"You are good informer," began Samondel.
"My lady, never!" exclaimed Selvintan.
"She means that you are well informed; I was about to say the same myself," explained Velesti.
"I am actually a distiller. My wife and family are already on Tasmania Island, and I lived there for a time myself. I was sent back here to oversee certain distilling operations run by unsuspecting humans, then suddenly I was called back to Launceston."
"Expanded need for compression spirit," commented Samondel.
"I arrived at Traralgon wingfield and was given charge of a
group of children, then another aviad arrived and took my place. He told me to stay and act as envoy to Traralgon. I must admit to some confusion, but it is my place to obey orders, so here I am."
"Who told you to stay?" asked Velesti.
"The young aviad. He had dark hair and a beard. He killed three lancers who tried to jump upon him. That impressed the warlord mightily. When the air machine ascended, he was on it."
"Five horses, so many people," said Samondel, switching to Old Anglian. "Even a super-regal would be struggling, it definitely could not carry spirit for fourteen hours with such a load . .. unless they take on more spirit at Tasmania Island, after the passengers are dropped off."
"This does not calculate," remarked Velesti. "I thought you said Serjon hated aviads, yet he seems as thick as treacle with them."
"I do not know what to think. He is working with them, ferrying passengers to Tasmania Island in exchange for spirit and horses. Perhaps I misjudged him."
"Frelle, over the past days Serjon has also killed more people than I have in as many months. He intended you to be one of them."
"I cannot explain that."
"Then perhaps we should pray for divine guidance."
"You? Pray?"
"I am joking, but nevertheless there is a fine new Reformed Gentheist church at the frontier settlement of Warragul. We are going to pay it a visit."
"But I am a Damarite Christian."
"Oh, but I think you should see this church, Frelle. It has been blessed with signs and wonders."
Warragul, Southeast Australica
I he wonder that was the central feature of the Church of Celestial Balance was a small, enclosed boat with stubby outrigger pontoons and a harness over a hundred feet long. After accepting a donation
the lay preacher was delighted to relate how it had been found in the tidal marshes, and how a tracker had discovered the Envoy nearby. He was known only as the Envoy, and in broken Austaric he said he had been towed all the way from North America by cooperative cetezoids. The people of North America had apparently overthrown their heretical engine builders and aviators, and the cetezoids had wished to bring them to Australica to help humans crush the aviad mayorate on Tasmania Island. Reformed Gentheists were making pilgrimages from everywhere to see it. Even the Prophet Jemli was considering a trip there.
"The Envoy, does he have green eyes and black, wavy hair?" Velesti asked. "In his boots he is about six feet tall?"
"That is him, Frelle, I see you are a devout and well-prepared pilgrim," replied the preacher.
"That is all a fake!" said Samondel to Velesti as they left. "After six thousand miles the paint of that boat thing should be worn where the harness rubs against it. Instead, it looks as if new. It's Serjon's doing. What is his scheme?"
"To me it seems that he is playing aviads against both warlords and Rochester, while working with the Reformed Gentheists," speculated Velesti. "You have a military background, yes?"
"Yes, it comes with being an airlord."
"Then consider this. Launceston is what, in calculor circles, is called a single point of failure for Avian. Everything depends upon it. Serjon could get the Avianese into his confidence, then smash them in a single raid from the air, then tell the Reformed Gentheists that North American musketeers traveled by sea to do the fighting. Thus North America restores its monopoly on aircraft, Avian is annihilated, and the Reformed Gentheists are free to overthrow the Commonwealth with smuggled reaction pistols—if Prophet Jemli can explain why they are not fueled machines. The aviads left on the mainland would be caught between the sea and a very hostile Reformed Gentheist government."
Samondel did not have to think about Velesti's words for very long. She turned to Selvintan, who was whirling a little model of Serjon's boat that he had bought at the church's kiosk.
"Flying to Avian, can be arranged, yes?"
"Flying! Frelle, there is a list of people waiting for the few kite-wing flights that is longer than a taxation auditor's memory."
"Who determines the list?" asked Velesti.
"He is known only as Terian."
"Ah, yes, I know him," she said casually.
"You—you what?" exclaimed Selvintan. "Even Fras Terian's own shadow does not know who he is."
"Well, Fras Terian's shadow is obviously not a member of the Espionage Constables, but I am. Frelle Samondel, I shall contact Terian from the Seymour beamflash tower, then we three shall take the paraline to the Bendigo Abandon. Fras Selvintan here will escort us to one of the secret wingfields, and you shall be flown to Laun-ceston to warn the mayor of Serjon Feydamor's plans."
"Why me?" asked Samondel.
"Because you are American, because you can speak with as much authority as Serjon, and because you may even be able to help with their defenses."
Seymour, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
Velesti and Samondel visited the Seymour bathhouse as they waited for a galley engine to be prepared and ere wed for them. Velesti's body caused no small amount of consternation among the other patrons of the women's section before they realized that she was definitely female. They bathed quickly, more anxious to be hurriedly clean than to luxuriate in warm, soapy water, but as they were toweling Samondel took Nereli's garter from her jacket pocket and drew it onto her thigh. She struck a heroic pose, with her foot on a bench. Velesti glanced at her, raised an eyebrow, and returned to lacing her boots.
"Nine," she decided.
"Only nine?" asked Samondel, sounding genuinely worried.
"I deducted one for the silly pose."
"How could he prefer her to me?"
Velesti blinked. "Speaking as a woman: he was a bastard. Speaking as a man: she was there and you were not."
"So you would excuse what he did?" exclaimed Samondel, now sounding puzzled.
Velesti stood up, snatched up her sports bra, sniffed at it, shrugged, and put it on. She stood before Samondel with her arms folded beneath her breasts.
"Muscles or no muscles, I am undeniably a woman," she pointed out. "I can understand his behavior, but that does not mean I approve or sanction it."
"So is this all there is between men and women?" demanded Samondel, extending the leg with the garter horizontally. "Lies, lust, and trying not to get caught?"
"What would Bronlar have said, had she been with me when I surprised you with Serjon?"
"I know, I know," admitted Samondel, lowering her leg. "Perhaps I am just as tarred as Serjon."
"Yet would you have ever betrayed MartyneV
"Never!"
"And Martyne was prepared to die for you. Even now, he thinks that he has left you to be happy with Serjon."
"True, true."
"So there is hope."
"But Martyne is gone."
"Martyne is alive, and that is a vast improvement over being dead. Go to Tasmania Island, Frelle, help the aviads survive against your people. Then return here and I swear I shall bring him to you again."
Samondel removed the garter and tossed it to Velesti. Velesti twirled it on her finger.
"Kindly return that item of uniform to your loyal and diligent agent," said Samondel, "and yet again give her my thanks."
The Southeast Coast, Australica
rn hour after nightfall a kitewing descended to Apollo Wingfield as silently as a black owl, with its engine idling through a maze of baffles. The flyer handed out
bags of mail and small, heavy packages without unstrapping himself from the flight bunk.
"Return mail?" he asked the adjunct.
"No, adult passenger."
The flyer cursed softly, but Samondel heard. She had not eaten all day, and was wearing only cotton trousers and a blouse under a featherdown jacket, but her one hundred and thirty pounds was at the limit of what could be managed for a stealth ascent with the early model kitewing. The standard seventy pounds of mail, infants, or small tools was far preferable.
"I shall make inquiries about Martyne," said Velesti in Old Anglian. "If he has returned to Balesha that may take time, however. The monastery is deep within Reformed Gentheist territory, and the beamflash system is less than reliable without the Dragon Librarian Service to operate it."
"Shall I ever see you again?" asked Samondel, staring at the dark shape that was Velesti's head.
"I have to haunt someone, and if she decides to test whether I am really a ghost it could prove bad for my health."
"You have a way of staying in good health."
"Then try to emulate me."
Samondel had been in Velesti's company for long enough to know that she made no farewells. The American skipped forward, flung her arms around her, and squeezed for several heartbeats.
"Go your way, and do something unspeakable to someone deserving of it," she said as she kissed Velesti's cheek.
"Go your way, and do something that I would approve of," replied Velesti, cuffing her head.
"That leaves me a lot of scope, Frelle Incredible."
Samondel climbed onto the wing and strapped herself down as
the handlers pushed the aircraft to the end of the ramp. Velesti was already gone.
"First time?" asked the flyer.
"Flying, very much," replied Samondel. "American. Six kills."
There was very little that the flyer could say to that. The handlers began to run with the kitewing as it descended a steep slope. What had once been a road curved sharply to avoid a sharp drop, but the kitewing glided out into open space. The flyer eased the throttle forward and the kitewing's downward glide curved up into level flight. The idling of the compression engine was little louder than the air's rush past them.
"Past those two hills and we're over open sea," said the flyer. "About five miles out I'll open the baffles and let it roar. It takes an enormous lot of spirit to push past the muffling."
The extremely low stall speed of the kitewing also meant a very low cruising speed. Thus the thermals around the hills buffeted them heavily, then they were out over the water.
"Wingfield to wingfield it's seventy miles, Frelle; coast to coast it's sixty. The kitewing has a glide ratio of twenty to one and the engine can be dropped if it fails so we can glide maybe ten miles. There's really only forty miles in the middle that could kill us. We try to avoid rough weather, so engine failure is the main risk."
"Kitewings failing often?"
"Fairly often."
"Am sad. Death certain."
"Not always. One floated for two days, and washed up on King Island. The flyer lived, the mail got through. I suppose the cetezoids thought it was a floating tree and ignored it."
At five miles the engine's baffles were opened and the engine roared loud as it put them into a steeper climb. Samondel had never been in a wing that lumbered along at a mere forty miles per hour, or been sustained by such a ragged-sounding engine. The cold seeped into her clothing and she began to shiver. She had left everything back on the mainland: her gun, ammunition, watch, and gold. Even her forged papers and flight jacket were safely locked in her room at Villiers College. Then she remembered. Around her neck was a
gold locket with her name, office, and crest engraved into an iron disk inside. Serjon had bought her the locket in Condelor, what seemed like centuries ago, but what was in fact less than a year.
"Half hour to go!" called the flyer.
With numb, fumbling fingers she drew out the locket and popped it open. The disk was like a small, thin coin in her hand as she slipped it into her pocket. She tugged at the chain and snapped it, held the locket and chain out over the leading edge of the wing, then let it go.
"Lot of folk do that," called the flyer.
"Do what?"
"Drop things at halfway point. Drop bits of their lives that they want to get rid of into the one place where there's no return."
"Was rat, drowning," shouted Samondel.
Suddenly the engine lost power. Samondel froze.
"Powering down for the approach to King Gate Wingfield," the flyer said above the much quieter engine. "Spirit is always in short supply, we can't afford to waste it."
"Sensible," agreed Samondel, greatly relieved.
"Present from a lover?"
"Is what?"
"Whatever you dropped back there."
"From him, no love involved."
King Island
Ixing Gate Wingfield might almost have been in Mounthaven, for there were marker pyres all along the ascent strip, and a flare trailing smoke to indicate the wind's direction. Handlers were sprinting along the ground and steadying the wings even while the kitewing was still in the air, so low was its stall speed. Samondel slid from the wing, numb and stiff. The wingfield was a stone inn, several tents, and a fuel store. Samondel identified herself to the wingfield adjunct, and he arranged for a steam cart to take her south overnight, in spite of her pro-
tests that she could not afford the time lost. But thirty miles that could be traveled by burning wood was several gallons of spirit saved.
Tasmania Island
rs the sun was rising Samondel ascended in another kitewing, this one with a louder and far more powerful engine. Within an hour she was on Tasmania Island and arguing with the wingfield adjunct of Smithton. Once more, there could be no kitewing spared to take her to the Avianese capital at the Launcestion abandon, but a steam gig had just arrived towing a tank of diesel spirit, and she was invited to ride the hundred miles to Launceston if she helped with the stoking and wood cutting. This time the driver was even friendlier than the one on King Island, and at sunset insisted on stopping to camp for the night by the roadside. There was a short but one-sided scuffle before the driver lit the mutton-fat headlamps and drove the last two hours through darkness with his own flintlock pointed at his back by Samondel, who was seated on the wood tender.
Euroa, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
Brother Nikalan went where he wished, whether it was in the Monastery of St. Roger, the Mayorate of Euroa, the Rochestrian Commonwealth, or anywhere on the continent of Australica. Like Jemli the Prophet, or Liaisary Ilyire, he was seen as a skilled juggler employed for entertainment at a family revel: excellent value for an afternoon, but one hoped he would move on quickly and let life return to normal. With Rangen, however, it was different. He admired Ilyire greatly and aspired to be like him.
"I have been reading about births, deaths, and lynchings for the past three hundred years," declared Ilyire as he walked into the phys-
ics workshop where Rangen was ordering a team of his own superiors about.
"I have been sucking water through pipes," replied Rangen.
"I have also been to Libris."
"I have stayed here."
Half a dozen monks sat back on benches, while others began to hurry in from outside. They hissed at each other for silence.
"I have used the Libris Calculor to make a discovery," explained Nikalan.
"I have developed a new calculor," replied Rangen.
"Did you know that I have discovered something about aviads?"
"Did you know that I can calculate by sucking?"
Nikalan unrolled a scroll on the bench beside a very complex arrangement of several hundred pipes, levers, wheels, dials, and valves. Rangen lifted a pail of water from the floor and poured it into a cistern held above his apparatus by three stout wooden legs carved with ornamental spirals.
"Tell me how to live in peace with the av
iads," said Nikalan.
"Screw the aviads. Pose me a simple exercise in calculation."
"Correct. Ah, the square root of four thousand, eight hundred seventy-two, rounded to the fourth decimal place."
Rangen began working levers and valves, then he turned a stopcock below the cistern and released a governor spun by clockwork. His labyrinth of pipes began to chatter softly to itself.
"Aviads must intermarry with humans, else they become childless after the fourth generation. You know what that means?"
"The weight of water in pipes forms an excellent method of opening and closing logic gates. You know what that means?"
"You should have dalliance with a fourth-generation aviad woman."
"And you should use water for your calculations."
"It would be an act of harmony between species, God would approve of it."
"It would be a humane alternative to human-powered calculors,
God would approve of it. Have you had a dalliance with a fourth-generation aviad?"
"I have indeed. Have you the square root of four thousand, eight hundred seventy-two, rounded to the fourth decimal place?"
"I have indeed: sixty-nine point seven nine nine seven."
"Correct."
"Did your experiment with the fourth-generation aviad Frelle prove fruitful?"
"I cannot say, it was only last week."
'There is a chemical test that will provide proof either way."
"Good, I like binary arithmetic. Why have I not heard of it?"
"You have neglected to read Beamflash Abstracts this month."
"Careless of me."
"Give me her name, I shall test her."
"How?"
"She must piss in a beaker."
"She is sure to cooperate. She is a medician, a woman of science. May I test your hydrocalculor?"
"Yes. I shall write instructions."
"Instructions? Instructions? Only fools read instructions. Here is her name and address."
"And here is another bucket of water."
Three dozen monks, the abbot, nine Dragon Librarians, a member of the Espionage Constables, five nuns, and an off-duty beam-flash transmitter burst into applause. Nikalan and Rangen turned to their audience and bowed, then Nikalan took Rangen's seat and Rangen walked out of the workshop. The abbot tapped the beamflash transmitter on the shoulder as they were leaving.
Eyes of the Calculor Page 48
