"Excusings? Is all, you are wanting?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. But is there any question you want to ask me?"
Alarak thought carefully. This noble was being gracious, but possibly this was some test. Would he prove something by asking a stupid question? Would he betray Samondel, about whom they appeared to suspect nothing?
"Shooting down of me: why?"
"Fras Alarak, had I appeared on horseback in a Mounthaven city, riding for the, ah, airlord's palace as fast as I could, would not the palace guards have opened fire upon me?"
Alarak nodded. "Ah. Explains all."
As the door closed behind Alarak he felt curiously secure. Although he had been subjected to quite a brutal beating, he had established his place in Rochestrian society and at least achieved a meeting with someone very senior. He realized that while they did not have much flight artisanry, they were a very advanced and skilled people. Questions remained, however. What to do next was clearly of most concern, but for now there was no alternative to nothing. The existence of the Christian Gaia Crusaders and the fact that they claimed to be American was quite beyond comprehension.
1-tEARTS OF THE LOVERS
Traralgon Castellany, Southeast Australica
ierjon found that riding a horse had some similarities to controlling a gunwing. Even after a mere five days of lessons and experience, he could manage a walk, trot, canter, and gallop, and had overcome his fears of an animal that was an order of magnitude heavier than anything on either of the American continents. Samondel had been right. Horses had the strength of a small steam engine, were fueled on grass and water, could go almost anywhere, and needed no artisans to build them. Whoever had horses would rule the Americas.
The Warlord of Traralgon was riding beside him, a big and powerfully built man dressed in a shaggy hide coat, leather kilt, and horned helmet. He reeked of horses and sweat, but he knew horses like Serjon's father knew compression engines. He also knew mounted warfare.
"There, watch the apple," said Galdane as one of his lancers came about at the end of a field beside his fortress. "It is the size and color of a heart, and at heart height."
A peasant was standing a few feet away, holding up an apple on his open palm. The lancer urged his horse into a gallop, bearing down on the peasant. The man did not seem concerned, although he was not actually smiling. The lancer thundered past in a flash, and Serjon realized that the apple was now on the end of the lance. The
lancer returned and tossed the apple to the peasant. The peasant began running, again holding the apple in his outstretched hand. Again the lancer skewered the apple. Galdane and Serjon rode over and examined the lance, the apple, and the peasant's uninjured hand.
'Time? Learn also?" asked Serjon slowly.
"To be as good as Fras Canavar? Years. To just kill peasants without style, a month if you worked hard."
They rode past the village, which lay beside the fortress and behind a stagnant-looking moat and low earthwork wall. Twenty lancers were with them, all armed with lance, saber, and musket, and wearing light plate armor that seemed more decoration than protection. Presently they came to a long, ancient wall, where two peasants had lined up a number of pottery jars. As Serjon and Galdane watched, a lancer suddenly left them and charged the wall with a musket in his hands. At about a hundred feet he fired, shattering a jar, then he drew his saber and chopped another jar as his horse jumped the wall. Serjon was so impressed that he clapped.
"Horses are the most treasured of animals," said Galdane. "The price is high, but the worth is returned many times over."
"Pricing, ah, much?" asked Serjon.
"Fifty gold royals each," replied Galdane.
Serjon considered carefully. According to his contacts, a foal could be bought for a hundred times less than that, but Galdane knew that his horses were desired by someone who wanted complete discretion and a long, hard strip of ancient road within his land's borders. He assumed aviads were involved, and he was charging accordingly.
"Just say you had four enemies," said Galdane, then he spurred his mount and charged the wall.
With a double-barrel pistol in each hand, Galdane bore down on the wall, firing as he went. By the time his horse leaped the wall, four jars had been shattered.
"Would you like to try, Fras Serjon?" asked Galdane as he rode back.
"Trying, yes."
"How many jars?"
Serjon held up all ten fingers. Roaring with laughter, Galdane gave the order for ten jars to be set up, thinking that Serjon hoped to hit at least one if they were close together. Serjon reached into his flight jacket and drew out a Clastini reaction pistol and held it out for the warlord to inspect. The weapon was passed from hand to hand among the lancers, and jocularity about the small bore of the barrel reached his ears. It was returned to him. He flicked off the safety catch and urged his mount to a trot. This inspired yet more laughter. Serjon opened fire.
With a rate of three hundred rounds per minute, the reaction pistol produced a sound that Serjon's placid training horse had never known. It reared by the time five jars had been shattered, and Serjon half slid, half fell to the grass. As his mount galloped off in terror Serjon got to his feet, hurled curses at his supposed enemy and charged the jars on foot, firing as he went. There were still two rounds left in the clip by the time the last jar shattered. The astonished Galdane dismounted and walked over to Serjon while a lancer rode off to catch the fleeing horse.
"What is that thing?" asked Galdane in wonder.
"Gun," replied Serjon simply.
"But—but it shoots like a dozen lancers."
"Is why, ah, worth dozen horses."
Galdane scowled, but was not slow to accept when Serjon offered him another demonstration. After shattering a dozen jars at his first try, the warlord realized that the effectiveness of his cavalry would be improved twenty, fifty, even a hundred times over if each man had a Clastini 9mm reaction pistol and several spare clips of ammunition each. His three hundred musketeer lancers could even take on the Rochetrian Commonwealth with a fairly good chance of carrying the day.
"Maybe five horses for one, ah, how is it named?"
"Reaction pistol," replied Serjon.
Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
IVIanden Reppan walked through the power room below the Cal-culor, nodding to the drivers and waving his security pennant at the guards. It was here that the horses plodded in treadcircles, munching from their nosebags as they turned the gearboxes to the Libris Calculous attachments that required more than mere calculating power. Reppan climbed the stairs from the power room and entered the cool, clean brightness of the Voice Chamber, a room alive with the clatter of machinery and smelling of machine oil rather than horse manure.
Here tape machines punched holes in thin paper tape, providing answers that could be read by either humans or other machines. Five giant turtles carved from red rivergum ate tape from reels held by carved kangaroos, then expelled punched tape through the mouth of a second head. Beneath the body of each, a drive spindle powered the mechanisms while levers triggered the spring-loaded punches that were the voice of the Calculor. Reppan knew something was wrong as soon as he opened the door. The polished carapace of one turtle was raised, and several Dragon Librarians were examining the machinery inside. He strode over, his face flushed with anger.
"Are any of you members of the Guild of Clockmakers?" demanded Reppan as he stopped before the disabled punch machine.
"I am the duty controller," replied a short, slightly harassed-looking woman.
"And is your name on the maintenance contract?"
"Her name is not, Fras, but I designed this machine," said the lanky, balding man who was sitting on the edge of the output head of the turtle and looking inside. "My name is Bryn Barwon."
Reppan swallowed.
"My pardon, learned Fras, but the service history on these machines must be kept accurate and consistent. My guildmaster holds the contract for the mai
ntenance and tuning of them."
"But not the upgrades?"
"Oh no, Fras. That is done by your Libris artisans. We are only given the altered diagrams and specifications."
"Of which we keep one copy. I have my copy here, and my copy does not include that little box down there, you can see it in the mirror that I have placed beside the bulkhead."
Reppan pulled out his folder of diagrams, looked carefully at the object in the mirror, then checked the appropriate diagram.
"That is an unauthorized modification!" he exclaimed.
"My opinion entirely," replied Barwon.
"Then I must seek out my guildmaster and bring him here," said Reppan, replacing the diagram in his folder and picking up his bag. "This is an unauthorized change, it has probably disturbed the tuning of the mechanism. I shall be back within the hour."
Reppan turned to find himself confronted by a slightly shorter-than-average man wearing a silver mask that covered his face, except for eyeholes and a grille over his mouth.
"According to the records, you have serviced this unit since it was returned from the palace museum in November. I noted that the seal was intact on this unit when we opened it a few hours ago."
"Seals can be duplicated."
"They can indeed, but a life cannot."
"What do you mean?" asked Reppan slowly, wondering whose life might be involved.
"You have never seen that box?"
"Absolutely not—"
"Seize him."
Reppan's arms were pinned by two of the Dragon Librarians while a third put ratchet manacles on his wrists. The masked man ordered him brought to the edge of the open tape-punch device.
"This is an outrage to the guild!" cried Reppan.
"This certainly is an outrage," replied the masked man. "Hold him right down with his head inside the shell, tie him fast."
"Stop this! I demand my rights, you're in serious trouble! The guild will sue, Libris will be fined thousands of royals."
"One of us is in serious trouble, Fras. Or possibly both of us. Ladies, gentlemen, please retreat to a safe distance while I remove the unauthorized device."
"No! You can't do that!" shouted Reppan, frantically struggling against his ropes.
"Why not?"
"It may be a trap."
"It may, but it may not. We are not to know."
The masked man reached in. Sweat beaded Reppan's forehead.
"I feel wires, linked to the punch-driver rods. My shears are cutting through them easily enough, however. Now, then. Three bolts with wing nuts are securing it, and a little spindle, presumably linked to the gearbox to drive it. There, it should lift free now—"
"Stop! Stop! The spindle trips the flintlock trigger to a bomb!" screamed Reppan.
The masked man lifted the box clear.
"The spindle certainly does, my friend, but the trigger is currently jammed with a very large blob of wax. Now, what we all want to know is how you knew exactly what was inside this little box?"
Reppan quickly realized that he had just exchanged death within seconds for death in a few days, probably as a result of an enthusiastic bout of torture.
"I guessed it was a bomb!" he nevertheless snapped, his nerve returning.
"Ah, good. Well, I hope you are a brave man, because you are about to be interrogated until you guess exactly what else is in this box. After that, you will most likely find yourself in about as much trouble as a bull caught dancing a highland reel in a china shop owned by the local butcher's wife. On the other hand, you could be candid with us from the beginning."
v3uildmaster Larjerra was seated at his design bench when the loop of wire was dropped around his neck from behind and drawn tight. He stood up, reaching back and grasping it, but the wire extended up beyond the length of his arms. The pressure kept increasing. The guildmaster climbed onto a chair. The pressure eased slightly.
"I may be only a filthy, perverted aviad agent, but I do have a few contacts in Libris," said a soft, well-educated voice behind him.
Shadowmouse walked around into the guildmaster's view.
"The wire extends all the way to the rafters, Fras. Now, then, I have heard that Fras Reppan has been taken into custody over devices placed within certain key mechanisms of the Libris Calculor. Soon the Espionage Constables will be here, but then, I am not an Espionage Constable and I want to know the truth as well. Each of those boxes contained a beautifully made little paper-tape punch, tissue paper reel, and pins, and it was set to record only certain transactions and data."
"Selling," gasped the guildmaster. "Merchants."
"I think not, the data has been analyzed. It contains only the movements of certain families, paraline train times, and various border clearance records. I think you have been gleaning data on the smuggling of aviad children to their safe lands, the Mayorate of Avian."
"Rochester. . . . should be doing it," whispered the guildmaster. "Cursed abominations."
"You are a Reformed Gentheist, I have checked certain records in very dangerous places. Smell the fragrance of horse manure in my robes? I work as a driver in the power rooms of Libris when I am not smuggling children, and in my spare time I have slipped into places where I am not authorized to go. Hence my name, Shadow-mouse. As silent as the shadow of a mouse. I can get into places without anyone knowing—but then, you are most painfully aware of my talents in that regard, are you not?"
Shadowmouse held up a folder.
"I have compiled a list of every Reformed Gentheist in your guild, using a list from your own records. But who are the others, the contacts that you passed the aviad movements to?"
"Live by the Word, die for the Word."
"Ah, I suspected that you might say as much, that is why I took the liberty of liberating some of your records in advance. Some very dear friends of mine have died because of you and your kind, Fras Larjerra, and I am very angry about it. Still, I am not a vindictive man, and I recognize the way that you have lived for the Word as a man of genuine faith. Allow me to help you die for it."
Shadowmouse kicked the chair from under the guildmaster's feet.
When the Espionage constables arrived ten minutes later they found a note on Larjerra's desk that said "Flee. Reppan taken." Charred fragments of diagrams and notes were found in the grate.
IVIartyne had met Overmayor Lengina before, but was still not sure whether or not to be in awe of her. Although she had a regal bearing and demanded deference in line with her rank, she spoke more like the captain of a polo team in the lancers, and expected people to think and act intelligently while carrying out her orders. He suspected that advisers who gave her only the answers they thought she wanted would soon find themselves in serious trouble.
"So, you have connections among the aviads, Fras Camderine?" she asked as she paced between rows of ornamental wind chimes in her meditation suite, setting them tinkling each time she passed.
"I have connections among many people, including those who drink lamp oil and sleep beneath paraline bridges, Frelle Overmayor. I am a spy."
"I am not censuring you for knowing aviads, Fras, I merely wish to know more. For example, what laws do they break, who suffers through their activities, and how many children are abducted by them each year?"
"Frelle Overmayor, the aviads remain invisible by breaking no laws and exploiting nobody. They do take aviad children from human parents, but only after those parents decide that they want their children to grow up free and safe. They pay all taxes and dues, even more scrupulously than most humans. They stray beyond the law only when issuing false travel papers and names."
"So they hurt nobody?"
"They hurt anybody who attacks them."
"And so would you. So would I. But before the Call ended, they used to take advantage of their immunity, did they not?"
"That is the case. They were, in turn, lynched or imprisoned whenever caught."
"But with the Call gone they are still persecuted."
"The Com
monwealth's laws require them to be registered, Frelle
Overmayor. They are faster, stronger, and brighter than humans, and have strong traditions regarding work and education."
"Have you ever spoken to them—as in intimately, philosophically, as friend to friend?"
"I have spoken to a few at length, such as while riding together."
"What do they think of us?"
"Humans? Many aviads hate us. Not one alive has not lost a relative or friend to the mobs or prisons, but most just want to live apart, to get away."
"Truly, Fras Camderine?"
"As I am your subject and servant, Frelle Overmayor."
Highliber Dramoren entered as soon as Martyne had been shown out. Lengina continued to pace between her wind chimes.
"Can he be trusted?" she asked.
"About as well as I can," Dramoren replied.
"Then the aviads are no real threat to the security of the Commonwealth."
"Corruption among your taxation officials costs us more, according to the Libris Calculor."
"Were I to revoke the Commonwealth's Aviad Registration and Control legislation, and declare safe passage for aviads who wish to leave for the wilderness of the Otway Mountains, what would result?"
"Materially nothing. Religiously, the Reformed Gentheist extremists would scream hellfire. The Avianese are known to use fueled engines because they have very small numbers—quite apart from being what the Gentheist Scriptures call abominations. You would split the Commonwealth."
"Splendid, splendid," said Lengina. "I want you to join me in a meeting with my most senior legislative advisor."
Traralgon Castellany, Southeast Australica
Uusk was long past as Serjon and Galdane stood waiting at the edge of a stand of trees. Behind them a dozen of Galdane's warriors stood ready with five blindfolded young horses, all recently weaned, and behind them was yet another group.
"I hear nothing, I see nothing," Galdane said yet again, scanning the dark skies.
"Approaching unpowered," said Serjon, "not want to be noticed."
Eyes of the Calculor Page 37
