"Come with me to the beamflash tower, I have an encoded message to send to Rochester," he said urgently.
"At once, Reverend Abbot. What is the content?"
"Those two brilliant lunatics have just changed the universe. I think that our leaders ought to be told before they read it in Beam-flash Abstracts or else the Highliber will probably demand my admittedly redundant balls on a silver platter."
Launceston, Trasmania Island
Damondel was blindfolded before being taken into the rookery, as the Avianese called it. They were ruled by the mayor, but he was in turn advised by four experts and six representatives elected by those living off the mainland. The experts were selected according to the issue. Samondel counted 310 steps, mostly on hard paving. There was also one short stairway of fifteen stairs. A door was opened and she was ushered into a room that echoed slightly and smelled of burning olive oil.
"Fras Mayor, advisors," said one of her escorts. "Permit me to present Airlord Samondel Leover of Highland Bartolica."
"Thank you, Fras, you may go."
"Your word, Fras Mayor."
The voice sounded like that of a man in his early sixties, mature and well intoned, but with its edge starting to fray. Samondel put her hands to the blindfold.
"No! That stays on," barked the mayor. "You may not learn either our names or faces, because if you are who you say you are, there is a chance you will go free again. You may call me Fras Mayor. Present are my marshal, Fras Gun, my spymaster, Frelle Eye, my flockleader, Fras Wing, and a member of the mainland underground, Fras Shadowmouse. We have all read the deposition that you presented to the Constable of Launceston two hours ago, and we have discussed it. It has caused no small amount of alarm."
"Fras Mayor, every word true, being," Samondel assured him.
"You could not be expected to say anything else, but there are matters to be clarified. You say that Fras Feydamor plans to return here tomorrow with the super-regal Albatross and at least four armed sailwings. He plans to seize the wingfield, murder all of our artisans, flyers, and leaders, then burn the workshops, kitewings, stores, and compression-spirit distillery."
"A venture, name of Tornado. Meant to be, for seizing of horse farm, by force. Carry off horses."
"But as you point out yourself, Fras Feydamor, ourselves, and
the Warlord of Traralgon have already cooperated to fly twenty-five young horses to your American dominions by peaceful means. Why should Fras Feydamor suddenly turn against us, especially when everybody is benefiting so greatly?"
"Because the Mayorate of Avian is only other air power in the world. And Avianese hated in Mounthaven, so much. Your Radical Aviads starting a terrible war there. None so bad in two thousand years. American airlords want to shatter your tiny mayorate. They can do it."
"True, we are only a few thousands, compared to the millions on the mainland, and even compared to your American mayorates, but how many musketeers can be flown on the Albatrossl Six? Eight?"
"Thirty, Fras Mayor! Fly here, just enough spirit to reach. Thirty finest carbineers from Mounthaven with reaction guns. Four best wardens in armed sailwings, having firebombs. Catch by surprise, seize wingfield. Refuel. Fly to Smithton, King Gate, destroy there, too."
"Fras Gun, what do you think? Can it be done?"
"Two or three dozen highly trained musketeers with reaction guns could indeed set us back by years with such an attack," agreed the marshal.
"Fras Wing?"
"I could check with Traralgon, but it would take days. They only expect a wing to land every ten days, so the wingfield is only cleared of sheep and horses then. Trying to land there without beacon pyres, unexpected, with livestock on the ascent strip, could easily lose us a kitewing and flyer."
"Frelle Eye, have you an opinion? Have your heard anything?"
"Nothing, Fras Mayor, but some of the girl's story has a disturbing consistency with known facts. Frelle Airlord, have you heard of Equinox Day?"
"No."
"A week after the Call ceased and all electrical machines burned, a faction of Avianese rose up against the Radical Aviads. Most of the Radicals' leaders and best warriors were in Mounthaven, so un-
EYES OF THE CALCULOR 483
der the leadership of Fras Mayor and with the aid of one of the Radicals' leaders—me—the Equinox Day revolution was successful. Before you ask, I then had myself put on trial as a war criminal, was found guilty of crimes against your own people, and I now direct our spies from a cell in this palace."
"Integrity, are having, Frelle Eye."
"In the Radicals' files we found transcriptions of radio messages from Mounthaven. One concerned the killing of the entire royal court of Bartolica by one Yarronese super-regal and two gunwings. It struck unexpectedly, in a very, very long-range attack. It was led by Serjon Feydamor, and it marked the beginning of the end for Bartolica and the Radicals. Are any patterns apparent to you, gentlefolk?"
Samondel assumed that glances, nods, and winks were being exchanged in the silence that followed.
"Fras Feydamor has toured our wingfields and inspected them," admitted the marshal. "He knows our strengths and weaknesses in considerable detail. You say an attack is expected tomorrow, Frelle Airlord?"
"Yes," said Samondel. "Is little time, for to prepare."
"Prepare? How?" asked the marshal. "We could move our artisans and academicians to the woods, we could even disperse the kitewings, but experts and kitewings without fuel, workshops, and the Academy are about as useful as fins on a bird. I suppose we could drag logs across the ascent strip to stop the Albatross landing."
"Parachutes, firebombs, reaction guns, can use," said Samondel. "Landing not needed."
"If Fras Feydamor is blameless and arrives to find the wingfield on battle alert, it could be very bad for the relations between our peoples," said the mayor. "I call for a show of hands. Who is in favor of telling Frelle Leover what has been arranged for tomorrow?"
There was apparently a show of hands. The verdict went in Samondel's favor.
"When he came through here seven days ago, Fras Feydamor
said that the first of a flock of armed sailwings would be traveling here with the Albatross" said the mayor. "These would be given to Avian, along with the artisans to maintain them and train our own people. We had a big revel planned to welcome them, a wing show with flypasts and demonstrations of all our kitewings. There was also to be an exhibition of sailwings and gunwings brought here during the war, although most of those are no longer airworthy. There are Welcome signs everywhere, and leafy vines strung up in the workshops—we cannot spare paper for streamers. Every senior and junior artisan in Avian is currently within a mile of where we stand. All will be on the wingfield tomorrow."
"Suspicious," was Samondel's opinion.
"In more ways than one," said Frelle Eye. "You might not be American at all, you could be a Rochestrian with a fake accent, here to destroy the pact between Avian and Mounthaven. We have heard that the Inn of Celestial Dreams was bombed, and that you shot one of our agents in a duel in Rochester—"
"What?" cried Samondel. "Martyne is aviad?"
"Why, yes, didn't you know?"
"He never told me."
"Indeed! So now you turn up here, with a pass of transit from the Airfoxes that might have been taken from a dead body. Why are you so anxious to help us, especially after what our misguided Radicals did to your homeland? Or are you an Espionage Constable, trying to provoke a battle so that the Americans take their trade and skills to the humans of the Commonwealth? Can you give us real proof of what you are saying?"
Samondel hung her head and clasped her hands in front of her.
"I have no proof," she admitted.
"Do you know where Martyne Camderine is now?" asked Fras Shadowmouse.
"Balesha, am told."
"And you disliked him?" asked Frelle Eye. "You shot him?"
"No! Loved him. Loved him. Then too late. Forced to fight him. He was Over
mayor's champion, Serjon's life threatened. Now know truth. Should have shot Serjon."
Samondel paused. There was a rustle of clothing as someone folded their arms.
"I realize this is difficult for you, Frelle Airlord," said Fras Wing, "and I sympathize with the cruel trick that was played upon you, but what has all this to do with the prospects for tomorrow? Do I tell my flyers to prepare for a revel or an attack? I need hard evidence."
"Confusing," said Frelle Eye. "What did Serjon do to betray himself?"
"After duel, came 'dozen days.' Returned early. Found Serjon, ah . . . with woman. Had met in tavern. Big giggle, big tits; think expression is 'all arse, no class.' Yes?"
Samondel's emotional involvement in the matter was all too apparent. She heard titters of mirth being stifled.
"Do go on," said the mayor.
"Found also, box of reaction guns, he had. Had him arrested, left him with guard. Guard died in bomb blast, Serjon escaped, fled to Traralgon, then here."
There was a longer and more awkward pause.
"Fras Eye, can you confirm any of that?" asked the mayor.
"Apart from Serjon passing through here on the last flight, no."
"Fras Shadowmouse, what about you?"
"No."
"Well, then—" began the mayor.
"But one more question," interjected Fras Shadowmouse. "The dozen days leaves no scope for confusion. Why did you return to Serjon early?"
"Friend lied to Serjon, said fortnight. Same friend searched room, found weapons. Same friend paid girl to seduce Serjon."
"What is your friend's name?"
"Frelle Velesti Dis—"
"She's telling the truth!" exclaimed Fras Shadowmouse. "That is our proof."
"How so?" asked the mayor.
"If you are ever unlucky enough to be helped by Velesti Disore, Fras Mayor, you will know."
There was more rustling of cloth, but nobody else had an opinion.
"Well, then, the rookery will vote," said the mayor. "The motion is to accept Frelle Leover's story. Second? Thank you, Frelle Eye. Accept? That's five. Reject? Five against, leaving the decision up to your long-suffering mayor. Fras Shadowmouse, just one more clarification. How do you know this Frelle Velesti?"
"She is my operational contact with sympathizers in the Espionage Constables."
Samondel heard the hiss of indrawn breath, followed by a gusty sigh.
"Very, well, I vote yes, the motion is carried."
Samondel felt as if she could almost float into the air with relief.
"The compression spirit and civil kitewings will be moved to safety," the mayor decreed, "as will the artisans, technical library, and any tools that cannot be easily carried. Fras Wing, what can you do against what is coming?"
"The Americans are fast, deadly, experienced, but outnumbered. We have nine armed kitewings, and three American aircraft that are still airworthy."
"Combat experience?" asked Samondel.
"Only training practice."
"Will be slashed to pieces," was Samondel's verdict. "Hide them."
"We have Skyfire, of course," added Fras Wing.
"Which may kill more of our people than Americans," replied the mayor. "Fras Gun, what can you do on the ground?"
"I can muster ninety militia with reaction carbines, and three hundred more with bolt-action carbines or flintlocks. All have seen action. The academy also has three experimental heavy reaction guns mounted on handcarts."
"Frelle Airlord, what do you think?" asked the mayor.
"On the ground, good chance. Likely that Albatross will descend peacefully, taxi to adjunct, then carbineers burst out among you. Maximum impact, wanting. In the air, suicide. Armed sailwings will
your flock, cut to pieces. Two leaders alone have twelve dozen victories. On our side, six, all mine. I volunteer, fly for you."
"Frelle, our kitewings are very different to your aircraft and you would need more hours training in the air than we have left," said Fras Wing. "Aside from that we have two sailwings and a Yarronese triwing, but the bearings and rings are worn in their compression engines."
"Starflower was Yarronese triwing. Have fought in the type."
"Hellfang was meant to be mine," interjected Fras Wing.
"Oh. Sorry. Have been presumptuous."
"But my loyalty is to Avian and my flock and you are a better flyer. Hellfang may be old and tired, but she is the fastest thing with a compression engine on this wingfield. Check her tonight with the artisans, take her up at first light, then fight in her when the enemy comes."
The meeting soon concluded, and Samondel was led out by Fras Wing. He took her part of the way to the wingfield before removing her blindfold. He turned out to be a fresh-faced young aviad with blond hair.
"My real name is Flockleader Bretallus, and I have two hundred hours in the air. Are the enemy really as dangerous as you say?"
"Worse. They are twice faster than your kitewings, and even Hellfang will be straining to catch them. Odds of ten to one, maybe a chance. Less? Do not bother."
"Then why are we bothering? I am not going to lead my men and women to certain death if the result is going to be exactly the same."
"Because of Albatross. Capture Albatross intact, then can fly dozens of aviads from the mainland every night."
After checking over Hellfang and giving instructions to the artisans, Samondel was taken back to the institute's buildings. She was locked inside a small but comfortable room, with an aviad nurse staying with her.
"Should be sleeping near Hellfang"
"You were told to sleep here by the mayor, Frelle Airlord."
"Artisans, they may be needing advices."
"Then they know where to find you."
From outside came a low rumble. Thunder, thought Samondel at first, but the sound was continuous and smooth. Slowly it faded, then was cut off suddenly.
"What is that?" asked Samondel.
"A storm, perhaps, Frelle Airlord."
"The weather was clear only ten minutes ago."
"I am only a nurse. I do not know of those things."
The rumble started again, smooth and continuous, then suddenly there was a loud snap followed by a very loud explosion.
"You are attempting, for to tell me, that was thunder too?"
"No, Frelle Airlord. That was the sound of a very brave youth dying."
"Youth? Dying?"
"I can tell you little more, Frelle Airlord, because I know little. On dark, cloudy nights there are lights in the sky. Very, very fast lights, impossibly fast lights. Sometimes there are balls of fire too, and twice I have seen . . ." The nurse shuddered and hugged her folded arms against herself. "Twice I have seen pieces of bodies. Burned, mangled pieces."
Samondel tried to sleep, and occasionally the rolling thunder sounded outside. The Avianese had something that they had not talked about, some sort of flame thrower bombard, perhaps. Perhaps even something left over from millennia past. Some dangerous, unreliable, but highly effective thing that killed one's own people but killed even more of the enemy. That may have been why they were curiously cooperative about loaning Hellfang to her the next day. She tried to puzzle out what it might be, but after counting eleven peals of thunder she was none the wiser.
IfttON
TfttONS OF MICE
Launceston, Tasmania Island
It was two hours after sunrise that the tethered watch balloon's bell began clanging. Samondel had slept badly, worried about the roughly running compression engine powering Hellfang. She walked the stiffness out of her joints and drank coffee while the six aviad artisans checked the steamers that were keeping her compression engine warm. The instant she heard the bell she began running across the grass while all around her signal whistles sounded. As she reached Hellfang the compression engine was spluttering into life while signalers called directions, windspeeds, and profiles.
"Signal mirror message from the balloon," called the adjunct, hurrying along with
a megaphone. "Eleven sailwings and five super-regals. Repeat, eleven sailwings and five super-regals."
Samondel's heart seemed to sink into her stomach. This was an overwhelming attack, and by vastly superior numbers and flyers. She ascended alone and then flew out lower than the tallest of the trees to circle away from the wingfield to the northeast. If she could come out of the sun, she might do some serious damage before the inevitable. Away in the distance were the super-regals, slowly circling the wingfield in preparation for landing. A smoke rocket streaked into the air, welcoming the enormous wings. The first of them descended, and was lost to Samondel's sight. From what she could tell,
it had not been a bombing run, and it had been too low to have been dropping parachutists. That either meant a rather more bold plan, or that Samondel was about to look very foolish. One of the sailwings descended with the super-regals as well.
The last super-regal descended. Ten sailwings were still in the air, but one of them was sure to contain Serjon, and he was worth a hundred. Samondel began a spiraling climb. Still no second smoke rocket from the wingfield. Was she a fool? Had Martyne been wrong? Were a lot of embarrassed Avianese officials on the ground trying to explain to the Mounthaven flockleader why he had been welcomed by a wingfield on battle alert?
The wingfield adjunct stood watching the super-regals approach, awestruck by the sheer spectacle of five of the enormous aircraft together in procession along the dispersal path. Out on the ascent strip a sailwing had landed, but the flyer had just turned the aircraft around and stopped. One of the two propellers was spinning more slowly than the other, and as he watched the flyer got out, crawled to the cowling, and opened an access hatch. There was undeniably a problem with one of the engines.
"Armik, take an artisan and two strong militiamen to help move that wing off the ascent strip,'' called the adjunct. "We can't have it there when the other sailwings start to land."
His assistant hurried away, with three other men jogging behind him. They waved to the super-regals as they passed them. The crowd around the adjunct cheered and threw eucalypt leaves into the air as the Albatross stopped. The next super-regal was in the same class as the Albatross, the third and fourth were the smaller, older models, and the fifth was some sort of hybrid. The hatchways opened and began to wind down, but the propellers continued to spin. The adjunct had his first pang of doubt. Normally the Albatross's wingcap-tain turned the engines off the moment it stopped moving, as compression spirit was priceless in this remote area.
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