Souls in the Great Machine

by Sean McMullen

  "No."

  "Can you draw one?"

  "No. Navigated by, ah ... innuendo? Intercourse? Intuition! Yes, yes. Only Theresla made maps."

  "Well, can you take me there?"

  "No, Fras. Shame, the shame."

  "Gah, dummart! How do you expect me to help?" Glasken waved to the guards. "Will ye help him inside?" he called.

  "We know you both, Fras Orion," replied the duty officer. "You take him in. We can't leave our posts."

  "Thank God," murmured the gate sergeant.

  They watched them totter past, and presently heard the rattle of a pulley lift's mechanism. The six guards relaxed visibly.

  "They're the floor domo's problem now," the officer said with relief as he noted their entrance in the gate register.

  "Thought the Ghan didn't drink," said the sergeant, who was staring at the abandoned cart across the square. "After three weeks of watching Fras Orion arrive back here at strange hours in stranger company, I've ceased to be surprised by anything," the duty officer replied.

  Zarvora was awakened by the sound of distant shouting and smashing crockery. She shook Denkar awake. "Listen!" she hissed.

  "Some cook throwing a tantrum," he muttered sleepily, pulling the covers over his head.

  "It does not sound like that." "Zar, I've been up until four A.M. converting your trajectory equations into binary on punch tape. Unless the palace is on fire, I'm asleep."

  Zarvora strained to hear words in the distant argument. "Filthy wretch, get out!" shrieked a female voice.

  "I'm going, don't shout," pleaded a man.

  I'll shout what I want! You're not a Tiger Dragon, you're a damn gear jack You lied to me!"

  There was a series of percussive smashes and inarticulate cries of rage, then running feet.

  "Drunk! Drunk every night!" Something like a very large vase smashed, Fragments skidded and tinkled.

  "And when you' we not been mounting a tavern bench you've been mounting my serving maids!" A door slammed, sending booming echoes through the corridors and cloisters. For some moments there was silence, but this was broken by another smash and a cry of surprise.

  "And take your filthy rye whisky with you! Nobody dupes the Mayor's sister!"

  Zarvora raised an eyebrow. "But somebody appears to have, nonetheless," she concluded. She settled down again, but could not get back to sleep. Such outbursts were rare in the palace, and one of the parties involved had been Varsellia. The other.." a Tiger Dragon? A gear jack Zarvora pushed back the covers and stood up, stretching for a lingering moment before stepping into the drench bath. Wrapping herself in a towel, she went into the next room to check her sleeping sons, She drew the curtains against the sunlight, so that they would not wake early and disturb Denkar.

  Although she had arisen to investigate the disturbance, Zarvora was in no hurry. It was indeed prudent to let Varsellia calm down a little before calling by to speak with her. She dressed in her working clothes of gray cotton trews and tunic, then went down to the palace kitchens for breakfast.

  "Frelle Varsellia seemed a little excitable this morning," she mentioned to the serving maid who brought the tray of coffee and freshly baked raisin bread.

  "The good lady discovered that her lover was not all that he claimed to be," the maid replied.

  "Apparently he claimed to be a Tiger Dragon." "Most of the palace heard that, Frelle." The maid looked to the floor and blushed a little. "I can tell you, though, that Frelle Varsellia has discarded a rare accomplished lover."

  "Does experience speak?" asked Zarvora, daintily cutting up a slice of warm bread.

  "Fras Jack was generous with his affection, Frelle."

  "Jack, an ancient name," said Zarvora, before taking a sip of coffee. "Aye, Frelle, but nothing else was ancient about Jack Orion." On her way to Varsellia's rooms Zarvora noticed heavy snoring from the room occupied by Ilyire. The door was ajar, which was unusual for the paranoid Ghan. She pushed it open to find him on his back and snoring, sprawled across his bed and still fully dressed. His trousers and codpiece were on backward, however, and a fashionable shade of women's ruddy cheek-ochre was smeared over his face and collar. What appeared to be claret stained the ruffles down the front of his orange tunic.

  "Ilyire." There was no reaction whatever. She shook his leg, which should have made him leap to his feet with a knife in his hand. He did not stir. Finally she took a ray-stipple pitcher of water from the sidebe,"d and poured it over his head. Ilyire spluttered, and his eyes opened.

  "Ah, sister..."

  "I am the Overmayor."

  "Wasser difference? Both shout at me. Both strange as... devil's codpiece." "Have you been drinking?" Ilyire raised his head slightly, then cried out in pain and flopped back onto the pillow. Zarvora pulled open the towel drawer in the sideboard beside the bed, only to discover that he had vomited into it. She left, returning some minutes later with another pitcher of water, a towel, and a glass tumbler containing some white powder.

  "Get up, drink this," she said, splashing more water over him. "Lemmedie."

  "Head up. Drink this."

  "No! No, that's wha' Fras Glasken sayn' all night. Drink this, drink that."

  Glasken. Zarvora froze. Jack Orion, lecher. John Glasken, lecher. She suspected that they had everything in common.

  "Drink! This is salts of willow for your headache and soda for your stomach." Ilyire drank, but threw up almost at once. Zarvora skipped back from the foul torrent, then forced him to drink pure water until he had ceased to vomit. After that she gave him more of the mixture, and eventually he lay back, panting with exhaustion but reasonably lucid.

  "Who were you with last night?"

  "Can't remember.." much. Woman! Soft as silk."

  "You?"

  "Embarrassed. Knew no positions. Belgine, good teacher. Know some now."

  Zarvora lifted two generous lengths of sheep gut sheath from his half-open pouch with the tip of her dagger.

  "Poor sheep. Died fr'a good cause. Women's thighs.." heavenly. You know that, Highliber?" Zarvora blinked. "I shall take your word for it. So, you spent a night drinking and wenching with John Glasken?"

  "Fine fella, misjudged him..." mumbled Ilyire, pulling a sheet over his face.

  Zarvora pulled it away again. "How long has he been Varsellia's bobble boy

  "Dunno. Arrived... your wind train."

  "My wind train?" Zarvora could get no more sense from him. An inquiry to the palace guard revealed that llyire had arrived at the gate on a costermonger's cart. A check with the Constable's Runners turned up a report of three women and a tall, strong looking man pushing someone singing in a foreign language on a stolen cart. A check of the Felonies Register at the Constable's Watchhouse led her to the fruit and vegetable markets south of the par aline rail side She began asking after a gift named Belgine at the nearby taverns, and at the Green Dragon's Tankard she finally met with success. Glasken--as Orion--was staying at the tavern, but was in no condition to see anyone. Apparently he had company.

  "Has he committed a felony?" asked the tavern master, rubbing his hands anxiously as he stared at the official braiding on Zarvora's tunic.

  "No, but I want him watched," said Zarvora as she opened her hand to display three gold royals on her palm. She tipped them onto the counter. "Report his movements to the Constable's Watchhouse. Tell them WATCH BOOK SE379G with each report."

  He swept the coins from the beer-seasoned counter and wrote down the reference. "By my life, Frelle, I'll guard him as a son."

  Returning to the palace, Zarvora sat down to write a coded message to Theresla. Riots were unusual in Kalgoorlie, as were civil disturbances of any kind. Thus the chanting mob drew a crowd of spectators bigger than itself, and so gained the strength to intimidate further by that very increase in numbers. The number of people was no more than a thousand, yet that was enough to intimidate the nearby merchants, vendors, and artisans. The leaders carried banners bearing the Gentheist symbol of a wreath of green l
eaves surrounding a blue disk and they were chanting a mixture of prayers and slogans. Zarvora could not see the mob outside the palace walls, but she could distinguish the dominant chant of "No steam!" among all the others as she swung herself up into the saddle of her horse.

  "It shames me that you must travel on horseback when a cable tram is available," said Mayor Bouros to Denkar, who was having difficulty with his mount after ten years out of the saddle.

  "A group of riders gives them nothing to focus on," Zarvora explained. "They think to attack the of-cwttt net th oecrtr "

  "Why not send out lancers to clear the way?" Denkar asked.

  "They have women and children mixed in among them," Bouros replied.

  "An old trick of the Gentheists in the Southeast," said Zarvora. "Human shields. HtLrt them and you are called a butcher."

  "Oh so! That's where a lot of these Gentheists are from, even though they wear the robes of my Kalgoorlie subjects."

  "If they attack us, what then?"

  "I'm prepared. If there's fighting, stay with the rest of us and no heroics if you please." Zarvora slashed the air with her swagger stick, then rested it over her shoulder while Denkar experimentally rode his horse around the courtyard. The gates were pushed open and the forty riders moved out toward the crowd of protesters. The Gentheist leaders held back at first, looking for a carriage or cable tram behind the horses, but when the gates closed behind the last of the riders they led a surge toward the horses.

  With the exception of Denkar and Zarvora, all of the riders were cavalry guardsmen, and when fringes of the crowd began to close in front of them chanting "No steam! No steam!" they brought their swagger sticks to the ready and rode straight for them at a trot. Those in front tried to push back, but those safely behind them continued to advance. The leading riders reared their horses, which had been trained to lash out with their hooves.

  This was the cue for fighting to break out, for the Gentheist leaders had deliberately set up the confrontation with violence as an end. Screams and blood were added to the jostling swirl of bodies. The riders were all dressed in cavalry leather and ring work except for the Mayor, who also wore his heavy gold chain of office over his armor. Swagger sticks and sabers clashed, but the riders had the advantage in terms of arms, armor, and horses. The column made steady progress through the crowd.

  The gunshot itself was barely audible, but a rider beside Mayor Bouros flopped forward and began to slide from his saddle. Denkar reached over to hold him up as something whizzed past his head, followed by the bark of a second shot.

  "That's two!" shouted the Mayor, lifting a whistle to his lips. At his signal the riders drew flintlocks and began firing birdshot at those rioters who were half a dozen back from the horses. The rout began almost immediately, while scattered gunshots continued from farther back in the crowd. The distant gates of the palace compound suddenly opened again, and a far larger squad of cavalry poured out, cantering straight into the rioters and laying about them with sabers. Barely six minutes from when the first blow had landed, the riot was over. One of the Mayor's officers and nineteen rioters were dead. Two of the dead were women, and another three were children.

  The wind train journey did not get off to a good start for Glasken. Eastward K207 had been listed to leave on time until he had booked himself aboard. Immediately the schedule was put back an hour. Glasken cursed, spat on the platform, and made for a nearby tavern. As he sat sipping his ale beneath a vine-smothered pergola he noted that several of the loafers near the station were strutting slowly, rather than just casually wandering about.

  "Black Runners," he said to the serving girl who was removing his empty tankard.

  "Indeed, Fras?" she said with polite skepticism. "Hah, you doubt me," he said, putting an arm around her waist and raising his free hand. "Oi, Black Runners! Ye stand out like tits on a bull!"

  Of the dozen people who turned at his shout, two moved with a distinctly martial reflex.

  "Surely they're not all Black Runners, Fras?"

  "World's full of 'em," replied Glasken. "Well, time for a stroll down Tumble Street," he said as he stood up. The girl squeaked with indignation, then ran off. Glasken shouldered his roll pack twirled his swagger stick, and sauntered off toward a tangle of shabby buildings and alleyways. A half hour later he reappeared, a slash across his roll pack and his swagger stick splintered. As he arrived at the platform he stopped to remove a tuft of hair from the toe of his boot. Darien was on the platform, dressed in a neutral ochre kaftan that blended in with the Kalgoorlie crowd.

  "Frelle Darien, so you're the Dragon dignitary they held the train for," Glasken bawled as he strode through the gate. "I suppose you're on hush-hush work, so I won't bother asking."

  Glasken's appalling pun had been accidental, but was not lost on Darien. She swung a slap at him, but again Baelsha's training came to his rescue. A quarter step twist-dodge allowed Darien's hand to sweep harmlessly past his face, and she spun and stumbled with her own momentum. Without looking back at him she picked herself up and ran from the platform. One of the men who had tried to ambush Glasken in Tumble Street came stumbling through the gate holding a bloodied kerchief to his head.

  "Oi, she forgot her journey cases," Glasken called to him, tapping the brassbound wooden luggage with his swagger stick. The man glared at Glasken, then pocketed his kerchief and snatched up the journey cases. "I've owed that to you bastards since 1699," Glasken added.

  The man stalked off, with blood starting to trickle down his face again.

  Glasken felt a touch at his ann.

  "Varsellia!" he exclaimed. She held a finger to her lips, then drew Glasken back away from the crowd. The Mayor's sister was dressed as a common goodwife. Ochre sun powder had "Surely you are not leaving forever?" she said anxiously. "I do apologize for throwing you out--though I still think the blame was not all mine." "Pah, worse has been done to me."

  "You were naughty for drinking every night in the taverns."

  "And you're guilty of parading me as your pet man."

  They stood contemplating their respective sins and staring down at the red flagstones of the platform.

  "So we are both sorry, Fras Reprobate," Varsellia conceded, and Glasken nodded.

  "Did Ilyire pass on my message?"

  "Yes he did, but why are you here, Frelle?"

  "To see you off with a sweet memory of Kalgoorlie, lonely boy."

  "Pah, I'll not be gone long."

  Her face brightened into a wide smile. "So you're not leaving forever?"

  "Weeks, at most. Lately I have been feeling an odd urge to be... more settled."

  "You?" "Me. I spent five years in a very isolated, ah, outpost doing.." contract work. All that time I dreamed of girls, wine, and jovial times, but now that I have all that I find myself wondering if there is not more to life. I hope to raise some, well, venture capital for mercantile dealings during my trip."

  "Hmm. A more settled Jack Orion could be even more attractive to me. Mercantile dealings, you say? As the Mayor's sister I can give you some important introductions. Am I forgiven?"

  "As long as I am." When the wind train finally pulled out, it was with a galley shunter pushing it until it was clear of the city and able to take better advantage of the light and uncertain breeze. Near the outskirts of Kalgoorlie the houses were smaller and lower, neat little jumbles of red-on-white blocks. Finally they passed through the par aline gate in the immense curve of the city's outer defensive wall, but there were still whole suburbs of nomad tents and shanty dwellings before the train reached the irrigated patchwork of farmland.

  "Thae sac Mirrorsun's weakening thee winds," said the Merredinian cook as Glasken bought several jars of ale. "As long as I'm not pushing pedals in a galley engine, Fras, I don't care," Glasken replied as he flipped a copper from his change to the man.

  "Think thee that Mirrorsnn be Deity's disapproving of wind trains, Fras?"

  "I think Mirrorsun's the Deity's way of lighting drunks hom
e on moonless lghts.

  Strangely enough, however, Glasken's daydreams were of being a rich merchant and building a splendid villa, rather than of drinking ale, fighting in taverns, court life and his five years at Baelsha had changed him more than he wanted to admit.

  Zarvora and Denkar's trip to the University was postponed until the Mayor called a Noontime Magistrade in the square before the palace. Two Gentheist priests and five others had been caught and identified as being leaders of the rioters. All but one were foreign nationals, four from the Southeast Alliance and two from Woomera.

  A massive scaffold wagon was wheeled out from the stables, and the gibbets folded out and locked into place. As a crowd of Kalgoorlie citizens gathered, the bodies of the dead were laid out on stretchers before the gallows. A small group of Gentheists began a chant, but they were immediately surrounded and their leader escorted away to stand with the others on trial. The Mayor ascended the steps of the scaffold wagon and began to read from a scroll.

  "My loyal subjects, justice rests with the Mayor through the text of the Mayoral Charter. Though I delegate my authority in justice to the magistrates of this city and may orate I retain authority to pass sentence when I have personally witnessed an act of felony. In this case, I saw a crowd led by these men attack cavalry escorting myself, appearing as Mayor and wearing my chain of office. This is treason. During the fighting shots were fired that killed one of my loyal officers. This is murder. When more riders came to rescue us, these members of the crowd laid out here were trampled to death. As you can see, several are women and children, and these were made part of the crowd by the cowardly Gentheist leaders who used them as shields to fight behind. This is also murder."

  The square was in silence. A clock in a tower began to ring out the for noon. A herald with an agenda board climbed the steps and stood beside the Mayor.

  "On the charge of treasen I find these men guilty, but commute the usual sentence on my discretion. On the charge of murdering my officer, I declare the charge to need further investigation and pass it to the City Constable. On the charge of inciting a riot that led to the deaths of these people before you, I find these men guilty. I have been in contact with their mayors via beamttash and have obtained orders of extradiem proxian. I sentence them to death. Carry out my order, Constable."