The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  Tears of frustration trickled down Zekin’s cheeks. Now he could see the intruders but he could not shoot. The two figures from the sky hefted the trappers’ packs and strapped them on, then set off for the northeast, moving away across the Callscour frontier and into the wilderness. Behind them the fire blazed brightly, consuming black cloth, cords, clothes, and the bodies of Jebaz and Lemas.

  The sunlight of the next morning leached away the mystery of the night before. Zekin returned with the Janberry deputar and municipal militia, and they went over the scene of the deaths in great detail. It soon became clear to the deputar what had probably happened, so he set the appropriate official processes in motion. Late in the afternoon of that same day those processes had run their course, Deputar Bremmel’s edict was passed, and his sentence was carried out.

  A week later the Regional Inspector arrived as part of a routine tour. At first there was the drone of a compression engine in the sky; then the half-saucer shape of a Bartolican sailwing circled Janberry several times while the local wingfield was cleared of grazing emus and rheas. The crests of the Central Inspectorate and the Hannan wardenate were on the little white aircraft, so that by the time it landed the deputar had his books ready and was frantically sweeping his office.

  Vander Hannan climbed out of the tiny sailwing that marked him as more than just another mortal. Being able to fly meant that he was above the Call, that he could go where he pleased, that he was of the nobility, and that he was quite rich. He had the right to duel in the air, fight in wars, and sit in judgment over even the magistrates and deputars. On this day he was in Janberry in his role as an inspector.

  “Had a good hangin’ here last week,” said the wingfield adjunct as Vander supervised the guildsmen pushing his sailwing into a shelter shed.

  “Only one?” asked Vander.

  “Oh but it was a good one. The yoick said devils dropped out of the sky and shot his partners.”

  “Devils? Are they in detention?”

  “Well, can’t say as they are—but at least we hung someone .”

  Vander was favored with admiring looks from the girls and women of the town as he strode in to make his inspection. He was only twenty-five, unmarried, and his father was the Inspector General. It would have been easy for Vander to live well and do little work, but he took his duties seriously. He visited the frontier towns at least twice a year, and always inspected in field parade uniform. The citizens of the frontier had to be reminded that the airlord took an interest in them. and had a long reach.

  “Thing is, I can’t figure his reason,” Bremmel explained as the Regional Inspector finished reading the Janberry court’s proceedings. “He actually came here to fetch us back and all.”

  “And his companions were both dead by then?”

  “Yeh. It’s plain as the nose on your face what happened, ’cause both had their guns and silver stole. Their bodies were charred pretty bad, but not so you couldn’t see they was shot.”

  “What did Zekin say about that?”

  “Said two devils dropped out of the sky and shot at ’em. Lemas and Jebaz were plugged, so he ran for help.”

  “What did you find at the site of the murders?”

  “Ashes, mainly. He’d burned the evidence. The trappers’ blindhide was okay, the fire didn’t spread too far. Our tracker terriers found a trail from the shootout to a stream up northeast—but hell, that could have been Lemas and Jebaz just comin’ back from fillin’ their waterskins. I figure they was returnin’ when Zekin dropped ’em, like.”

  “Just like that? With no warning?”

  “Happens. Men go a mite crazy with each other out there. Hell, Inspector, it’s dangerous enough without his kind makin’ it worse. You capital folk don’t know the frontier.”

  “On the contrary, Deputar Bremmel, as Regional Inspector I spend most of my time on the Callscour frontier and I deal with more crimes in a month than you see in a year.”

  He jerked his thumb at the body of Zekin dangling on the end of a rope from the loading beam of the general store. Beneath were the charred bodies of Jebaz and Lemas, the latter two covered by blankets in the name of public decency.

  “Take the victims’ bodies to the town medic’s cabin,” said the Regional Inspector. “I want to do an autopsy. After that you will escort me to the scene of the shootout.”

  Two days later Vander Hannan had completed his work and written his report. The report censured Deputar Art Bremmel and his militia for neglect of due process leading to a possible breach of justice. The bullet that had killed Jebaz had not come from Zekin’s gun, but the possibility of Zekin’s complicity with the real murderers could not be ruled out. The verdict was left open. A fine was imposed on the town for hanging Zekin without a blue Section 19 form signed by a county magistrate or the Regional Inspector, and the deputar and militia were ordered to pay for a memorial service, burial, and tombstone for Zekin.

  Vander blotted his report, called for a clerk, and told her to scribe copies for the Governor and the town records. When she had gone he stared at Zekin’s weatherbeaten but well maintained carbine, then at a lead ball that he had cut from the charred flesh of Jebaz. It was for a larger bore than Zekin’s weapon. Zekin’s testimony had mentioned the smell of gunpowder, and the ball-shaped projectile implied a very old-fashioned gun. Regional Inspector Vander Hannan opened his personal journal and began a new entry.

  VERACITY ADDENDUM TO THE CASE OF

  THE AIRLORD OF GREATER BARTOLICA

  VERSUS ZEKIN FELTER:

  In my assessment of the evidence tendered, I determined that the victims both died of a single gunshot wound from a primitive flintlock firearm, and that two other persons were at the scene. One of them trailed bloodstains, presumably as a result of being wounded. They escaped along Greenbank Stream, where the terriers lost the scent. My examination of their trail revealed that the wounded man was limping and making use of an improvised crutch. They were wearing the boots belonging to the deceased. This suggests that two members of some frontier tribe attacked the trappers with homemade guns, looted their bodies, then returned to their own trap run. Sair Felter had mentioned that old-style gunpowder was on the air at the time of the shootout. The part of his story that lacked credulity was that the intruders had swooped out of the sky on what looked to be huge black birds as big as houses, and that these hummed like insects.

  At the shootout site I found a scrap of cloth and cord beside the fire. It was dyed black and was very finely made. It had survived the flames by being jammed into the splintered end of a log which had burned through and rolled clear of the main fire. The cord can support my full weight, although it is very thin. Its weave is finer and strength greater than I have ever seen in any fabric.

  It is possible that these intruders were Dorakian agents that parachuted down from the regular floatwing to Alberhaven, but why Janberry? There are no mineable ruins, fortresses, strategic tramways or wingfields nearby.

  Written this 4th day of August, 3956, by the hand of Regional Inspector Vander Hannan of the North Region Inspectorate.

  Zekin Felter had been innocent of this crime, of course, but was he blameless of any other wrongdoing throughout his life? Vander wondered. That seemed unlikely. Whatever the truth in this case, justice had probably been done for some crime or the other. The frontier mountains were isolated from the comfortable order of southeastern Bartolica: violence was a part of life, but retribution was also swift, decisive, and very public. Justice had to be seen to be done, and so citizens had to take all the more care to be seen to be innocent.

  Even as Hannan was writing his words, two trappers entered Northmost, just over the Dorak border. One had a bandaged leg, and was limping. They were unremarkable as trappers go, except that most trappers who came to town had pelts bundled in great rolls above their packs. These had none. First they went to the tram terminus, where they made inquiries about tickets south in barely intelligible Old Anglian, and then they sat down on a bench and
began counting their grimy coins and promissory notes.

  Nearby a tramway contractor was addressing a group of newly arrived gangers on their work for the months to come. He was also using the common language, Old Anglian, in deference to the varied nationalities of his recruits.

  “Now Northmost is the most northerly town of the Dominion of Dorak, as well as the most northerly town in all Mounthaven,” the contractor began.

  “Figures,” called someone, and the others chuckled.

  “I’m glad we have a comedian among us, because where we are going there’s not much to laugh about,” the contractor responded. “Now then, go one mile north of where we stand and you are in the Callscour lands. Have any of you worked at the Callscour frontier before?”

  Three hands were raised.

  “You there, sair, with the red hat. Can you tell us your name and what you’ve done here?”

  The youth shambled forward reluctantly, took off his hat and nervously fiddled with it as he spoke. By now the trappers were listening attentively, although still going through the motions of counting.

  “Tartaror Beisel of Yarron, steam tram driver first class. I worked on the Callscour tramway for two months. Last year, that is.”

  “Tartaror, tell us what goes on, like with the Callscour and all—not the religious bumf, mind, just technical, like.”

  “Well, to understand the Callscour lands you have to understand the Call,” Tartaror began in a soft, educated voice. “The Call began two thousand years ago, during what we call the Chaos War. It’s called that because nobody is sure who was fighting who, or even why they were fighting. They had many strange weapons of great power and some still work today. The Call is one of them.”

  “You mean like the Sentinel Stars in the sky, what burns up anythin’ what moves that’s thirty feet or longer?” asked a burly youth of about the same-age.

  “That’s it. Lots of Call engines were built under the oceans by folk who did not have Sentinel Stars. Mind you, the priests in some centuries reckoned that the Call came from God, so historians who wrote otherwise were burned along with their books.”

  “What’s oceans?” called someone from the back.

  Tartaror scratched the back of his neck, then glanced to the contractor, who nodded.

  “Well, from old books we can see that the world is a big ball, mostly covered with water but with some dry land. That’s where we live. When the Call weapons were started they put out a kind of sound like a dog whistle or something, and that forced everything bigger than a terrier to come towards it, like as if they were sleepwalking. The Call was meant for someone’s enemies, but I reckon they set it too powerful because nearly all dry land has been under the Call ever since.”

  He paused amid attentive silence. They had lived with the Call all their lives, but few had ever heard such a technical explanation.

  “The Callscour lands are actually the normal sort of Call as a weapon, like because it’s full on for three days at a time, then there’s a break of thirty or forty minutes, then it’s full on again for another three days. That kills folk, nobody can live long like that. It’s not completely regular, but we can predict it to about half a day using timetables and charts. Now in the Callhavens, like Mounthaven, the Call comes about every three days for only three hours. Bands of it sweep across the countryside like invisible brooms.”

  “Why’s that?” asked the burly youth.

  “We don’t know, that’s just the way it is. I think someone just set the Call machines wrong during the Chaos War. That’s lucky for us, like, or there would be no Callhavens and the world would be run by dirkfang cats and demicoons.”

  “Okay, Sair Tartaror, that’s told it straight,” interjected the contractor. “Now then, Northmost is where Dorakian wardens and flyers ascend from Canyon Lake in their floatwings to cross the Callscour lands to Alberhaven. Dorak and Greater Bartolica lease an island in Alberhaven’s Flathead Lake, where we have embassies. Only wardens and their most senior servants make the flight, because floatwings are the transport of nobility. Small things like gold, books, medicines, and suchlike are traded right now, but your work will change all that. You boys are important.”

  He paused to let that sink in, smiling benevolently. Most of the audience were impressed. They had never done anything important before.

  “The tramway tracks on this line continue out past Northmost into the Callscour lands, and are being extended by two miles every year. Work is slow because breaks in the Call come for no more than forty minutes or so every three days, but we got ways to work around that. A half day before a break is due you’re sent off on a special tram burning low-grade compression spirit and needing no stoker. It hits a special trip lever to stop it just near the railhead, then you wake up when the break comes. After that it’s forty minutes of laying tracks and stone like the devil himself’s your bossman, then it’s back onto the tram before the break ends. Got it?”

  “What happens if you don’t get back to the tram in time?” asked a quavering voice.

  “Your Call anchor stops you wandering too far, and there’s specially trained terriers left behind to fight off the dirkfang cats. Three days later you’re either dead or you wake up tired and hungry and the next tram’s there to take you back here. Another question?”

  “How long until the line is through?”

  “The gangers from the Alberhaven side should meet us in fifteen years. Wardens have surveyed the route from the air so that it follows old roads which are level, like. Make no mistake, this is hard, dangerous works. Take a look at the folk on your right and left. In two months one of them won’t be alive, but the rest of you will have more gold than you could earn in two years. Like I said, welcome to Northmost. Training starts tomorrow at dawn, meantime your tents are over at the rail dump. I’d advise you all to get a good night’s sleep.”

  As the group began to break up, the burly youth came over to Tartaror.

  “What you were saying before, like, I was wondering about the other lands beyond the oceans. Could there be Callhavens there too?”

  “We know the names of places like England, China, Australia, and Russia from old maps, but if they have Callhavens we shall never know. The Call is most intense near the oceans, and even our best sailwings are too small to even reach them, let alone cross them. I think there probably are other Callhavens, but it’s just a guess. I mean, like, we went for centuries before one of our wardens discovered Alberhaven and that’s only eighty miles away.”

  Tartaror pointed north, then put his hat back on. The burly youth bowed and they walked off toward the tents.

  “I’m Ceil C’Marl,” he said. “Why are you here?”

  “I shot someone back in Yarron. What about you?”

  “I altered the status of a girl’s virginity.”

  “And you fled here for just that?”

  “She was a magistrate’s daughter.”

  The two trappers watched in silence until the youths were out of earshot. By now they were counting their takings for the fifth time.

  “Tartaror is bright,” said the one with a bandaged leg. “He is right about other Callhavens.”

  “But wrong about the Call, Fras Sondian.”

  “Sair Hambrian Carabas from now on!” hissed the bandaged trapper sharply. “Get into the habit, Sair Pyter Kalward.”

  “Sorry Carabas, sorry,” Kalward replied quickly. “Still, how fortunate that their common language is still intelligible after two thousand years of isolation.”

  They sat back and watched the townsfolk going about their business.

  “Pretty women, Sair Carabas,” remarked Kalward.

  “Call in a half hour, Sair Kalward,” replied Carabas.

  “Like I said, Sair Carabas, pretty women.”

  Just then a woman strode past dragging a screaming, struggling child behind her. As they drew level with the trappers she stopped and turned on the child.

  “If you don’t behave the Callwalkers will get
you,” she shouted in the common tongue, probably thinking that the trappers would not understand.

  “Aren’t any! They’re like ghosts and fairies!” the little boy shrieked back, aiming a kick at her leg but missing.

  The trappers sat in silence until they were gone.

  “When they briefed us they said there were no aviads on this continent,” said Kalward fearfully.

  “Get a grip, you heard the brat. To them Callwalkers are make-believe, like ghosts. The only two aviads in North America are you and me.”

  Kalward relaxed slowly, then smiled. “I think that child needs to believe in Callwalkers, Fras—uh, Sair Carabas,” he declared.

  “So you’re planning to leave the proof with his mother, Sair Kalward?”

  “Just as soon as that Call gets here, Sair Carabas.”

  It was midafternoon, on a cloudless and calm day. The town deputar noted that the trappers wandered about for some time, asking brief questions of those they met and looking through the store windows. He was about to go over and speak with them when the bell in the east Calltower began ringing.

  A Call had swept over the watchman in the tower, and he had released his deadhand lever and walked east to the barred window of his chamber. With nobody to reset the deadhand lever the mechanism had clattered a short warning that a reset was needed, then engaged the gravity mechanism of the tower’s bell. The deputar unclipped his own bell and began striding down the street, ringing it as he went.