"At least five in Rochester," said Velesti, tapping the report that she held.
"No! Not so!" shouted Serjon.
"This is a report from certain . . . associates of mine, left to watch over your welfare," said Velesti, hunching her head forward and putting her hand above her eyes. "I was worried that the Reformed Gentheists might attack you."
"Five?" cried Samondel, parts of her face blazing a deeper shade of red than her hair.
"Jilmer, Metel, Darien, Zoltine, and of course, Nereli."
"Lies!" insisted Serjon.
"Well, yes, I am lying," said Velesti. "I only had you trailed for six days and five nights, so there could have been . . . hmmm, one new girl per night, five nights, another seven nights at the rate of one girl per night is twelve girls in your bed—oh, plus Samondel is thirteen. Very unlucky number, that. I do understand,
though. All that unrequited desire building up, after all. Of course were I a man I would have thought masturbation a chivalrous path to take, but—"
"You stay out of this!" shouted Samondel. "Twelve others! And how many more since we became lovers last July?"
"Assuming one per day for eight months, take off a half dozen days to fly the ocean, two hundred thirty-four—ooh, eighteen times thirteen, very unlucky number."
"My love and dearest, she's lying—" began the increasingly frantic Serjon.
"I might never have known about all this had not Velesti mistranslated 'dozen days' as 'fortnight', which led to us catching you here. I was actually anxious to see you. I was wondering how to get rid of Velesti so I could tumble into bed with you, and open that 6 ME package again."
"This one," said Velesti, drawing from her pocket the roughly rewrapped packet.
Samondel glared at Velesti for a moment, then decided that Serjon was still a far more worthy target of her hatred.
"Get dressed," said Samondel firmly.
"Not in front of that" snapped Serjon hugging his knees more tightly to his chest and scowling at Velesti.
"I am certainly not going to let it be said that I was alone with you while you were dressing," retorted Samondel haughtily.
Velesti tossed Serjon his clothing, and Samondel flung Nereli's second garter to him as well. Serjon kicked the garter away and began to dress.
"I was going to apologize for going away, plead for your understanding, your sympathy. Bah! Even Velesti has more sympathy that you."
"And that is really saying something," added Velesti as she scooped up the garter.
"But I forget myself, I have other questions. Are the aviads' wingfields in Tasmania Island selling you compression spirit—and in return for what?"
"Samondel, darling, you must have heard this from Velesti. You can't believe her, she's a spy, just like Nereli. They set me up. Nereli was the only one."
Velesti pulled Nereli's garter on over her boot and put her hands on her hips, thrusting her breasts out.
"Definitely not you," said Samondel.
Velesti removed the garter and tossed it to her.
"She's probably an aviad herself!" insisted Serjon.
"Aviad I am not, but Inspector in the Espionage Constables I certainly am, and the agent who seduced you reports to the division coordinator who reports to my deputy!"
Samondel and Serjon gasped together.
"Serjon Feydamor, you are under arrest on charges of espionage and plotting to overthrow the Rochestrian Commonwealth by force. Lie on the floor with your hands behind your back."
"This can all be explained," insisted Serjon as Velesti shackled his hands and feet. "Yes, we have an alliance with the Avianese, but the Gentheists gave us no choice. No harm was intended to Rochester."
Velesti overturned the bed, revealing a crate and several barrels. The crate contained a dozen Clastini reaction pistols and spare clips.
"Can you explain these as well?" asked Samondel.
Serjon did not reply, and his eyes were downcast as Velesti tied him to the grille of the fireplace.
"I believe we have earned breakfast," said Velesti. "My Dragons will come up here and tidy things away while we eat, meantime he can sit here alone and contemplate his sins. Would you care to visit the eatery downstairs, Frelle Samondel?"
"I would be delighted, Frelle Velesti."
"You will be attended to shortly, Fras Serjon. Just practice sitting there quietly. I expect you will be sitting quietly in small rooms for a very long time to come."
There were neither errand boys nor runners in the taproom, so they went out into the street. Velesti hailed someone Samondel had never seen before, and whispered something to him. The man set off for the inn.
"So you were an inspector in the Espionage Constables all along," said Samondel.
"Well... it certainly frightened him into confessing," said Ve-lesti, avoiding the question.
Samondel doubled over with laughter, clinging to Velesti's arm for balance.
"Frelle, Frelle, you are the most delightfully clever and wicked woman I have met in my entire life."
They were knocked flat by the explosion that blew the inn apart, fountaining tiles, boards, plaster, and smoke high into the air. They lay with their hands over their heads as fragments and dust poured down around them. Both had their guns out as they got to their feet and surveyed the damage. The Celestial was just a pile of burning wreckage, and the buildings to either side were burning too, and partly collapsed. Screams were already coming from within the ruins, and every Constable's Runner within the radius of a mile was blowing his whistle.
The search of the ruins took the rest of the morning, and nobody was surprised when no identifiable pieces of Serjon's body were found. It was only in midafternoon that Velesti began to track down sightings of someone answering Serjon's description fleeing through the city and across one of the bridges immediately after the explosion.
"He thought I was downstairs," Samondel kept saying over and again. "He tried to kill me."
Samondel walked past Marelle's tavern twice before finally entering. It was early in the evening, and several jarmaids were cleaning tables and sweeping the floor while a carter and his apprentice carried jars and barrels in. Samondel stood waiting for someone to approach her. One of the jarmaids looked up. Nereli. The girl squeaked and dashed out of the room. When she returned, it was with a disheveled but nevertheless glamorous-looking woman in her midtwenties who was wearing a bathrobe of green silk. Nereli was cowering behind her.
"I doubt that you're here for a drink or a job," said Marelle Glasken.
"Actually, no," replied Samondel slowly.
"Well, you have before you the two women who have slept with the two most recent men in your life, Frelle Samondel. What can we do for you?"
"Talk. Please."
Marelle turned to the other jarmaids. "That's clean enough, go." She indicated a table and the three of them sat down. Samondel sat with her hand on her chin for a moment, then pointed at the quavering Nereli.
"Where?" Samondel asked.
"I, I met Fras Serjon at the Celestial, in the taproom. I was having a drink by myself. When he came down to dinner I caught his eye, we started talking, then, ah, ah—"
"Usual proceedings took place, I am imagining. Who sent you?"
Nereli half turned to Marelle with her mouth opened, then she stared down at the table. Samondel looked to Marelle.
"Who, ah, did tell you to send Nereli... on mission?"
"Martyne is still alive," answered Marelle smoothly.
As a diversion, the tactic worked superbly. Samondel's composure cracked.
"Where? Must—I must, er, see him," she said eagerly.
"He vanished over a week ago, he said he was never returning to Rochester."
"Was dead. Taken to, ah, dissection rooms."
"The dissection rooms are the University's emergency hospital. Didn't your second tell you?"
"No," replied Samondel, looking thoughtful.
"His injuries were dramatic, but were not fatal," cont
inued Marelle. "Your gun must have been badly charged, otherwise he would have died."
Badly charged? thought Samondel. Velesti could no more mis-charge a gun than she could kiss a man. Unless ... A "fortnight," a "dozen days."
"Velesti lies, plots, schemes and manipulates as easily as others breathe," Samondel muttered, her teeth grating.
"Sorry?" asked Marelle.
"Go," Samondel said to Nereli, who pushed away from the table hurriedly, almost knocking her chair over in the process. "And Nereli," Samondel continued.
"Ah, ah, yes Frelle?"
Samondel smiled broadly. "Good work. Thank you."
Samondel turned to Marelle as Nereli dashed through the door.
"Nice girl, reminds me of my mother," said Marelle.
"Velesti has paid ... did instruct you, ah, to have Serjon seduced. Particularly on day eleven. Correct, I am?"
"I'm not going to lie to someone as astute as you, Frelle. Velesti arranged it."
Samondel sat back with her eyes closed, the breath hissing in her nostrils.
"Why?"
"She did not say."
Samondel opened her eyes again.
"Nereli's report. Contained what?"
"Not much, Serjon didn't say a great deal. His story was that he was a wine-and-spirits merchant, investigating Rochester's distilleries. They spent the nights together, he vanished during the day—"
"How many nights?"
"All those while you were gone."
"Velesti! Damn her, she is the devil!"
"He was going to go south after he left here. Hunting. 'Hunting birds,' were his words. 'Make feathers fly,' he would say, then laugh."
Samondel considered again. Serjon was a deadly shot in a gun-wing, but clumsy with carbines and had never gone hunting in his life. Hunting birds—featherheads! Aviads!
"He did say, where he is—was—from?"
"Just 'far away,' and that he was soon leaving on a whirlwind hunting trip."
"Whirlwind? What is?"
"Wind that swirls in a circle, picks up leaves and dust."
Tornado! Featherhead hunting. Everything was suddenly very, very clear to Samondel. Horrifyingly clear.
"You know, concerning me, with Martyne," Samondel said.
"Yes."
"You love him?"
"Love? What a giggle. He amused me for a while, and I may have amused him."
"Martyne, I do love."
"Alas, Frelle, that show has left town. He faced certain death, but when he survived—thanks to Velesti, I suspect—he decided to leave, vanish from your life as if he were indeed dead. To leave you and Serjon together and return to his monastery. Martyne had become free to be your beloved, but your heart was Serjon's—"
"I would have left him for Martyne!" shouted Samondel.
The carters carrying in the jars and barrels stopped to stare at them. At a gesture from Marelle's thumb they returned to their work.
"Did you tell Serjon you loved him?" asked Marelle.
"What else you telling someone in bed?"
"/ usually say 'Wake up, I can't sleep.' "
"Frelle, am not. . . what is multiple-lovers word?"
"Promiscuous."
"Am not promiscuous. I loved Martyne, but thought he was not mine. I was so, so lonely. What to do? Leave Serjon? Pine for Martyne while he lives with wife? Would you?"
"Never!"
"I opened my heart, just an instant. Let love for Martyne blaze out like, ah, meteor, then closed it again."
"You really loved him?"
"Yes! Still! Martyne taught me what love really means! Now I chase Serjon, kill Serjon, clean up mess he has making, then follow Martyne to Balesha, tell Martyne I love him like sun blazing in summer sky. Perhaps he can be returning. If not. . . end of everything."
"No man is worth that, silly Frelle."
"Then is something I have felt and you have not, wise Frelle."
Marelle stood up.
"Frelle Samondel, believe it or not, I would kill to feel what you have felt for Martyne, but I suspect that you will always have
the advantage of me. Martyne and you were well suited. I like you both."
"Am feeling ... no grudge. To you. But to Velesti. . ." Samondel spread her fingers and tilted her hand back and forth. "Am not sure."
Marelle held out her arm. "Come now, visit my kitchen, meet my cook, and sample my coffee."
Velesti was oddly subdued when Samondel found her, and sat listening quietly as the undeniably annoyed American airlord related all that Marelle had said.
"After I exposed Martyne's betrothed, I went to my room and exercised for a time," she confessed.
"You what?"
"How was I to know about Serjon arriving?"
"You arranged that whole, ah, ah, what is the local term? Carnival of blood, perhaps?"
"Bloody circus?"
"You arranged the whole bloody circus to get rid of Serjon?"
"Ah . . ."
"No lies!!"
"Yes."
"God in heaven, please tell me this is dream! Why? You lie to the Highliber, lie to me, lie to your Overmayor, lie to the Espionage Constables, provoke a duel, risk starting wars, change the destiny of continents, but whyV
"To cool your passion for Serjon, to give Martyne a real chance with you."
"I cannot believe this!" cried Samondel, pulling at her red hair.
"He's my mate. In Australica you do that sort of thing for your mates."
"Mate, I know the word now. Good friend. Best friend. No love, only loyalty. Very strange. Usually only men are mates."
"But not always. As you said, Martyne is my only friend. I was a fiend, and he saved me. I owe him everything. I would never sleep with him, but I would die for him."
"And me?"
"You're his beloved, so I'd die for you too."
"No, I mean—ah, thank you—I mean, you are not jealous? Of me?"
"No. I don't love him."
Samondel sat with her head in her hands for a long time. Presently she looked up, her eyes bloodshot and red rimmed.
"Velesti, I am only a damn ignorant American, so . . ."
"So?"
"Can you help me do something—oh, and explain some local terminology to me?"
"I owe you that. All right."
"Help me find Serjon, but. . ."
"But?"
'7 am to kill him!"
Velesti considered this for a time.
"You may have the first shot at him. Even as your friend I shall promise no more."
"That will be enough . . . but tell me this: You are Martyne's 'mate.' "
"But you are my 'friend.' "
"Yes."
"But we are not mates?"
"Of course not. We're girls, we are far too sensible to be mates."
Samondel closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"All right, all right, I give up. Where do we start looking for Serjon?"
"With this report on the Celestial. Fifteen killed, dozens injured. If we had been eating in the taproom . . . well. . ."
"We would be dead."
"The explosion happened on the top floor, then the whole inn crashed down."
"Serjon tried to kill us. Damn him! Less than a fortnight ago we were rolling about on his bed in each others' arms. How could he? What is he?"
Velesti seized her by the shoulders. "Serjon is someone who likes to help a victim. He first lay with you when you were both victims, but now look at you: independent, strong, resourceful, and growing into a legend that will soon eclipse him. Airlord Sartov has great influence, and he is known to want Avianese air power destroyed."
"You are saying that this whole venture, my venture, was an excuse to mount an attack on the Avianese on Tasmania Island?"
"I am saying nothing, but I am asking a great deal. Serjon will try to go to Traralgon, Frelle. Can he ride?"
"He told me he could not."
"Then he must use the paraline trains or go b
y horse coach. I shall use the beamflash towers to have every train and coach stopped and searched. We can catch him."
I he following day Velesti was not quite so confident. A report came in about a lone bandit who had committed murder in Seymour. Velesti and Samondel were summoned by Dramoren.
"I thought you said he couldn't ride?" exclaimed Velesti.
"He said that!" retorted Samondel.
"Well, someone who could ride quite passably well just killed a stableman at Seymour, stole a fresh cavalry horse, and used something that sounds suspiciously like a reaction pistol to kill three of the five lancers who went after him. So, he can ride, and he must have ridden cross-country. I should have checked at the Rochester stables! Damn his duplicity. He was heading southeast, according to the survivors."
"What do you wish to do?" asked the Highliber in Austaric. "Traralgon is outside Rochester's control, our authorities cannot pursue him there."
"Samondel and I shall go after him," announced Velesti.
"I can requisition a galley engine for you and order the lines to Seymour cleared," said the Highliber.
"Good," replied Velesti. "Please beamflash for fresh horses to be waiting for us at Seymour as well."
Jerjon was gone by the time Samondel and Velesti reached Trar-algon Castle, but he had left his mark. The warlord and five of his men had been shot down and their new reaction pistols stolen. The angry but confused lancers said that the latest group of children and their guardian were gone too, along with another five horses. Sel-vintan, the aviad who had been appointed envoy to Traralgon ten days earlier, confirmed that Serjon had done the killing. Green eyes and wavy black hair, all of them had agreed on that. The envoy aviad did not need any persuasion to come with them, and he rode Serjon's stolen horse as they left the castellany.
"Now that we are clear of the castle, you must tell us everything you know of the flying machines," said Velesti as they rode.
"They fly in from the east, pick up five horses and up to twenty children, then go south."
"Where?"
"All that I know is that I was meant to fly with them on the flight before last. Obviously Avian is to the south, on Tasmania Island. The research academy and kitewing workshops are at the capital, Launceston."
"Where else might they go?"
"Nowhere, Frelle. The other five wingfields are mere strips of grass with a windsock, a box of tools, and a pile of compression-spirit barrels."
Eyes of the Calculor Page 47
