Eyes of the Calculor

by Sean McMullen

  Ilyire now held out his hand. "Will anyone here lend me a knife?"

  Several knives were proffered, handle first. He selected one.

  "I have come here from the coast because I have heard of heresy preached, hate spread, and lies offered to you as the Word of the Deity."

  He held up the knife.

  "Here is a tool of intelligence."

  He grasped his long hair.

  "Here is the hair of my head and the gift of the Deity."

  He sliced his hair off just above shoulder level. There was a loud gasp from the crowd. He held the severed hair high.

  "Bring me a lighted torch."

  Moments later a student came pushing through the crowd with a torch that had been stolen from a wall and lit at the laundaric. Ilyire set the severed hair afire.

  "Here is fuel that might drive a steam engine, fuel that is a gift of the Deity and which the Deity will grow back. It is not evil to burn what can be grown back, it is only evil not to grow it back. Burn the Deity's bounty in whatever grate, furnace, or engine you will, then glorify the Deity by planting a thousand seeds. That is all that I have to say to you, my fine and clever young people. Go your way and think, but before you do, come to me, whisper your concerns and have your hair trimmed. After all, why look as old and ugly

  as I do when you are forty years younger? Indeed, and who would be weighed down with as much hair as Jemli of Kalgoorlie wears?"

  From a nearby building the Overmayor was watching, flanked by Highliber Dramoren and the University Librarian.

  "I am strangely moved by his words," she admitted quietly.

  "He has a good heart sharing his body with a good mind," replied Dramoren.

  A pair of scissors was fetched for Ilyire and a bonfire was made of wood stolen from the refectory kitchens. Ilyire began to trim beards and cut hair while the students gathered around.

  "His words, are noble, sensible," said Samondel.

  "Speaking as a theologian, I say they are the most sensible I have heard preached in the ten years past," replied Martyne.

  "Am agreeing. Never had hair cut. Must have hair cut."

  Just then there was a disturbance at the edge of the crowd, and Martyne feared that another riot was beginning. Velesti marched through as the students parted before her, leading a group of her Baleshanto students. The tension evaporated as she bowed before Ilyire.

  "Master, will you cut my hair?" she asked, then went down on one knee.

  "Friend, people have been telling me their concerns as I have barbered them," he said as he trimmed a lock of her hair.

  "In that case, thank you for the brief and frantic lesson in camel riding."

  Ilyire struggled to hide his astonishment. He had only ever taught one person to ride. That had been Lemorel Milderellen, and he had seen her die.

  "But you were killed, shot dead," he whispered.

  "I was called back for the same reason that you are here, Ilyire of Glenellen. Are you finished?"

  Ilyire cast Velesti's hair clippings into the fire.

  "What is it like, in the grave?" he asked as she stood up.

  "Very dark and very cold, but then that was the way I lived. This is my chance to make up for all that."

  Samondel had her hair trimmed to halfway down her back, indeed more hair was cut off than remained.

  "I have been sleeping with a married man, but I love another," she whispered.

  "These matters are your own business, do not let others preach to you," he advised.

  Ilyire's answer was not what she had expected, but was curiously reassuring. The crowd cheered as her hair was dropped into the flames. Martyne knelt before Ilyire.

  "Not much hair," said Ilyire.

  "Not much sympathy for the Prophet," Martyne replied.

  "Have you concerns?"

  "Two woman are pregnant by me and two women have died for me. I love another, but I am afraid of cursing her with misfortune, like the others."

  "Then protect your beloved, and the future will happen."

  Again there was a disturbance at the edge of the crowd. People rushed to get out of the way and Velesti and her students formed a line as a group of guardsmen marched for the center of the gathering. Martyne hurried to stand with his friend, and Samondel came after him, drawing her flintlock. Other students began to rally behind the Baleshanto students. The guardsmen stopped.

  "You have no business here, this is a peaceful rally," said Velesti.

  "We have orders—" began the guard captain.

  "Ilyire of Glenellen is a holy man, we shall not let him be harmed or imprisoned," said Martyne.

  "We have orders to escort the Overmayor to Ilyire of Glenellen," explained the guard captain. "She wishes to have her hair cut."

  A path was cleared for the Overmayor, who walked up to Ilyire and knelt before him.

  "Master, my motives are less than altruistic," she whispered as he trimmed her hair to shoulder length.

  "As are mine, but they are more altruistic than those that I oppose. Is this bad?"

  The Overmayor stood and turned to go, and found that her squad of guardsmen were lined up behind her with their helmets removed.

  There were loud cheers as her trimmings were dropped into the flames. When Martyne and Samondel left for the day's riding lesson the crowd was still swelling.

  I his time Samondel managed to urge her mount to a canter as she and Martyne returned to the stables at the end of the ride. It was evening as they walked to the inner city over the stone footbridge that was reserved for pedestrians.

  "Am wondering," she said as a barge with about twenty revelers, a small band, and one weary-looking poleman passed beneath them, "Few horses, seeing at inner city."

  "The inner city is small and the roads are narrow—except for the Avenue, that is. It is not hard to walk from place to place, and the paraline has a terminus just inside the walls. Horses are not needed, and would only add to the crowding. There are moves to ban horses from the inner city altogether, but there are religious objections to that."

  "Religious? Are serious?"

  "Oh, yes. The Prophet says that horses are a symbol of natural muscle that the Deity has provided for us to use. The Highliber says that they poo in the streets, and that if people want to live in inner Rochester they can put up with handcart deliveries and higher prices. It is likely that the Highliber will soon only allow horse transport there between midnight and dawn every second day, for the sake of good economics and religious tolerance."

  "Confusing. Where, ah, I am coming from, issues decreed. Centuries pass, no change."

  "This place must be confusing for you, and distressing."

  "No. No, no. Most romantic city, anywhere."

  Romantic! A surge of adrenalin slashed through Martyne's body, almost doubling him over.

  "A lot of people love Rochester," he responded, his voice almost cracking.

  "Is me also, loving it."

  Slowly Martyne's physiological state began to return to some-

  thing resembling what was generally called normal in textbooks. They reached the city gates. Samondel bought a packet of roasted chestnuts from a vendor, and they shared them as they walked along toward the university. They talked easily, working to improve Samondel's grammar, and as the sky colored to darker shades Martyne suggested that he buy them dinner. With a stroke of boldness that he did not realize he was capable of, he lightly placed a hand on Samondel's shoulder and gestured to Cafe Marellia. The door was painted green, and there were two red hearts encircled by a ring of silver stars. Beneath this was a brightly polished brass plaque. Samondel leaned over to read it, her hands on her knees.

  " 'By Appointment to Overmayor Cybeline.' Is famous ruler?"

  "She is the one known usually as Zarvora," said Martyne as he pressed the latch down and pushed the door open.

  "Ah, the great leader. Highliber, and first overmayor."

  They were greeted by a waiter with heavily waxed silver hair, and a long,
waxed mustache.

  "Most beautiful young Frelle," he said with a wide smile, taking Samondel's hand and kissing it. Then he turned to Martyne and bowed. "Dashing young Fras, welcome, both of you."

  "Fras Manuel, it delights me to visit your legendary house instead of merely hearing about it," said Martyne.

  Martyne blinked. Had he really said that?

  "Delightful Frelle, eyes like violet sapphires, hair like sunset when a storm has just passed. What is your name?"

  "I—I—Samondel Leover," Samondel stammered softly.

  "Samondel," said the waiter, as if savoring the word in his mouth like a delicious pastry. "A name almost as beautiful as yourself, most enchanting Frelle. Please, this way. I must apologize, but the lute player is sick tonight. Only my humble self to play a little harpsichord for the mood of—"

  "Asti!" Samondel exclaimed as she caught sight of the instrument in one corner. "Fortepiano ni, tarie s'il demi clavicytherium horizar —ah, sorry. Keyboard player. That. Strange, being."

  "Frelle Samondel is from a very distant mayorate," explained Martyne. "She is here to learn Austaric."

  "You know the playing of keyboards?" asked the waiter.

  "Girls must, in royal house—" began Samondel.

  "Frelle Samondel would love to play it," Martyne hastily cut in, but the word 'royal' was already loose and free to do damage.

  "Please, feel free to play what your fancy takes!" exclaimed Manuel.

  Martyne took the waiter very firmly by the arm and whispered in his ear.

  "The princess is under my protection, and her presence in Rochester must not be revealed."

  "Princess?" breathed Manuel.

  "If anyone asks after her, get their name and report it to me. Here is my card."

  Manuel read the card, nearly swooned, and was guided to a chair by Martyne as Samondel played a few experimental chords and runs. Manuel read the card again. " 'Dragon Silver Martyne Camberine. Libris. Unattached.' "

  "Manuel Ruavez, so much as even think of calling her Your Highness, and you will not live to see the dawn, nor will your body ever be found."

  "I understand, great and powerful Fras. This place is sacred to lovers, no safer place on earth to be in love than here."

  Samondel stopped playing chords and runs, having gained a feel for the instrument.

  "This is 'Towers of Condelor,' to play. Two centuries past, Prince Marbeyer courting lady, ah, disguised? Yes, disguised as commoner. Flew sailw—ah, magically enchanted machine amid towers of Condelor, at night. Beautiful towers, beautiful city. Very romantic."

  Samondel began to play. For Manuel the cafe was suddenly floated on a cloud of Stardust and was lifted up into the darkening sky. It was a delicate, rolling, almost mathematical piece, like the beating of a huge bird's wings as it carried the two lovers amid the towers of some fairy-tale city. Samondel closed her eyes, and long, red eyelashes shadowed her cheeks. There were tears on Manuel's face as he took them to their table.

  "Little sister, I know that piece," said Martyne.

  "Know it? How being?"

  "Samondel, it is not two hundred years old, it is two thousand three hundred years old. My sister's friend used to play it. It is by Scarlatti, I know it as the Pastorale Sonata."

  Samondel's violet eyes shone with wonder. "You take most romantic music known, then write it with stars in sky."

  She reached out and squeezed his hand. The face before him briefly had brown eyes and black shoulder-length hair. Elsile was alive again, she had been given a second chance at life. He blinked. Again the hair was red and the eyes violet. A divine vision, thought Martyne. This time he would not fail her.

  "This place, very strange," said Samondel. "Like . . . not real."

  "It is known widely as a lucky place for lovers, little sister. Many come here while courting, some come here after quarrels, or a long time apart."

  "Has . . . magic."

  "Years before I was born, Overmayor and Highliber Zarvora brought her lover Denkar here, to try to make up after a quarrel. The story is complicated. Very complicated."

  "Please tell."

  "Ah, well, to simplify it, she had kept him in prison for nine years. She asked for forgiveness, but he would not forgive her. He said someone must suffer for each of his years in the Calculor— well, in prison, that is. She called in her guards and had one of them punch her in the face. She fell back over that table to your left. Then she got up and had him strike her again. She staggered back and brought down that rack of plates, on the back wall there. They are the same plates, although they have ah been patched together again."

  "Why is doing?" asked Samondel, frowning.

  "Denkar asked her just that. She said that she was suffering one blow for every year that he had been imprisoned. He only let her take those two blows before he stopped the guard. He and Zarvora were married the next day."

  "Not believable."

  "Unbelievable is the way of saying it. That painting over there,

  of two lovers staring at each other across a table. That is them. Look carefully at the furnishings and seats."

  "Is ... ah, partitions, little doors, in painting. Not here now."

  "What else?"

  "This table! Zarvora and Denkar, are sitting."

  "Correct. Manuel must like you indeed if we have been placed here."

  It was close to midnight by the time they returned to Villiers College.

  "Martyne, a most wonderful day, I have had," said Samondel as they paused before the doors to the Villiers College foyer.

  "I am always pleased to be with you, Eyes of Amethyst. While in my care you will be safe and happy."

  "Are sure you are betrothed?"

  "Yes. There is a big dinner tomorrow night, in the Libris hostelry chambers. Velesti is organizing it, and I am to swear the vows of commitment with my fiancee."

  "You love her?"

  Martyne hesitated, then shook his head.

  "For me, there is other man," Samondel admitted.

  Martyne shuddered slightly. "He is the most lucky man in all the world," he said reluctantly, and under his breath.

  "Is married man. Am mistress."

  "Frelle Samondel!"

  "I owe him much. Am thinking, perhaps, I love him too. To tell, is hard."

  Another pang sliced through Martyne. "Then be discreet, wives tend not to be understanding about that sort of thing," he said, feeling giddy.

  "Is arriving tomorrow, my lover. Are jealous?"

  "I am grateful for what I get, lovely Frelle."

  "Trusting you."

  She trusted him! Martyne felt that he was going to burst with pride. He seemed to watch in slow motion as Samondel wrapped her

  arms around him and pressed her lips against his cheek. His arms enfolded her. She giggled.

  "Cannot offer more," said Samondel. "Am not like other girls."

  "I cannot accept more," replied Martyne.

  They laughed as they embraced each other again, then Samondel looked into his eyes in Mirrorsun's light.

  "Is wrong, what I said. Before. Can offer more, seeing this?" She held up a small bunch of ribbons sewn onto a slipknot cord. "Traditional, giving of colors to esteemed friend or beloved, wear as warrior. On right arm. Can be wearing, Martyne?"

  "Why yes, thank you."

  "Is ceremony for lady and her champion. If alive you are being, after fight, I say, 'Wings of my Colors, welcome to the ground you have defended.' You kiss my colors, and say, 'Colors of my Wings, in your name, many victories have I won.' "

  "The words are very pretty."

  "Very old, also."

  "I would be honored to be your champion. Will you be mine?"

  "What? I—I only learn Baleshanto, one month."

  "As I said, will you be my champion?"

  Samondel took a moment to decide that Serjon should be thankful that he was soon to be sharing her bed again, and that he did not have a monopoly on certain other things.

  "Yes," she
replied.

  Martyne untied the small black band from his neck and handed it to Samondel. It had a red stripe at either end, and "Brother Cam-derine" embroidered into the fabric.

  "Never wear this around your neck, that is only for your real ranking in Baleshanto."

  "Understand. And Colors of Wings only for right forearm."

  They both tied the colors to their arms, then stood facing each other in the light of Mirrorsun. Samondel took his hand and squeezed it.

  "Soon, am leaving," she said, looking down at her feet. "Forever."

  "Good for both of us, perhaps," replied Martyne.

  "Not good. Just best."

  Samondel put her free hand behind Martyne's head and pressed a lingering kiss as soft as rose petals against his lips.

  "Good-bye," she said, then turned and hurried up the steps and through the door of the college without once turning back.

  "1 ighliber Dramoren was exceedingly ill at ease as he waited on the street corner, alone, wearing a Dragon Librarian uniform and cloak without his black color of rank, coat, or skullcap, but with a mask. The wearing of masks was not unknown in Rochestrian society, but was generally done when assignations involving adultery, unsympathetic parents, or similar factors were involved. A dozen disguised guards were within a direct line of sight, but still he was uneasy. Another figure appeared in the distance, walking confidently but with a slightly mincing gait. She was wearing a Dragon Librarian uniform as well, and was also masked.

  "Overmayor, this is very dangerous!" hissed Dramoren as she stopped before him.

  "Highliber, there is no more secure place to have a proper meeting than an unexpected place, and what I want to say is in great need of security. Come, give me your arm."

  Dramoren led her to the door of Cafe Marellia, pushed it open, and escorted her in. The waiter hurried up to them.

  "I am sorry, there are no spare tables," Manuel began.

  "We have a booking," said Dramoren. "Two. The name is Franzas."

  "Ah yes, Franzas," exclaimed Manuel. "Come this—"

  Dramoren caught him by the arm.