to the Yarronese sailwings that she had used to conquer the Pacific Ocean. The same applied to its compression engine, which was currently in hundreds of pieces, with the guildmaster under orders to halve its weight and double its efficiency.
"Fourteen hours," declared the guildmasters' spokesman proudly as he stood before her throne.
The court hall was empty, apart from the two of them. It was nearly midnight, and only one lantern was burning.
"That is twelve hundred miles in calm air," replied Samondel. "I need two thousand."
"We could bore and plane a little more wood from the airframe, Saireme Airlord, but that would save only a few more pounds before the strength became compromised, even for handling the most benevolent weather. You could gain another hundred miles at most."
"Then do it. Has your esteemed colleague an estimate on when the compression engine will be rebuilt?"
"Three weeks, he told me. We could be test flying before the end of May."
Alone again, Samondel pondered capacities and distances in her little throne hall. A sailwing leased from South Bartolica could tow her out over the ocean for as many as five hundred miles. The rebuilt engine might just be light and efficient enough to bridge the remaining gap.
She could reach Hawaii, but what then? There would be no second sailwing to tow her for the next five hundred miles, although there was fuel. . . but there was a second sailwing, a Yarronese sailwing. She could spend months there, repairing the sailwing with the tools that had been flown out already. The more efficient Yarronese sailwing could easily reach Samoa, and then beyond to Australia's north. After that, it was a mere thousand miles by land to Rochester. A little gold would buy a horse.
Her mind conjured a suggestion of a cloaked figure to stand before her throne.
"You need never have returned here," Martyne chided.
"My dearest, how was I to know that Mounthaven could lose its arts of flying so very fast?"
"You could have taken me with you."
"You would have been tested and identified as a featherhead within moments of descent. Then shot."
"Well, can you return to me?"
"The kindest of figures say yes."
"Soon?"
"It must indeed be soon. I have sold everything to rebuild the sailwing and buy compression spirit. One of my wardens wants to buy my abdication and his nomination as airlord, and after that I have nothing more."
"Then when?"
"A month, and I shall reach Hawaii. A few more months, then Australia's north. Three months after that, Rochester."
"I shall be there, alone and waiting. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
The vision vanished. Alone within her thoughts, Samondel dozed on the throne. Outside, the two palace guards sat with a bottle of wine between them.
"Saw her talking to thin air again," said one.
"She's mad."
"Heard she's to abdicate next month."
"None too soon. She's not airlord material."
"But a good leader. Many wardens would still follow her to hell."
"Trouble is, that's probably where she's going in that sailwing of hers."
His comrade gestured up to Mirrorsun.
"Well, that thing's building up to no good. Scholars say it's spinning too fast. Some say it's a doomsday engine."
"A what?"
"Something that kills both you and your enemy if your enemy defeats you."
"Daft idea. Who would have built it?"
"Dunno. Australicans, maybe."
Soon they were dozing too. The lamp in the throne hall ran out of oil and winked out. It had been the last lamp alight in all of Highland Bartolica on that particular night.
Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
I he entire Commonwealth was plunged into mourning in the days leading to Dramoren's funeral. The flower-smothered coffin was drawn the length of Meridian Avenue on a bombard trolley at noon, preceded, flanked, and followed by musketeers, Dragon Librarians, beamflash crews, and even calculor components and regulators. The Overmayor herself led the horse pulling the trolley. Dressed in a black jacket and walking, the most powerful figure in the Commonwealth looked very small to the onlookers. They noted the flintlock in her belt, however, for they were now at war and she was the supreme commander of the military.
As the coffin reached Libris Plaza a loud rumble became audible from above the city, and four enormous flying machines appeared in the south. They flew high above the Avenue, their shadows sweeping along the crowds and marchers, and colored leaves streaming from their open loading hatches. As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.
The front of the palace was still a gaping ruin as the Overmayor led the bombard trolley to the gates of Libris. Dramoren had been Highliber, after all, and was entitled to be buried in the vaults deep beneath the vast and ancient library. The bombards of the palace began to boom a salute, one shot for every mayorate in the Rochestrian Commonwealth, and each shot was echoed by the bombards of Libris. A closed service in the Libris chapel followed, then the coffin was taken to the burial vaults below ground level.
The crowds were still there when the Overmayor emerged over an hour later, and she walked alone across the plaza to the cheers and applause of almost the entire city and thousands of travelers from the other mayorates. At the foot of the memorial at the center of the
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plaza a group of Gentheist priests took off their robes, poured olive oil on them, and set them afire, then cut their hair and flung the severed locks onto the flames. A brigade of lancers on the way to the Woomeran border was mobbed by well-wishers, and their way had to be cleared eventually by the Constable's Runners.
At last Lengina reached the palace gates. She walked inside, then climbed to the top of what remained of the wall and faced the crowd.
"My subjects, loyal citizens, Rochester has always stood for progress," she began. "Progress in the sciences, progress in theology, progress in administration, progress in trade, and progress in tolerance." She gestured to the shattered front of the palace. "There are those who think that tolerance is weakness, and that it is a signal to conquer the weak. The aviads have tolerated our attacks for centuries, but they are not weak. After my true love's death I appealed to the Avianese envoy for help to avenge him. Very soon an Avianese kitewing flew to Peterborough and silenced the voice of the greatest and most important beamflash tower of the Reformed Gentheists."
A rumbling groundswell of cheers greeted this news, washing back down the Avenue slowly, as her words were shouted in relay.
"Are we going to let our Avianese allies do all our fighting for us?"
The roar of "No!" blasted back from the crowd.
"The Gentheists have tried to exploit our tolerance, but tolerance does not mean standing back and accepting defeat. Tolerance means fighting for the right to live as we wish to live. Tolerance means serving in the Commonwealth army. Tolerance means serving in the Libris Calculor, beamflash network, and Dragon Librarian Service. Tolerant Gentheists should turn upon their Reformist preachers and slay them where they stand because those people hate tolerance. Tolerant Gentheists will embrace aviads as victims of the Greatwinter War's legacy, not as abominations. Tolerant Gentheists will teach our engineers and artisans to run their steam and compression engines in harmony with the world created by their Deity, not condemn them cynically for political gain."
The crowd was with her as she paused for breath, and to wipe away her tears.
"The man who I was to marry, the man whose leadership and genius held the Commonwealth together after Black Thirteenth, is dead. He had one last message for us all, however. Ilyire of Glenellen taught us that Mirrorsun means us no harm, that Mirrorsun destroyed machines of electrical essence because they caused it ill health. Fran-zas Dramoren now calls to you from his grave below Libris. The research that he sponsored says that tonight, at midnight, you will see why part of Mirrorsun spins, and you will be
joyful. Go your way now, and my thanks for your good wishes."
Although the cheering began to subside after a half hour, the crowd did not disperse. The words "midnight" and "Mirrorsun" were on the lips of everyone, and they were determined to be together to see what was to happen.
Vorion's body was burned without ceremony, and his ashes scattered scattered on a dungheap outside Rochester. However, it was soon reported to Jemli that he had been the secret contact within the High-liber's office. Within weeks he was declared a Reformed Gentheist saint.
I he dungeons of the Overmayor's Palace in Rochester were clean, dry, and whitewashed, for their prisoners tended to be of a reasonably high social standing. The Overmayor of Woomera was certainly the most senior inmate ever to inhabit them, but he was not particularly impressed with the clean surfaces, warm blankets, cooked meals, and lack of lice. When the key turned in the lock to his door, he was on his feet at once, drawing breath for a barrage of invective. The warder opened the door to reveal Overmayor Lengina.
"Why were you not on the balcony for the ANZAC parade salute?" she asked as he stood speechless.
The Woomeran's astonishment gave way to sullen resignation.
He looked down at the flagstones, thought through the facts yet again, then spoke.
"Armed masked men and women came into my quarters in the palace guest suites, just before the parade was due to begin. They held me in silence until there was a distant explosion, then left without leaving a trace. After some minutes I went in search of a guard, a servant, anyone. I was arrested by your guardsmen, and have been held here ever since. The magistrate questioned me about a bomb, and why I was missing from the balcony during the ANZAC parade salute. What is going on?"
"The palace oration balcony was bombed, but by chance it had been evacuated only moments earlier. Were it not for that chance, dozens of leaders would have died, including me."
"Thank the Deity—"
"Silence! One leader did remain behind, and died. The Commonwealth's Highliber, my fiance."
The Woomeran swallowed. This was serious, more than politics was involved.
"The Rochestrian Commonwealth and the Woomeran Confederation are now at war. The act of terrorism from which you would have been spared even if chance had not led to an evacuation, was before the declaration of war. My Council of Mayors has considered the magistrate's report on you, and has condemned you to death for terrorism."
"What?"
"God have mercy on your soul. Guards, take him out to the firing squad."
Lengina was signing papers in her administration chambers when the blast of musketry reached her ears. Her advisors, clerks, and lackeys froze for a moment as she looked up.
"Returned to his Maker," muttered the Christian Bishop of Rochester awkwardly.
"With a complaint," added Lengina, reaching for the next document.
"Ah, now, this is my pastoral clarification regarding fueled en-
gines," explained the bishop. " 'Engines are only hateful in the sight of God if the fuel consumed in the service of humanity is not in balance with the restoration of fruits of the Earth consumed in its production.' "
"In other words, if you grow it you can burn it in an engine."
"Well, er, yes. But we would like your endorsement, in the cause of good church-state relations."
"Strike out 'in the service of humanity,' it could lead to misinterpretations that could insult our Avianese allies."
Without another word the bishop drew a line through the words and initialed the change. Lengina now scrawled her approval to the bishop's text.
Peterborough, the Woomeran Confederation
In Peterborough there were also rumors about Mirrorsun. A Ghan prophet was in the city, addressing people in the markets, preaching at street corners, speaking from the steps of buildings, and even preaching as an invited guest in churches and shrines. His messages were simple and clear. The tolerant have nothing to fear from Rochester or Avian. Mirrorsun's rotation would cease a half hour before midnight. Science without conscience is evil. Religion without conscience is evil. Finally, he began to add that Jemli the Prophet was a fool. The last statement was naturally the occasion for quite a degree of comment, and it quickly reached the ears of Jemli. Very soon Ilyire himself was brought before her. He was still wearing a threadbare cloak over his kilt.
"I have been told about the heresies you have spread throughout the Rochestrian Commonwealth," she said as Ilyire stood before her flanked by guards, with his hands bound.
"Hearing about the lies you have been spreading inspired me to action," replied Ilyire, then he turned to a guard and winked. "I was once her lover, you know."
The outraged guard backhanded him across the face. Ilyire staggered, then shrugged.
"You preach tolerance for lies alongside truth, evil beside good, conspiracy beside justice," said Jemli. "I preach the Word of the Deity."
"For whose truth people have to take your word."
"People are not fools, they know, their hearts tell them."
"Their hearts tell them about everlasting love, as well. While courting Frelle Darien I loved her more than life itself, but after three years of living with her. . . sheema sheesh! Hearts are fools, I should know."
"My heart knows the Deity's voice."
"Your heart fell to Glasken's charms—but maybe the Deity has a sense of humor."
Jemli's lips became a thin, tight line, and her eyes narrowed. Ilyire knew that look only too well.
"Which you obviously don't share, Frelle. Just like Lemorel. She was always too serious for her own good, and the good of about a quarter of a million who died early, thanks to her."
"Lemorel had no message, she was just in search of power. I have the Word."
"Does the Word tell you Mirrorsun will cease to spin tonight?"
"I have consulted the mathematicians and natural philosophers who are among my faithful. What you say is impossible. It is called conservation of momentum, and Mirrorsun has a huge amount of momentum."
"Impossible even for the Deity?"
"The Deity does not do tricks, the Deity gives signs. The Deity tells me what you are planning. You think to trick me into predicting that Mirrorsun will stop, then Mirrorsun will not stop. You want to make the Enlightened One seem not so enlightened. Very clever."
"I do not believe in a Deity that would tell you a lie like that, Frelle Jemli. Perhaps demons lie to you, in the guise of the Deity."
"I know the Word, and the Word is the truth!"
"Or perhaps a little half-truth, just like you are only Lemorel's illegitimate half sister—"
Jemli was not so much enraged as panicked at the prospect of her followers knowing that her fraternal connection with the great Lemorel was less than perfect. Almost without thinking, she drew a small-bore flintlock from her sleeve and shot him through the heart. Ilyire collapsed in the grip of the guards, then fell facedown to the floor as they released him.
"I had to protect you from the demon that twisted his tongue," she explained. "It was not what I wished to do."
"But he died happy, telling a truth."
A figure in a Dragon Librarian's uniform stepped out of the shadows. It was of an old-fashioned uniform, and her rank was Dragon Silver. Her Morelac fired twice, and the two guards fell. A knife stapled Jemli's shoe to the floor, narrowly missing her toes.
"Every time I appear I become a little more real," said the apparition.
"Lemorel?"
"You do not sound convinced. How may I convince you that I am now completely real?"
The apparition lashed a slap across her face. Jemli tried to back away, forgetting that her foot was pinned to the floor. She overbalanced and fell heavily.
"No, no, no!" Jemli moaned. "At home it was always you, best at everything! Go away! It's my turn now."
"Shut up with your whining, Jemli Milderellen. If you wanted what I had then you should have studied and worked as hard as I did!" the wraith Lemorel shouted. "I u
sed to get so sick of you as a girl. I still do. You make up your own histories, then believe them real. Now you have learned to make other people believe as well."
"Guards!" screamed Velesti.
Two guards flung the door open and rushed in, followed by their captain. They saw Jemli lying on the floor, and the ghost standing not far away. Ilyire and the other two guards lay still beside Jemli.
"Kill her, she's real," cried Jemli.
"Gen'gi, you were only nine when I last saw you!" Lemorel's reincarnation exclaimed to the captain.
"Frelle—Frelle, are you . . ."
"You wanted to ride with us, to invade what was then the Southeast Alliance, but your father said no, and I agreed. Remember what I said?"
"There will always be wars," said the captain.
"Ah, not quite. I said there will always be wars, so be patient."
"Frelle Lemorel. But you were shot."
"And I am dead, but I am here. Death is no problem."
She touched Ilyire's body. He got up, and she untied his hands. Next she raised the guards she had killed.
Jemli drew her gun again, but the striker clicked sparks into an empty flash pan. The toe of her half sister's boot flicked the gun from her hand.
"Are many of the old ones here tonight?" she asked Gen'gi.
"Many of them, Frelle."
"Then let us see them, come."
They left Jemli lying on the floor, and walked out into the palace hallways. Ilyire and his two guards dropped back, then their images faded into nothingness. The real Ilyire stepped out from behind a pillar and hurried to catch up with them. They entered a hall where several dozen mayors, overhands, and priests were gathered. Those who had known Lemorel two decades earlier gasped with astonishment.
"I'm afraid I have not changed in twenty-two years, but the rest of you are older," the reincarnated Lemorel said to the silent crowd.
A Ghan elder came forward and peered at her intently.
"Baragania," Lemorel said. "Yes, you were right. When I was alive, I made mistakes. I wanted power for its own sake. I conquered in the name of conquest. I avenged for the sake of revenge. Now I see it happening again. Do you really want to pour your blood into foreign earth because of my stupid young half sister?"
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