Souls in the Great Machine

by Sean McMullen

  A movement in the distance caught Ettenbar's attention: a stray ram wandering without a tether. Untethered sheep carded rewards, and unbranded strays were the property of those who caught them. Releasing himself from the tether stake he began stalking the spiral-horned merino.

  It was wary. It trotted away to a comfortable distance as Ettenbar approached. He circled off to one side, untying his bolas and shaking them loose. The stray still kept its distance. Ettenbar crept closer, driving it to where there were clumps of bushes to cover his approach. The ploy worked. Within fifty yards he began whirling the bolas, he cast--and tangled the stray by the hind legs. As he strode forward to collect his struggling, bleating prize, the Call rolled over him.

  For the most fleeting of moments Ettenbar had a choice, yet it was a choice with only one possible outcome. He betrayed himself, he accepted his weakness and wallowed in it, all within a single thought. His discipline and control col lapsed, his steps slowed, and he turned to walk southeast. The stray ram also struggled to follow the beckoning, but could not move as fast as the Call with its hind legs entangled in the bolas. Ettenbar's sheep were also drawn by the Call, but got only as far as the length of their tethers. His emus studied them quizzically, cocking their heads with avian curiosity. In spite of being so much larger than a sheep, they were birds and so were immune to the Call. All mammals larger than a big cat were drawn away, but never birds or reptiles.

  Only dimly perceiving obstacles, Ettenbar walked on. He waded streams, tumbled down steep hillsides, climbed walls, and stumbled through ploughed fields. He passed a farmer who was straining to walk southeast with the Call. The man was held by a body anchor that had been released by a rawhide timer ten minutes after the Call had caught him. The farmer would live, but Ettenbar was already lost to the world, dead because he was walking freely. Ahead was the broad, brown river that marked the border. Ettenbar waded in and began to swim. Not one-quarter of the creatures drawn along by the Call survived the crossing, but Ettenbar reached the south bank and staggered on.

  Three miles into the Christian may orate of Rutherglen he crashed blindly into a dense thicket of blackberries. The heavy shepherd's leathers and boots that had nearly caused him to drown in the river now protected him from the worst that the thorns could do, but he could not maintain even the slow walking pace of the Call. It continued to beckon to him and he struggled to follow it as thorns tore at his face and hands. Finally his legs became so entangled in thorny branches that he could not move. After three hours the Call finally passed, releasing him. Ettenbar awoke. He was cold, wet, bleeding, and exhausted. The sun was low, almost smothered behind gathering clouds. One moment he had been striding to collect the ram that he had snared, and now... The Call had spared him! With bleeding fingers he drew his knife and cut his legs free from the thorny branches. He stumbled back out of the grove of grasping thorns, prostrated himself, and gave thanks to Allah for the return of his life.

  From the setting sun he took a bearing for northeast and began the journey home. He felt ashamed for being caught without his tether, but otherwise walked along proudly. The Call had released him, he was blessed in the eyes of Allah. It was only when he reached the river that he realized where he was.

  "Hei, Callshewt!" shouted someone behind him. He hesitated, then bolted for the riverbank. A gunshot barked out and soil sprayed up in front of him. Ettenbar stopped and turned, his hands high.

  Three bearded, gore-encrusted spectres approached. They were not border guards but river gleaners--scavengers looking for livestock drowned in the river while trying to follow the Call. Ettenbar saw that only one of them had a gun, and realized too late that he could have run on before the musket was reloaded. They wore stained oilcloths and swenskin breeches, and stank of mutton fat and blood. Three pairs of scabby, dirty knees showed through ragged holes. They had been dragging freshly drowned sheep from the water and butchering them for the Rutherglen markets when Ettenbar had appeared.

  Prakdor reloaded his gun while Mikmis and Allendean examined their prize. Although their leader, Prakdor, let Mikmis do most of the talking. He had been in his mayor's army once, and knew the fate of the loud and vocal.

  "Southmoor sheeps hagger Mikmis observed as they bound Ettenbar's wrists and hobbled his ankles.

  "Hold 'im? Ransom?" Allendean asked.

  "Ransom? A sheeps hagger We'd not get the price of the rope. Better march him to Wahgunyah and sell him to a barge master as a rower."

  "Wahgunyah. Long trek," Allendean grumbled.

  "He's strong. He'll fetch twenty-five silver nobles if he gets one." While they argued Ettenbar looked across the river to the fields that were home. Until this day he had never traveled more than twenty miles from where he had been born, but now he was unlikely to ever see those fields again. "Jorah," he murmured.

  "What say?" snapped Allendean.

  "Jorah, it's Southmoor for the Call," said Prakdor. "It means Changer of Lives."

  "Shewt, he got that right," chorkled Mikmis. "Kiss your sheep goodbye, sheeps hagger The three river gleaners burst into hoarse, raucous laughter. "I--hey, can he count?" Mikmis suddenly exclaimed. "Southmoor sheeps hagger Give break!"

  "Can you count? Er... Prakdor, do you know how they say--"

  "Vu numerak, isk vu mathemator?" Prakdor asked in the dialect of the neighboring Southmoors.

  Ettenbar nodded proudly. The local mosque had a fine school.

  "So, he can count! I've heard the Warren pays one gold royal for Southmoors who can count--two if they speak Austaric."

  "Sheepshagger nayn't," Allendean grumbled.

  "Shewt pig head it's still four times what he'd fetch as a rower." They turned to Prakdor who considered, then nodded. "We'll take him to the camp and clean him up. Mikmis, go to Wahgunyah, see the Warrenmaster."

  Nothing symbolized the power and authority of Libris better than the tall beam flash towers that stood in every town. In Rutherglen the tower was within the grounds of the Unitech, but some distance from its library. Lemorel had been walking purposefully down the cobbled streets of the Unitech, yet something made her pause to gaze at the tower.

  It was wooden and whitewashed, gleaming starkly against the clouds of the late-winter afternoon. White fumes poured from the outlets at the summit as magnesium flares powered the beam flash equipment in the absence of direct sun light. A signal was going west, to Numurkah, from where it would be relayed southwest to Rochester. The distance that a message could travel in moments might take Lemorel months, or even years but no matter. Today she would take another step on her journey to the capital.

  She was saved from abduction by being a librarian. Five men in shabby oilcloths loitered near the gates of the Unitech, stating at a sheet of poor paper that might have been a map. They seemed to be itinerant farmworkers trying to find their way around an unfamiliar town.

  "Lemorel Milderellen, Dragon Yellow Librarian," one of them muttered as Lemorel walked through the gates.

  Another shook his head. "Let her go."

  "She won the Unitech prize for mathematics," insisted the first.

  "Abducting even a Dragon White Librarian is a good way to get us shot. Who is this next one?"

  "Joakim Skinner. Assistant edutor in Accounting." "That's more like it. Mark him down." "Five. He makes five."

  "Five is enough. Two gold royals for each of us."

  "That Constable's Runner is staring at us again," their tall, gaunt lookout reported.

  "Then let's find a coffeehouse and bide." They had not noticed the color of the arm band that the librarian had been wearing. Lemorel had been promoted to Dragon Orange rank only that afternoon. The rise in rank could not have come at a better time, as there was a Regional Inspector visiting the town. Libris recruited librarians from outside Rochester at the level of Dragon Red and above. She had a minimum of two years more before she became eligible for the exams, yet there were now ways of hastening promotions with Highliber Zarvora in charge.

  Rutherglen had
been the vineyard heartland since the earliest records began, and the rhythm of life was closely tied to the grape harvest and its cycles. This was late winter, a time for repairs and barrel building, for hunting wild emus in the open woodlands to the south, and for long philosophical discussions in the evenings over old vintages beside fires. Bright flags, ribbons, and bunches of evergreens hung from the lintels of most houses and shops in celebration of the Drinkfest. Out of sight on some roof a band was practicing. Lemorel noted that the cornet ton was slightly out of tune and the two snallhorn players were probably drunk. Smoke from cooking fires hung over the streets, mingling with genuine fog and hinting at stews and baking. Overloaded lever-pedal tricycles on unsprung wooden wheels creaked and rumbled along the Callside of the road.

  There had not been a Call for over three weeks, Lemorel reminded herself as her clockwork Call timer clattered its warning of a minute's grace. She reached down to her waist, twisted the reset dial to a half hour, and wound the mainspring. A Call was due soon, and she hoped that it would not interrupt her interview. The houses on the north side of the street were all blank walls of abandon stone tar brick and red shingle: no street had two sides. If a Call came, those inside houses would walk to the blank wall at the back and wander there mindlessly, but in safety. No windows or doors ever faced in the direction of the Call. Just like the people themselves, open and welcoming on one side but blank and unassailable on the other, Lemorel mused. Those who recognized her quickly looked away and found something to be busy with. She fantasized about being the source of the Call itself, a godling that people protected themselves against with their blank sides. Even though it was an old and tired fancy, it was her only armor against the townsfolk who shunned her.

  In the distance she could see the Wayfarer's Rest, a hostelry for the better class of traveler. The Regional Inspector was waiting there. Her appointment was for 4 P.M. The single arm of the clock on the Mayor's palace was touching the numeral but the chimes had not yet begun. She slowed her pace. Whether it was passing exams, arriving for appointments, or shooting in duels, timing was all important.

  For Lemorel this was a chance to escape with dignity. Being a librarian with a reputation for shooting straight meant that she might bypass the lengthy rounds of protocol maze-running to get into Libris. The new Highliber was as refreshingly young as her predecessor had been stultifyingly old. Traditions that dated back centuries were being uprooted and opportunities were being made for the young and competent.

  Lemorel was with the Rutherglen Unitech library, and like all libraries in the Southeast Alliance it was affiliated to Libris. When Lemorel had been appointed as a Dragon White, the lowest librarian ranking, the Highliber of Libris had been in office forty-one years and was 106 years old. He had died within a year and was followed by Zarvora Cybeline.

  Zarvora was dynamic and dedicated, had an edutorate in applied algebra from Rochester University ... and was twenty-six. She had killed the Deputy Highliber's champion in a duel a day after gaining office and within a month had sent three-quarters of the executive staff into exile. All at once Lemorel's temporary job within a hidebound profession became a marvelous opportunity to get ahead.

  Lemorel glanced at the clock tower and shivered in the still, cold air. The ann was right over the numeral four. The trip rod on the hour gearwheel would be pressing against the release lever of the horiogue barrel by now. Weights on a pulley would soon rotate the barrel, and studs on its surface would move another set of levers that would trip spring-loaded hammers to strike a tune on brass bells. Lemorel's father had maintained the mechanism for years, and some of her earliest memories were of the inside of the mayoral clock. Now there was a proscription on him working there and the mechanism was slowly going out of adjustment. There was a distant, muffled clack, and the chimes of the horlogue began. Heart racing, Lemorel entered the hostelry taproom and caught sight of a portly man in casual maroon robes wearing the silver badge of the Inspectorate Service. He was twirling the waxed beard spike on his chin and frowning. The last chime sounded as she crossed the room.

  Vellum Drusas had a round of vineyard towns that he went to some trouble to visit in the winter. It was a good season, as people had time to spare and were glad of company from outside the may orate There was, of course, the matter of the business that justified his travel in the first place, but while Drusas might have been indolent, he was not stupid enough to abuse his travel allowance. If he worked minimally to justify trips to his favorite vineyards, at least he worked.

  The taproom was full of growers and artisans from outlying areas, gathered together for the Winter Drinkfest. This was also the reason that Drusas was in town. Smoke from the sunflower-oil lamps and numerous pipes hung on the warm air, and the talk was loud and strident. The speakers were not so much drunk as used to bellowing to each other across open fields. The farmers squirmed and scratched, unaccustomed to the feel of starched tunics and brushed cotton stove trews Some suspiciously eyed the reciprocating clock that had replaced the sun, moon, and stars to mark the passage of time. Drusas watched the clock too, shaking his head. If the librarian arrived late he would have no time to mix with the grape growers and wheedle an invitation to the wine-tasting competition that night. "To 1681!" someone shouted, and most goblets were raised. That had been a fine year; in fact, Drusas had nine bottles of the famous Bafioch '81 Shiraleng in his cellar--the tenth had been uncorked the day that he became a Deputy Overliber. Their value had increased fifteen times since he bought them.

  Outside, the horlogue began striking, and on the fourth stroke of the hour a girl seemed to materialize before Drusas. He saw large, dark, intense eyes in a pleasantly round face framed by severely pinned and braided black hair. Her tunic was the rather pale shade of violet prescribed by the Regional Overliber and her oilcloth rain cape had seen a lot of use. She bowed with a brisk, birdlike movement and presented her papers. Drusas accepted them, noting that she wore no jewelry aside from her hair clasps and that her gunbelt was severely functional. Typical new-blade career librarian, he decided. "Frelle Milderellen?" he asked. "Yes, Fras Inspector." "You know me by sight?"

  "You conferred my Dragon Yellow rank last year in a ceremony at Wangaratta." "Ah yes, but there were many presentations and only one presenter. Or perhaps I was especially memorable, eh?" He gave a wink and a coy leer. Lemorel did not react, not even to blush. Drusas hastily looked down at her papers. A diploma from the local Unitech, a weapons license... "Dragon Orange," he said, eagerly picking on an obvious mistake to show that he was alert. "Your petition of this morning stated that you were Dragon Yellow."

  "I was regraded today, Fras Inspector."

  "With no ceremony?" "No, Fras Inspector. I petitioned for the grading tests against my Overliber's wishes. Because I passed I was entitled to regrading, but--"

  "But because you were regraded by petition you automatically renounced the increase in salary and the right to have a conferral ceremony. Ah, congratulations anyway." He settled back and took a sip of frost wine from a blue crystal thimblet. He read further, and felt his stomach sink as he reached the magistrate's report. She was noted to have survived trial by combat. They had warned him that there was a strange one in Rutherglen, and this had to be her. Lemorel noticed the color drain from his face. She took a deep breath and clasped her shaking hands behind her back.

  "Frelle Milderellen, you have an exceptional record," he said slowly. "Top marks in your year at the Unitech, small-arms champion at the regional fair-twice--and Dragon Orange at nineteen. Your petition is to transfer to Libris at your present rank, but to remain on the staff of the Unitech. That is not possible."

  Even the raucous banter of the other drinkers could not fill the chilled silence of the moments that followed.

  "The Unitech Ovefliber assured me that it can be done." "Oh it can be done, but only if he permanently transfers your position as Dragon Orange to Libris as well as your person. Libris has been swallowing a lot of librarians from the regio
ns lately. Your Overliber might be willing to let you, Lemorel Milderellen, go, but I doubt that he would give up the right to replace you."

  "Does that mean that my petition is rejected?" She was polite and deferential, but something about her rattled the rotund and comfortable Drusas. It was not so much the threat that she might shoot him from some dark alleyway so much as her remembering him in two decades when she was a Dragon Gold in Libris.

  "Rejected? No, heavens no," he laughed. "We just need to discuss your case in more detail. There are many paths to follow, and you must take the right one. If you don't, I will be to blame as your adviser. Here, sit down. Frostwine? Honeycakes?" Lemorel sat down beside him, as wary and sinuous as a cat with a stranger who smelled of dog. She selected a honey cake "Now, what we need to do is to get down to basics, Frelle. Just why do you want to go to Libris? To follow a lover, to escape nagging parents, or perhaps even to genuinely further your career?"

  "Does it really matter, Fras Inspector?"

  "Yes indeed. Going all the way to Libris is a drastic step. What exactly are your circumstances?"

  Lemorel took a moment to gather her words together, words that could not be softened unless she lied. She had already decided not to lie. "I've shot nine men and one woman during the course of two duels and one vendetta. I was also mentioned in my lover's suicide note. I'm under the protection of the magistrate, but my family has been proscribed in five may orates by the families of the dead. My father's business is suffering, Fras Inspector, but if I go into exile and go sufficiently far, the proscription will be lifted."

  Drusas shivered, then gulped down the remains of his frost wine It suddenly seemed no stronger than sweetened water, so he called for a shot of black barrel brandy.