Pardon? Mounthaven?"
"Yes."
"Is not exist. Compression engine, holy machine. Right hand of God, defense against darkness. Engine opposition heresy! Anti-God, anti-American, antimorals, anti-airlord. Not exist."
"You do not have to lie, just refuse to answer and be civil about it."
"Is truth. Christian Gaia Crusaders not existing. Cannot existing. Heresy, treason, abomination, attacking engines, is."
Dramoren stroked his beard as he walked. "Interesting," he said. "Thank you, Fras Alarak, I'll send a medician to tend you. Your words have saved me a great deal of confusion."
Eyes of the Calculor Page 36
