"Keep your voice down and be very, very discreet," whispered Dramoren. "I am Highliber Dramoren, this lady is Overmayor Len-gina, and the couples at tables two, seven, nine, twelve, and fourteen are members of the palace guard and the Libris Tiger Dragons. Breathe a word of this meeting and you will not live to see the dawn and your body will never be found."
Manuel closed his eyes and swayed slightly.
"Great and powerful Fras, this place is sacred to lovers. There is no safer place on earth to be in love than here."
Dramoren winced at the word "love."
"Just take us to our table and shut up."
The meeting was for coffee and chocolates rather than a meal. Manuel noticed now that the couples at tables two, seven, nine, twelve, and fourteen were watching everyone else except each other, were not smiling, and had not touched their coffee, cakes, or chocolates. To his surprise the master of the Commonwealth's infrastructure and the Commonwealth's monarch drank their coffee quickly, then ordered another each.
"Frelle, what could be so important that you could insist on meeting me here?"
"Palaces are full of devices for people to listen and watch, they have been perfected over many centuries. Courtiers want to know things. They are seldom spies, but they like to be part of the great and momentous decisions."
"Libraries are little different."
"Which is why I had us meet here," she said emphatically, grasping his hand. "Try to show some romance, people will get suspicious."
"Suspicious, Frelle Overmayor?" hissed Dramoren. "You are currently defining new extremes in the application of that word. This is about as suspicious as a monk on a nunnery wall at midnight with a bottle of sacramental wine in one hand and a condom in the other. What possibly—"
"I want to provoke a war with the Woomeran Confederation."
Dramoren nearly choked. He gulped down the remains of his coffee and Lengina offered him her mug. He drank half of this as well.
"May I ask why?" he eventually managed.
"I want the Commonwealth unified against Jemli the Prophet and her—what is the new name? Reborn Gentheists?"
"Reformed Gentheists. But the Southmoors—"
"Are hostile to her. They are traditional Islamics. The Central Confederation is mostly Christian and similarly hostile."
"And at war with the Southmoors."
"Secret peace talks have been commenced, or have you not been spying on my diplomatic dispatches lately?"
"Frelle Over—that is, Len—I mean, Frelle, I only—"
"I expect you to spy on me, Highliber, so never mind and don't apologize. The only other major group is the Northmoors. They are rural, Islamic, and like to be left alone; they do not even have a strict ruling on fueled engines. We have the chance to show the Reformed Gentheists a solid wall of opposition in the East. At present there is no hostility, so their people come and go from the Commonwealth as they please."
"But why bother? Jemli's Reformed Gentheists are gaining little support. Since Ilyire of Glenellen began preaching tolerance throughout the Commonwealth they have been thwarted further still, and when you had him cut your hair it actually became high fashion to get a haircut and oppose Jemli."
"I want a solid wall, Fras Franzas. If I can manage it I do not even want fighting, just hostility. Out of all the overmayorates, only Rochestrian Commonwealth has been able to maintain its structure and economy since Black Thirteenth and the loss of electrical machines. Without our Dragon Librarian Service and paraline engineers Jemli does not have the ability to raise, move, or use an army of any size from Woomera or Kalgoorlie. Even the Alspring Ghan lancers have been softened by two decades of imported luxuries, more liberal lifestyles, and paraline transport."
"I have heard that they now allow women to become lancers," said Dramoren, looking uneasily around at the other genuine couples in the cafe for signs of suspicious interest.
"Yes, because their men are all busy building paraline tracks and running merchant houses. I only want an incident to close the border, Franzas. Not bloody battles, not victories, just a wall between us and the religious riff-raff."
"I shall work upon it, Frelle—ah, Lengina. A war."
"With no fighting."
Dramoren ran his fingers through his hair. He wondered if a rather hunted look was obvious on his masked face.
"Very well, and while I am at it what about a nice alliance be-
tween the Commonwealth, Southmoors, and Central Confederation, and a declaration of neutality from the Northmoors?"
"Well, yes, if you think you can do it."
The wretched woman can't recognize a joke, thought Dramoren as he drained the last of her coffee.
"Is there anything else, Frelle Lengina?"
"We . . . look tense."
"Is this meant to come as a shock?"
"We look as if we are having a lovers' quarrel."
"That's unlikely, we are not lovers."
"My guards will be sad, they care for me."
"What?" Dramoren laughed. "Who cares what guards think? My Tiger Dragons do as they are told, think when they are ordered to do so, and don't even screw unless it's in the service of Libris."
Lengina put her hands beneath Dramoren's jaw, leaned over the table, and pressed her lips against his. After a moment of astonished panic, Dramoren took her arms in his hands. Her tongue flickered teasingly across the surface of his lips.
"I—I take it that our quarrel has been resolved?" ventured Dramoren.
"I admire you greatly, I have done so for a long time," responded Lengina.
"I am, ah, honored. Of course, ah, any man who does not admire you needs a good optician—but my own eyes are very good."
"You have always been so aloof with me."
"Frelle, you are the Overmayor. Nobody just asks you out for dinner and a tour of his sleeping accommodation!"
"That is the trouble. I get a lot of fine, formal approaches and proposed arrangements of marriage with great strategic benefits, but no romance. You are always so distracted and, well, cool. My advisors say that you meet with two women late at night."
"Frelle Velesti is one. Did some idiot describe her as a woman? Whoever it is needs to be hospitalized."
"Ah, the one that even the guard dogs run from. Oh, well, point taken. And the other?"
"The ghost of Highliber Zarvora. You can walk right through her."
"You are joking!"
"Would you like an introduction? I can arrange it. Lovely Frelle, why bother with me? I am not particularly brilliant or capable, I achieve what I do by working a nineteen-hour day. This is the first time that I have eaten anything resembling a meal while sitting down for over a week. Cool? Distracted? Frelle, I am just tiredV
"You need someone to look after you."
"I have a lackey, he does a good job. I even paid him a bonus last month."
"Over the past months I have had five princes and mayors propose to me as serious possibilities for consorts."
"And all were found to be unsuitable in major or minor ways."
"I have spies too, and some are better informed than my personal advisors."
"They should have reported that I lead a blameless life and my investigations are above reproach."
"You dedicated two thousand of your staff to uncovering scandals and secrets involving those five men."
"You are deserving of no less diligence."
Lengina opened the top button of her blouse's collar, then another, and a third. Dramoren's hands began to tremble.
"Please, Overmayor, our guards are watching," he whispered desperately.
She reached into her cleavage and drew out a folded piece of poorpaper.
"While investigating the latest of my suitors, you instructed the Dragon Gold in charge of the Espionage Constables to, and I quote, 'Find something wrong with the fucker or I shall personally affix your head to the highest lightning rod on the Libris beamflash tower.' What does that mean? "
"Ah, 'fuck
er' is an ancient term for a very naughty person."
"You were frantic to keep me unwed."
"It was a bad time for a royal wedding—politically, that is."
"You were jealous."
Dramoren opened his mouth. To say no would be an insult. To say yes . . . would be admitting the truth. It would also involve considerable loss of face for him, except that the woman, his monarch, quite obviously fancied him.
"Well, sort of. . . yes."
Lengina removed her mask and flung it over her shoulder. Dramoren swallowed, removed his mask, folded it neatly, and placed it on the table. Complete silence suddenly gripped Cafe Marellia. Lengina looked around and scowled.
"I command you all to keep talking," she ordered.
Loud, polite, facile banter instantly blanketed the room.
"I love the scar across your face."
"It is not there by design, Frelle—"
"Lengina."
"Sorry—Lengina."
"Franzas, I like to think of the Commonwealth as a body," said Lengina, taking both of Dramoren's hands in hers. "The Dragon Librarian Service is the brain, I am the heart, and you are its right arm. What other overmayorate has that sort of unity?"
"But people are the soul of the Commonwealth. We had better be discreet until they are prepared."
"By the time we return to the palace tonight the greater part of Rochester should know about us, and the beamflash signaling system will be lit up like a bonfire on Equinox Night. Still, I doubt that we shall have anything to worry about."
rn hour before midnight Dramoren and Lengina stood embracing in front of Cafe Marellia, oblivious to the nightlife that hurried, sauntered, staggered, and occasionally crawled past them. From across the darkened street two Dragon Silver Librarians regarded the young lovers through the open shutters of the Rector's Lash.
"Young fools," said the graying, dour-looking woman.
"Don't know what the world has in store for them," replied the sallow, haggard man across the table from her.
"Dangerous, evil people out there."
"Betrayal."
"Death."
"Jealousy."
"Costly child care."
"Poor young fools."
"Think they'll do it?"
"Sure to."
"Lucky young fools."
"Why?"
"In love."
"Futile. Love leads nowhere but dinner, drinks, and bed."
"You can do that without being in love."
"Fancy another drink?"
"Love one."
IVIartyne stepped out of the pedal train and onto the Rochester terminus platform, stretched for a moment, then walked quickly to the gates. There was nobody to meet him, for he had traveled under a false name and with false papers, but then Espionage Constables cleared for his level of discretion could do that sort of thing.
Once clear of the terminus he went straight to the market, putting on his auditor's hat and sunframes as he walked. The elements of his disguise were minimal, but worn with style and accompanied by all the appropriate mannerisms. Some vendors sneered as he approached, others scrambled to hide goods and registers. One even offered him a bribe, but he held up his hand and shook his head.
"Thank you, Fras, but I am beyond corruption," he said with a smile. "Nevertheless, for the act of offering you must come with me."
Martyne took him by the arm, but the other led the way. They walked in silence through the crowds for a distance, then Martyne's companion stopped.
"Serjon is the weedy-looking one over by Jairlin's Flintlocks," he said. "The one with the black hat and dustcape."
"My thanks," replied Martyne. "Stand shadow."
It was where Serjon had been told to meet with Samondel, but he was somewhat early. For a time he paced restively, drawing a paraline watch from his pocket several times to check the time. Suddenly he hurried away. Martyne trailed a little behind him, blending well with the early evening crowds of the market. Serjon made for a stall with an awning whose skirt reached all the way down to waist level. The words painted above were Amar At'agnine, which translated as The Amorous Sheep. Well, if he's going there at least he doesn't want her to carry his child, thought Martyne. Not yet, anyway.
After some minutes Serjon emerged. Martyne snapped his fingers and pointed to him but did not follow as the Yarronese hurriedly slipped into the crowd. Martyne felt curiously burned out inside, and disinclined to do anything at all, but almost of their own volition, his feet began to walk. They walked straight to Amar At'agnine. Inside there were two lamps burning within red shades, while a slightly stooped yet widely grinning little man with pop eyes and hair tied back in a tight ponytail stood rubbing his hands and bowing almost continually. Along the top shelf was a row of a dozen pegs of varying length and thickness, while on all the others were packages that could be conveniently enclosed in a fist. Each package had an index number and symbol.
"And, ah, what would Fras require?" asked the vendor, raising his hand to hover before a middle level shelf.
"I am unfamiliar with all this," Martyne said with a flourish. "I am from far away."
"Does Fras require a little advice on company as well?" enquired the vendor. "I can arrange liaisons of a suitable but transitory nature."
Suddenly Martyne's mind made the subtle transition to warrior, although it was shown only by a slight chill in his voice.
"What was bought by the Fras who was in here before me?" asked Martyne.
"Oh, Fras, it is the nature of my trade to repeat nothing that—"
Martyne took the man's hand so gently that there was barely a hint of hostile intent. The pain in the vendor's wrist was, however, so great that he was incapable even of calling out. Martyne eased the pressure very slightly.
"I shall only ask one more time, and if I do not hear an answer that is both realistic and honest you shall not live to see morning and your body will never be found."
Although the threat was formulaic, it was nonetheless not far from the truth. The vendor took several gasps to recover his breath.
"A package of half a dozen of the peg 6 ME, with red silk ribbons attached and a joke of an amorous nature on pink tissue paper with every suit of love's armor."
"Let me guess: 6 M would be six inches in length and indifferent width."
"You have the measure of him, Fras," said the vendor with hurried diplomacy.
"What did he say while here?"
"His Austaric was not good, Fras. His lady had not seen him for a long time, but he felt that she might still be inclined his way. If the mood took her thus, he wanted to appear to have appropriate precautions to hand without seeming to have had lewd intent. The 6 ME pack has 'For Emergencies Only' scripted across the wrapping, and it was this that I recommended."
Martyne released him, then nodded with his eyes squeezed shut.
"Er, a disappointment in love, Fras?" enquired the vendor uneasily.
"Not much love was involved," replied Martyne, opening his eyes and staring speculatively at the 7 M+ peg.
"Perhaps you would consider a free sample?" asked the vendor. "You know, ladies of good breeding do favor a considerate man."
"Thank you, Fras, but by dawn I may be dead, so why bother?"
Martyne emerged from the covered stall, then returned to where Serjon was waiting, watched by Martyne's shadow. Minutes passed. The vendors in the area grew restive at the presence of an auditor for such a length of time.
"Serjon!"
Both Martyne and Serjon whirled at the sound of the voice, but it was Serjon to whom Samondel rushed. They fell into each others' arms, kissing and laughing with elation and relief. They were very much the center of the nearby vendors' attention as well, but when the lovers hurried off with their arms about each other, the lurking auditor was also found to be gone.
Martyne flung his auditor's hat and sunframes into the gutter at the center of the street, resuming the look of an edutor as he walked. He made for the Ugly Friar, or
dered himself a mug of wine, and drained it. He ordered another, drank it rather more slowly, then ordered a third, and a fourth.
"He did appear to be quite a decent and handsome young blade, I have to admit," he told the jarmaid about fifteen minutes later.
"Ah, who would that be?" she asked, already having the stirrings of fancy for him.
"My beloved's true love," replied Martyne.
"Ah, silly girl, handsome Fras, jilting one such as you. Not to worry, though. I'll look after you tonight."
The jarmaid returned to the vintner with Martyne's coin, but when she turned back to regard him he was gone, his empty cup left on the table.
Martyne was already in the street, hurrying unsteadily away.
"Looked after, by a woman, in this condition, aye, been there, done that," he mumbled to himself as he walked. "Twice. Apparently."
In the hospitality suites of Libris, Veiesti was at that very moment engaged in entertainment of her own. Martyne's parents and Elene Disore were the guests, but found themselves in the most unusual position of sitting at table with Julica. The only person feeling more uneasy was Julica, who had eaten very little of the meal.
"I thought Martyne was to be here?" Elene asked, squirming a little in her chair and looking impatient.
"As I have said time and again, Mother, he was invited but was called away to a monastery in the south."
"What can possibly be more important than being here with his—his loved ones?"
"I have told you."
"In a monastery?"
"Theology and the interpretation of dogma are currently the cornerstones of the continent's politics," said Velesti, leaning back and folding her arms. "Monasteries are where a lot of the Christian side of it is determined."
Elene squirmed again, and looked particularly uncomfortable.
"If you please, I must visit the comfort room," she finally admitted.
Velesti stood up and walked to the door, saying, "Certainly, there is a pot privy at the first floor on the left. Meantime I shall call for dessert."
Elene was gone only a matter of minutes, but Velesti was absent for twice as long. When she returned it was with a silver platter, upon which were three crystal glasses of darkish yellow liquid and a tiny beaker of something clear. Velesti set the tray down on the table, and her guests noted that before each glass were three cards with J, V, and E in cyrello script capitals. Julica sat back with her hands clasped over her swollen abdomen and her eyes cast down.
Eyes of the Calculor Page 40
