"And is this all that you have? This single town and wingfield?"
"Yes, there are no other settlements larger than fifty souls. We cannot afford to waste resources with transport. Farms have been established to grow seeds and grains to make compression spirit, as well as to feed us. As you can see, we are surviving but are in a precarious state."
Shadowmouse was given a tour of the gun workshops, which were producing heavy reaction guns that could be used either by infantry or be fitted to the kitewings. He spoke to many of the children living in the dormitories and working the farms between school classes, and found them to be healthy and generally happy.
"And the North Americans, how do they fit in?" Shadowmouse asked an artisan at the Institute over a lunch of boiled potatoes and goat milk butter.
"The first of them overflew us on the second day of February, and one parachuted down to this very wingfield. They wanted to
trade horses for gold, but we wanted engines, tools, and skills—and we had no horses. We made an agreement that we would make horses available on the mainland if they would ferry a few aviads over here before flying on with their horses. They will also be sending tools and artisans to help us build better wings. Why, one compression-spirit artisan has already been brought over, and the efficiency of our plant has been improved fifteen percent."
"The first one to land here, was his name Sair Serjon Fey-damor?"
"Why, yes, that was him. Fine fellow, and so young."
"I had the honor of meeting him."
Early in the afternoon Shadowmouse was preparing to ascend to overview the capital, and to experience a kitewing for himself. The flyer helped him strap in, lying flat along the lower main wing.
"Compression-spirit stores are low, due to the volume that the super-regals need, so we make sure that all flights are training flights," he explained. "This kitewing has dual controls, and after we ascend you will take over and learn a few basics."
After a mere two hours Shadowmouse made a solo flight in a tiny armed kitewing. He made several passes at a target kite, shooting at ribbons suspended from its tail. When he landed he was put through a short ceremony declaring him a flyer of the Avian Flock, while a band of two flutes, a trumpet, and two drums supplied the music.
His flyer's badge had not been on his cloak for two minutes when the wingfield adjunct came over to speak with him.
"So, Fras Shadowmouse, you have no sweetheart or children, and your parents think you are dead," declared the adjunct, reading from a slate.
"That describes me," said Shadowmouse.
"Were you to die, none would be told."
"In my case, none would care."
"Splendid. Come this way, now, and see the ancient weapons. They do not need compression engines, and were originally developed in case the Americans attacked."
"But they are intended to stop the Gentheists now?"
"Yes. Gentheist experiments are under way to develop massive galley airships, held aloft by hot air and powered by hundreds of pedaling musketeers. The humans could reach this island and wipe us out, they could make hundreds of those things from just cloth and wooden frames while we struggle to put a half dozen compression engines together. But we also have ancient weaponry, Fras Shadow-mouse. Dangerous, barely understood, highly unstable, but devastat-ingly effective. In time we shall make them safer, but for now the Skyfire weapons are prematurely in production because we need them. People like you are being asked to die in them for just that reason as well."
Peterborough, the Woomeran Confederation
Whatever one might say about prophets, dreamers, and visionaries, it is fair to say that they do get inspiration from somewhere. Four decades earlier the young Zarvora Cybeline had sitting in the University Library, lamenting the demise of the ancient civilization's intelligent calculating machines and contemplating the vast amount of calculation needed to determine when Mirrorsun would complete itself and unfurl in the skies of Earth. All around her were her fellow students of mathematics, all hard at work with their calculations. Suddenly the thought struck her: she was surrounded by intelligent calculating machines. All that she needed was a system to coordinate them, a few hundred abacus frames and benches, leg shackles, guards with whips, a shift roster, the money to feed the slaves and pay the guards, and sufficient power to put anyone who objected before a firing squad. Six years later she was the Highliber of Libris and the first unhappy components were being chained into the original Calculor of Libris.
Although publically a Gentheist, Zarvora had been an agnostic, and often maintained that she would have been an atheist but she did not have sufficient faith to deny the existence of a god, deity, or any other manifestation of an all-powerful being. Thus she put her inspiration for the first calculor down to sheer intelligence, of which
she did have a great deal. The idea had come to her in midafternoon, on a bright, sunny day, and in a public place. She did not leap out of a bath shouting "Eureka!" She merely drew a diagram and wrote down some figures. She then walked across the city to Libris, demanded a Dragon White examination, and passed it with a perfect score. She then demanded to sit the examinations for Dragon Yellow, Dragon Orange, Dragon Red, and Dragon Green. By midnight she walked back to her university college of residence with the color of a Dragon Green pinned to her tunic, and by noon the following day she had killed her first supervisor in a duel over an accusation of fraud. She demanded, and was given, her supervisor's rank.
Thus, although Zarvora's rise through fifteen year's worth of seniority in twenty-four hours might have been considered miraculous, nothing had taken place that intelligence, a sound education, sheer talent, good flintlock targetry, and an absolutely psychopathic dedication to the salvation of civilization could not explain. This was not the case with Jemli Milderellen, four decades later.
A reciprocating clock was clanging out the hour of midnight in the mayoral palace of Peterborough as Jemli sat contemplating a portrait of her sister Lemorel on the wall. Lemorel had experienced the most tragic of romantic losses, then set out to conquer the continent. She had very nearly done it, too, and it had taken the cosmic might of Mirrorsun to stop her army.
"We shared the same room in childhood, we even shared the insufferably obnoxious John Glasken when we grew older," Jemli said to the portrait. "So why are songs sung about you, why do bards recite thousand-verse epics in the taverns about your loves, duels, and victories, yet they call me the Prophet who shall never die because the Deity could not stand having me in paradise? How I hate bards! Burn one and half an hour later you need to burn a dozen more."
Jemli was being very unfair to herself, and her melancholy was in part explainable by the nine tumblers of gin and bitters that she had consumed over the previous hour. Her Reformed Gentheist movement now covered the overmayorates of Kalgoorlie, Woomera, and Alspring, so that she actually had a greater population paying
her homage—and taxes—than Lemorel had conquered at the height of her military expansion.
''Why am I a failure?" she demanded of the portrait.
She drained the last of her gin and bitters, then flung the crystal tumbler at Lemorel's portrait. She missed by over a yard, and the tumbler shattered against the limestone wall. Lemorel's affairs had been wildly romantic, Jemli had merely experienced seductions and managed to marry two men with excellent prospects.
"The bards sing that when you got into bed with a man the trees burst into flower, even in the depths of winter, and the birds perched on the roofs and serenaded you and your lover to sleep in sixteen-part harmony. With me it was all grubby fumble, slap, and tickle."
She flung the empty jar of Hawker gin at the portrait, missing by such a wide margin that she hit the portrait of herself in mayoral robes. The portrait fell to the floor along with the fragments of jar. Jemli snatched up the little phial of bitters and threw it too at her sister's image. It smashed through the window, and she was rewarded with a shriek from somewhere out in the darkness. She cer
tainly lacked Lemorel's coordination and skill at targetry.
"Well, at three feet even I can hit a wastrel husband and his giggling hopsicle!" shouted Jemli.
She lurched to her feet, reeled over to a wall, and pressed a panel. There was a clack. She slid the panel aside, took out the Morelac that had once belonged to her sister, and drew back both strikers. Making her way across to Lemorel's portrait, she discharged both barrels into the face at a range of six inches. Moments later two of her personal guards burst in.
"Get out!" she shrieked, flinging the Morelac at them but hitting the reciprocating clock instead.
The guards left hurriedly. Jemli snatched the gun from the wreckage of the clock and returned it to its recess. Slamming the panel back, she leaned against the wall with her arms folded.
"What is it about you?" she asked the ruined face of Lemorel's portrait. "Oh, you were brave, charismatic, and clever, but I am too! I'm cleverer. I conquered quicker, and more souls—and they're alive! Mostly. You killed hundreds of thousands, you put entire cities
to the torch, you murdered whole mayorates. I just burned a few heretics . . . and bards. You betrayed your patron Zarvora Cybeline, you smashed her beamflash system, and murdered her librarians. I don't murder. I charm. I'm cleverer than you."
Cleverer. What would a clever person do? Lemorel was clever, and everyone knew what she had done. Jemli returned to her table and picked up the decoded message that her beamflash crew had delivered some hours before.
/1 AM IN A POSITION OF TRUST IN ROCHESTER /1 LOVE THE DEITY /1 HATE ALL ABOMINATIONS / ALL POWER TO THE WORD / DEATH TO ENEMIES OF THE WORD /
The attached report linked it with the Highliber's office. Obviously a trick, but worth investigation. Perhaps he or she could be used. How? She picked up another report.
/ CHRISTIAN GAIA CRUSADERS OF WARRAGUL PROPOSE ALLIANCE /
Her priests were reporting that the Christian Gaia Crusaders were doing most of their recruiting from her own followers. As Jemli subverted, so was she subverted.
"I get more out of one assassination than you got from ten thousand battle deaths," Jemli snarled at the portrait. "You conquered cities, I conquer citizens' hearts and souls, I—"
Jemli froze, her own words ringing in her ears. No, not her words, the Word. Was she not the lips that spoke for the Deity? The beamflash network. The Dragon Librarian Service. Conquer mercifully. The beamflash network was powered by humans and sunlight! It was blessed, it was meant to be her tool. The human-powered calculors of the Commonwealth had confirmed her prophecy about Mirrorsun not harming the world and being cast away into the darkness. Rochester was made for her to conquer, no other overmayorate was better poised to fall to the Word, Rochester was begging for salvation—and that was it!
Abruptly a mighty vision solidified before her. Jemli shrieked, but this time her guards decided to remain outside. She slammed the door open, lost her balance and fell, but made it seem as if she was dropping to her knees to praise the Deity.
"The Word says that we conquer through salvation and mercy!" cried Jemli to her very nervous guards. "No war, only salvation; no conquest, only mercy! Sing praise to the Deity! Fetch my priests. Fetch my advisors and mayors!"
The guards immediately began to sing the first verse of "Nearer to Thee, Glorious Deity," then four of them hurried away before the others realized that they had missed a perfectly good excuse to put distance between themselves and the notoriously unstable Prophet. By the next day the beamflash network had spread the news far and wide that Jemli the Prophet had been blessed with a new vision. There would be no wars in the Deity's name, the Deity's love and mercy would vanquish all abominations and enemies of the Word.
Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
Jamondel noticed that Velesti was walking differently, still with her swaggering stride, but with more urgency. After twelve days at the monastery, Samondel's Austaric had become not so much fluent as more precise.
"What we must do now is integrate the contacts Serjon has made," said Velesti. "I have not spoken directly with the Highliber again, but his deputy says he is anxious to make diplomatic links with Mounthaven. He has been asking about the volumes of alcohol and vegetable oils that your wings need for compression spirit. Our artisans could even help with some of the simpler spare parts for engines."
"Serjon said his present contacts are not official. They are even a little beyond the law. Dealing with them has been difficult. For him."
"They sound like aviads; they could supply compression spirit as well as horses."
"I cannot see Serjon dealing with aviads."
"I may be wrong. Whatever the truth, an official contact with Rochester would be of benefit to everyone."
"Here is the inn," said Samondel, pushing the door open.
"So, let us see whether Serjon is willing to tell us just who are his associates."
As they climbed the stairs Samondel fumbled in her pockets for the key.
"Serjon is still in the same room," Velesti said. "I saw it on the chalkboard."
"I cannot find my key, and he may already be out for the day."
"I'll get us in."
"Velesti! Don't you dare break down his door. Again."
"I swear on my life that I shall not."
"And if he's in bed—"
"I shall leave very hurriedly," Velesti assured her, "and you may take up the option to stay with your dear lover."
They stopped at Serjon's door, but before Samondel could knock, Velesti slipped the airlord's stolen key into the lock and flung the door open. Samondel was assailed with a multitude of tumbling, chaotic impressions in the dim, dawn light filtering through the closed shutters. A woman with masses of brown, curly hair and particularly large breasts sitting up in bed and screaming. Serjon scrambling for a pistol under the pillow. Velesti's boot flicking the weapon from his hand. Velesti's boot on Serjon's neck and the barrel of her flintlock in his ear. The remains of a meal and several wine jars. A strident perfume. Clothing and underclothes strewn about on the floor and furniture.
Samondel stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. The woman stopped screaming. Serjon stopped struggling.
"Surprise!" said Velesti in a bright and cheerful tone.
Velesti picked up Serjon's flintlock, then stood back and let him get up.
"You," said Samondel in Austaric, glaring at Serjon's bedmate. "Get dressed. Get out."
The girl slipped from the bed, gathered her clothing, and dressed hurriedly. Not a word was spoken. She began to edge toward the door. Samondel moved aside for her. Velesti held up a frilly garter.
"I presume this is not his," she said with a glance to Serjon.
"Ah, no, Frelle Tiger Dragon," said the girl. "It's mine."
"I know you from somewhere. Your name is Nereli, is it not?"
"Aye, Frelle Tiger Dragon."
Velesti strode across and slapped the garter into her hand, then closed her fingers over it.
"Now go, put it on outside."
"Aye, Frelle, at once," babbled the terrified Nereli, just as she caught the merest flicker of a wink from Velesti.
It was only when she was out in the street that Nereli opened her hand and found five gold royals sharing her palm with the garter. So this is the life of a spy, she thought. An easy seduction, then merely rolling about in bed with a very pleasant young man who barely spoke Austaric let alone divulged any secrets. One moment of intense fright, danger, and humiliation, then a wink for thanks and five gold royals. Thanks and royals for what? "I was once a spy," she would say wearily to some patron in Marelle Glasken's tavern that night, "but no girl can live that way for long. You never knew who you were working for, what you were doing, or if it was for good or evil. The gold, luxury, and excitement just do not make up for the uncertainty." She would, of course, have to cultivate an air of mystery and more languorous speech, but that would not be hard.
Back in Serjon's room, it was as if Greatwinter had suddenly returne
d. Velesti stood beside the door as Samondel picked up a second garter between her thumb and forefinger. Serjon remained seated on the floor, hugging his knees.
"Who was she?" asked Samondel with a voice as cold as frost under bare feet.
"I, ah, met her."
"Obviously," said Velesti, also in Old Anglian.
"Quite by chance."
"Frelle Nereli Torisen, jarmaid, Marelle's Tavern," said Velesti.
"Quite by chance, in a tavern?" asked Samondel.
"It is known to be the best assignation place in Rochester—" said Velesti.
"Nothing but the best for Serjon Feydamor," snapped Samondel.
"—and center for espionage exchange," added Velesti.
"What?" cried Samondel and Serjon together.
"The Espionage Constables and their agents all drink there, only lower-class spies go to the Filthy Swine. I trust you said nothing of importance to Frelle Nereli?"
Velesti could hear Samondel's teeth grinding. Serjon suddenly realized that Velesti was speaking fluent Old Anglian.
"You seek me out, you shatter my friendship with a man so sweet that he could charm the very birds out of the air, chance alone saved me from the renewed attentions of your penis, then as soon as I am gone you go straight down to the nearest tavern and, and, and—what is the local euphemism?"
"Get a leg over," said Velesti, now opening a sealed square of poorpaper that she had taken from her jacket.
"Get your leg over the first jarmaid to hand—who is probably a spy for heaven knows who? Reformed Gentheists? The Dragon Librarian Service? Why did you bother trying to seduce me again? Was it the feeling of power, bedding an airlord? How many others have really been making up for Bronlar's difficulties in bed with you, and for how long?"
Eyes of the Calculor Page 46
