The four Bartolican airlords voted affirmative, while Yarron, Dorak, and Cosdora voted against and the others abstained. Clerks ran in and out of the chamber with messages to and from advisers, then order was called. The clerks were sent out again, and the doors were closed. Sartov was grim faced as he rose to reply to the vote.
"I have instructed my advisers to begin gathering my wardens for a general council," he said with no trace of emotion. "There I shall move a motion that Yarron withdraw from this council. I have no more to say."
He sat down. After some moments of uneasy muttering the Airlord of Dorak rose to make a similar statement. Samondel could hear the sound of the compression engines of a sailwing warming up outside. Her sailwing. She closed her eyes, lowered her head, and squeezed at the bridge of her nose. A muffled explosion cut off the compression engines, and all airlords but Samondel rushed to the windows.
"Airlord Sartov, I do wish that you would consult with your fellow airlords before taking rash actions," said Samondel.
Furious, Sartov turned back to her.
"You sabotaged my sail wing!"
"Like a loyal Mounthaven airlord I set governor detonators that would explode if the engines were revved to ascent speed without my authorization keys inserted. We cannot have one of Yarron's finest sailwings falling into the wrong hands, can we?"
Sartov stayed only long enough to hear the airlord of Cosdora declare his intent to withdraw from the council, then he led the other two from the council chamber. Within a half hour all three airlords were in the air and bound for their domains. The others passed a vote of thanks to Samondel, and made administrative arrangements for the sharing of the horses and cattle. Samondel proposed that a new guild of artisans be set up, but could get no more than a promise that each of the remaining airlords would send one representative to the meetings. There was no interest at all in pooling compression spirit for a future venture to Australica. As her last act in what turned out to be the last meeting ever called of the Council of Mounthaven Airlords, Samondel read out the lists of the Adjunct of Launceston Wingfield, detailing the participants, deaths, and victors at the Battle of Launceston. A vote was passed to include the Australican wing-field in the Mounthaven Register of Chivalry, although Samondel's amendment denouncing the raid as an act of Yarronese terrorism was defeated.
The next day Samondel flew out for Condelor in the luggage store of the sailwing flown by the South Bartolican airlord, Loring.
"Where is your gunwing?" she asked as they climbed northwest, with Medicine Bow Peak to starboard.
"I retired my gunwing flock, converted them to twin-engine sailwings to ship hunting carbines and ammunition to the frontier settlements," her fellow airlord replied. "That's where the money is. Very light, very valuable cargos."
"But what about the defense of your realm?"
"I have carbineer mercenaries for that. I only need to defend my capital, wingfield, and compression spirit estates."
Already degenerated into a petty warlord, thought Samondel.
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"What of Highland Bartolica?" he asked after a time. "How many wings do you have?"
"One gunwing and five sailwings belonging to the realm."
"Would you consider selling them? I need to expand my merchant flock."
"Me, an airlordl Sell my own flock?"
"Saireme, the airlords of Towervale, Friscon, Omelgan, and Sen-ner no longer own any wings at all. Their compression engines are in my merchant flock, the airframes are firewood, and they lease their personal sailwings from me. Tell you what, keep the gunwing for personal use and sell me the sailwings. Think on that as we fly."
Samondel thought a great deal as they flew. Avian was safe, for without the combined resources commanded by the entire council, the ocean could not be crossed. Avian might as well have been on a distant planet—but so might Martyne.
At Montpellier, the capital of Highland Bartolica, they inspected the royal flock while the courtiers and nobles looked on uneasily. Airlord Loring agreed to buy four sailwings, and to pay for an option on the remaining gunwing. Once he was gone Samondel called together the guildmasters of her domain and led them to the only sailwing remaining to Highland Bartolica.
"I want this wing rebuilt," she explained. "You are to halve its weight, double its fuel capacity, and render its engine into the lightest and most reliable in history."
This was far more easily said than done. Even though she had enough money for the work, there were only guildmasters and apprentices available, no experienced artisans. Nevertheless, the work was begun. A reserve store of compression spirit was established, and armed carbineers assigned to guard it. Thereafter Samondel spent most of her time locked away with maps, globes, performance tables, and calculation slates.
Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
I he ANZAC Day parade was always preceded by a meeting of the mayors of the Rochestrian Commonwealth, for all of them always attended the parade and took the salute beside the Overmayor on the palace balcony overlooking Libris Plaza.
"I wish to open this meeting with the announcement that High-liber Franzas Dramoren and myself are to be married on the afternoon of the winter solstice, here in Rochester," Lengina announced.
There was an immediate round of applause.
"I should like to point out to you, the mayors of the Commonwealth, that this is an arrangement of great convenience as well, and combines the offices of Overmayor and Highliber once more, following the lead set so successfully by Highliber Zarvora."
"And no romance at all is involved!" called the Mayor of Seymour.
Extended and rowdy laughter followed, ended finally by three cheers for the happy couple. The business session that followed had a rather long agenda. There was widespread dissent about the continued conscription of numerate people for the Libris Calculor, yet considerable gratitude that the paraline and beamflash networks were operating normally while those of neighboring overmayorates were practically crippled. The electrical-essence trades had been annihilated, yet people remained prosperous thanks to new industries.
"My people hear plenty of travelers' tales from over the border with the Southmoors," declared the Mayor of Rutherglen. "Riots, battles between factions of the nobility, towns isolated, farms looted and burned. My own people are frightened of the anarchy spreading to Rutherglen, and the membership of the Rutherglen Mayoral Militia has never been higher. Why, only last week when a Reformed Gentheist orator exhorted his listeners to take up arms and burn the houses of heretics, he was nearly lynched—and by an audience of Gentheists!"
"The Dragon Librarian Service reports similar behavior across all mayorates," agreed the Overmayor. "Even the castellanies in the
west have increased lancer patrols on the borders with Woomera."
"Is there a danger of invasion?" asked the mayor of Seymour.
"The danger is more from a surfeit of refugees," explained a cas-tellian observer. "They come seeking food and work, then start preaching the way of the Word. Some have been attacking known aviads."
"I propose that those convicted of disturbing the peace should be subject to mandatory deportation in the case of foreign nationals," said the mayor of Rutherglen.
The matter of recognition of Avian was raised next, but dealt with quickly. Terian had been sent as an envoy, proposing trade links, and claiming a sliver of land in the south covering the Otway Mountains. The land was of no particular worth, and was only to give the Avianese a secure wingfield on the mainland. A motion to recognize the claim and begin negotiations on a treaty with Avian was passed with little discussion.
■ he ANZAC parade had been held on the twenty-fifth day of the fourth month for over two thousand years. Nobody was even sure what ANZAC meant. The Meridian Avenue was the longest and widest street in Rochester, and ran five miles from the edge of the outer city, due north to the lake, across the thirty arches of a stone-and-brick bridge, through an arched gate in the wall of
the old inner city, and ended at the plaza in front of Libris.
Jemli had pronounced the march to be an affront to the Deity, because it commemorated wars fought using machines. Only religious wars could be commemorated in good conscience according to her, and even then only those who had fought on the sides opposing machines should march. To this end, some three hundred Ghan lancers, veterans of the Milderellen invasion, were sent to march if Jemli's conditions were met. This turned out to be a very unpopular move. Not only were the Ghans a former enemy that was close to becoming a current enemy again, but the tradition of marching was one of the few that had managed to transcend religious and political divisions. Preparations for the march continued, however, and massive numbers of veterans and their families were arriving.
Faced with the prospect of not being represented in the march at all, the Reformed Gentheists of Rochester decided to instruct the Ghan lancers to participate.
I he morning of the 25th promised a clear, cool, windless day. Children had been gathering baskets of colored autumn leaves and evergreens for days to fling onto the marchers from rooftops, and Rochester's citizens turned out in numbers that were estimated to exceed a hundred thousand.
The Ghans had insisted on being first, riding camels and horses. This had been calculated to strew piles of dung into the path of the marchers who were following, but the veterans were still quite capable of matching wits with an enemy. Grandchildren with hand shovels, brooms, and sacks were stationed every hundred feet, ready to dash out and clean up.
Mobile bombards rumbled past next, artillery rockets rolled by on their trolleys, then came their support crews. After these came the ranks of infantry and lancers, and there were vast numbers of these.
Dramoren and Lengina stood together on the palace balcony, at the center of the row of leaders and dignitaries. Children on the palace walls flung colored leaves onto the marchers, and the bands of the palace and Libris took turns to play the anthems of each group of nationals that passed. A wave of cheers rolled along the street in slow motion as one particular group of infantry came marching along, each with his musket held across his chest with both hands, while two young women marched out in front. One was playing "Campbell's Farewell to the Red Castle" on a zurna, the other carried the colors high on a T-shaped pole.
"That's the hundred and fifth Overmayor's Heavy Infantry, John Glasken's old unit," said Dramoren.
"Glasken, yes. He was the chivalrous hero whose enemies started a legend of him being a rake and lecher," replied the Overmayor.
"Well, you know what they say. Those who are remembered well must have done some good."
"Why is there a dead chicken tied to each man's belt?"
"Tradition, but I can't say why. I was a child when they fought the Battle of Ravensworth. I do know that Glasken started a tradition that two women should carry the colors and pipe them along, in memory of Lieutenant Dolorian Jelveria. See, the one playing the zurna is his daughter by his second wife, Marelle is her name."
Following the 105th was the First Alliance Radio Corps, led by the survivors of Starflash 7. Their carefully restored wagons were making their annual pilgrimage out of the museum, and after two decades of loving care by conservators they looked better than they had when they were new.
Now there came a new wave of sound: cries of amazement followed by renewed cheers. Hats were flung into the air, and even into the path of the marchers. Lengina raised a small telescope and read the approaching banners.
"Aviads!" she exclaimed, even though both she and the entire city had known that a handful of Avianese veterans would be marching. "Second Armed Kitewings from the Battle of Launceston, there are two of them. The other is Fifth Wingfield Lancers, Outrider Guards. There are five, all mounted."
The Avianese entered Libris Plaza, and approached the point for the salute to the balcony filled with leaders while bands blared and the crowds cheered. Suddenly the Mayor of Seymour pointed, and they all turned. There was a large speck in the sky, flying at rooftop level above the Avenue. Above the bands and cheering they could hear the drone of a diesel engine.
"A kitewing, a real kitewing!" shouted Dramoren.
"A kitewing, the Avianese envoy promised me a flight in one at the banquet last night," squealed Lengina, clapping her hands.
IVIartyne was a lot happier to be flying the kitewing than the Skyfire rockets. Its speed was sufficiently low to forgive mistakes, even if in combat it was heavy, underpowered, and clumsy. From well beyond Rochester's outer walls he aligned himself with Meridian Avenue, which cut right through to the center of the city. The kitewing
flew over countryside mottled with woods and farmland, then above an untidy tangle of outlying streets and cottages. The Arch of Return commenced the Avenue, and was a four-point stone arch resting on the heads of fifty-foot-high statues of a musketeer, lancer, nurse, and bombardier, each facing away from the center. Behind the arch was a park where crowds of veterans were milling about, preparing to march, but on the other side the former warriors were in orderly ranks, marching away between rows of onlookers. Ahead was the massive beamflash tower of Libris, and to the left was the mayoral palace, both overlooking Libris Plaza and the Memorial to the Fallen at its center. Traveling at a hundred feet and forty miles per hour, the kitewing was only a score of yards from the roofs of some of the taller houses.
None but the Avianese had seen a kitewing before, and true to its name it resembled nothing more than a large, double boxkite making a loud droning sound. As it passed along the Avenue people shouted and pointed up, then cheered. The veterans did not stop, although many broke ranks to stare. The Avianese marchers now saluted the leaders on the balcony, Martyne saluted from the kitewing—and a burst of fire pattered out from the northeast tower of the palace.
At first it was taken for a salute, then everyone saw black smoke belch from the kitewing and the note of its compression engine lowered and began to miss. The flyer banked away to starboard over Libris, narrowly missing the great beamflash tower. Cheers turned to screams across Libris Plaza. Dozens of outraged veterans in the crowd opened fire on the palace tower, and Overmayor Lengina ordered the palace guard to seize the place at once. Out in the square the Ghan Lancers fired a volley at those shooting at the tower. The dignitaries and leaders scrambled from the oration balcony of the palace, but Dramoren remained behind, holding up a mirror and flashing a signal across the plaza to Libris.
In the northeast tower the captain of a squad of Reformed Gentheist infiltrators dressed in the uniforms of palace guardsmen held up her
flintlock as two of her men pinned her lieutenant to the wall by his arms.
"Why in the name of all hells did you order that volley?" she screamed in near-hysterical fury.
"Frelle Captain, when I saw that blasphemous abomination flying past I could not help myself—"
She fired, hitting him squarely between the eyes.
"That's what happens to anyone who can't help himself or obey orders!" she bellowed to the others.
From below there was the sound of pounding on a door that was barred from the inside.
"Hurry, get the bombards forward and bring down the beamflash tower!" the captain ordered.
"But Captain, the balcony has not yet—"
"Screw the balcony! Obey me! Now!"
Part of the tower's bombard gallery burst inward as the first of the shots from the Libris ceremonial bombards landed. The captain picked herself up.
"Open fire, bring down the tower," she cried.
Uramoren crouched below the balcony railing, holding up his mirror and signaling to the Libris gunners to keep firing. A bombard shot thudded into the beamflash tower, punching a dent into the heavy stonework, then another clipped a corner and knocked out a shower of stone blocks and fragments.
What do you mean, you've never fired a shot-loaded bombard before?" Lengina demanded of the captain of the southeast palace tower.
"The tower has been purely ceremonial for two hundr
ed years, Frelle Overmayor."
"Pick up one of those balls, push it into a bombard, and fire!" shouted Lengina, pointing at the northeast tower.
"I don't know how to aim!"
"There's a plate on the mounting," suggested one of the bombard crew.
The captain dropped to his knees. " 'Congratulations, you have just purchased a Talini Brothers bombard . . . nine-inch balls . . . iron or lead-iron composite—' "
"Just point it at the tower!" said Lengina.
"—only certified bombardiers with a scroll from the Mayoral Commissioner of Armaments—"
"Point and fire!" shrieked Lengina. "At this range you cannot miss!"
The bombard was fired. It flew off its mounting with a fume-choked thunderclap, crashed into the wall behind it, and came to rest on its side in a cloud of sulfurous smoke and dust.
■ it from the side by the shot from the southeast tower, the roof of the bombard gallery of the northeast tower collapsed. Several tons of stonework and bricks crushed the Reformed Gentheist bombardiers, although the musketeers in the stairwell below survived.
Fighting was still raging down in Libris Plaza as Dramoren straightened. He watched guardsmen smash down the northeast tower's door with an improvised battering ram. There was a burst of gunfire as the guards streamed in.
"Dramoren!"
He could see a figure in white robes waving to him from a bombard arch in the southeast tower. Dramoren inserted his foot into a small niche in the stonework, felt for a lever, and flicked it up. What a bonus, no need to feign a bomb scare to evacuate the balcony, he thought.
"And as Martyne Camderine once said to Airlord Samondel Leover, I love you," Dramoren whispered to the distant figure of Lengina. He pressed the hidden lever down with his foot.
The blast that followed gouged out the center of the entire east wall of the palace, demolishing the oration balcony and sending a
EYES OF THE CAICULOR 539
cloud of dust and smoke billowing out across the plaza where Ghan lancers still battled Rochestrian veterans.
IVIartyne managed to nurse his kitewing out over the lake before the damaged compression engine seized. He skimmed the glassy water, lost speed, then dropped heavily to the surface. Martyne unstrapped himself, flung off his jacket and boots, and jumped. The water had a pronounced mid-autumn chill, but at least nobody shot at him as he waded ashore.
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