The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  “You cannot be trusted with the plans of the Supreme Assembly.”

  “If it’s like their plan to murder Highliber Zarvora, then I think it is my duty to save the Supreme Assembly from itself. With a single bullet they cut off our supply of the old technology and set us back centuries.”

  Carabas clicked his heels and gave the briefest of bows. “I do not believe we have further business, Frelle Theresla,” he said, and melted into the crowd without awaiting a reply.

  Laurelene had not understood much of their rapidly spoken conversation, but it was obvious that agents of another Callhaven were active in Bartolica. If so, the Veraguay envoy would be part of the conspiracy, and might well be vulnerable to the truth being exposed to daylight. Glasken would know, Laurelene decided, and Glasken was stupid enough to let something slip. She caught sight of the feather in his hat above the crowd and moved toward him. She hailed him and he broke off his conversation with Sartov. Bowing low over Laurelene’s cleavage, he again caressed it with the point of his waxed beard. She flinched back, but retained her smile.

  Fifty if he’s a day, Laurelene thought. No bulging gut, all muscle, and he carried the scars of a lot of action. One ear was partly shot off. Not far behind him Rosenne and Hannan were discussing something earnestly, as they nearly always seemed to be doing. She asked Glasken several questions about Mexhaven, and dropped the words Miocene Arrow quite casually. Glasken did not react at all, yet something about his manner hardened ever so slightly.

  “You speak Old Anglian with some facility, Sair Glasken,” she remarked. “Have you been in Mounthaven before?”

  Glasken, who had been expecting more searching questions from her, relaxed inwardly.

  “I have never crossed Mounthaven’s Call frontier before now, Semme Hannan. There was a warden’s aide from South Colandoro living in Chihuana. She taught me, ah, the scholarly tongue in this Callhaven. It has a lot in common with our own scholarly language.”

  “But Hispan is nothing like Old Anglian.”

  “Ah—but there is also Anglaic.”

  Laurelene had not heard of Anglaic, yet Glasken could certainly speak Old Anglian well, and had a convincing Hispan accent. Still she knew a lie when she heard one, and he was definitely lying.

  “That is a lot of trouble to go to, learning the language of such a remote and distant place as Mounthaven.”

  “Oh no, Mounthaven is the summit of civilization and learning, great Semme. When the Veraguay envoy announced that she was going to cross the Callscour desert there were dozens of fine bravos coming forward to be in her service. I knew Old Anglian, however, so that put me ahead of all the stronger, younger, and less experienced young men. Besides, I am a guard to the nobility, and nobles travel more than others, even in Mexhaven.”

  “Are you sure that you are not a noble yourself, traveling in disguise to observe Mounthaven more candidly?” Laurelene asked, batting her eyelashes at him.

  The effect was not so much alluring as alarming, as practiced by Laurelene. Glasken managed, “Great Semme, you flatter me.”

  “I’m sure a great many ladies flatter you, Sair Glasken,” she said, turning her head to one side with a simpering smile.

  “Maybe so, but I must attend the safety of my envoy,” Glasken responded with mechanical charm.

  I cannot even charm this yoick who pays better heed to my servants than me, Laurelene thought with a momentary pang of despair. As a parting flourish, Glasken began a low bow over Laurelene’s expanse of cleavage. Her patience with everything that was frustrating her snapped without warning, and seizing Glasken by his whole ear and what remained of the other she rammed his face down between her breasts.

  “If you like them so much, Glasken, take a really good look!” she shouted, then swirled around and stamped away through the crowd—which parted readily at her approach. Total silence blanketed the reception hall until the door slammed behind Laurelene.

  “You must forgive my wife, she is a little rough in her affections,” said Hannan to the astonished Glasken.

  As the reception struggled to regain its genial mood Sartov seemed to materialize beside Glasken. He was swaying alarmingly and holding a pitcher of wine, but the expression on his face was anything but jovial.

  “Sair Glasken, the ’spector General’s wife … attacking the Veraguay envoy … through you,” he said slowly, maintaining the logic with difficulty.

  “A remarkable woman,” said Glasken as he straightened the points of his waxed mustache.

  “Don’t under … , ah, estimate. She’ll press charges, unseemly conduct … against you.”

  “That may not be all she presses against me.”

  “Your patroness, Semme Rosenne … be exiled, if you lose.”

  “And what happens to me if I lose?”

  “Hmmm … Could be imprisoned … forever. Could get hung on the public scaffold—shorter sentence! Get it? Shorter sentence!”

  Sartov elbowed him in the ribs, began laughing uncontrollably, and collapsed. Glasken caught the lightly built Yarronese as he fell and removed the pitcher of wine from his grasp.

  “If you flee, poof, no trial,” Sartov gasped as Glasken drew him up straight by his collar.

  “But that would declare my guilt.”

  “Think your word’s better than, er, ’spector General’s wife?”

  Glasken swallowed, and needed no more time than that to make up his mind.

  “I’ll flee—but where?”

  “Glasken, I wish to go home but I’m … ah, incapable. Navigate me to, er, Yarronese embassy, and I’ll point you to Yarron.”

  Sartov arrived back at his embassy across Glasken’s shoulders. The clerk did not respond to his knocking.

  “Slack wretch, going Bartolican,” Sartov muttered in exasperation as he drew out his keys.

  After several minutes of fumbling Glasken took the keys from Sartov and opened the door. The envoy turned up the lamps, then slumped into a chair and regarded his guest.

  “You’re lean, strong, and fit, Sair Glasken,” Sartov pronounced. “You’ll make it.”

  He stood up, tottered to the bell cord, and grasped at it. Somewhere in the distance a bell jangled.

  “Announcing Sair Juan Glasken, Sierra Madre,” declared Sartov as Glasken guided him back to his chair.

  The appointments clerk presently shuffled in wearing a bedrobe and slippers, and looking a little puzzled and drowsy.

  “Prepare border passage papers for, er, Juan Glasken of Sierra Madre,” said Sartov. “Now.”

  When the clerk had gone the big man thanked him and bowed slightly, his hands crossed over his chest. He sat down on an imported Yarronese lounge chair, which was high-backed and more firm than the Bartolican variety.

  “So, you went where no man would, ah, voluntarily go,” said Sartov. “What did you say that Semme Laurelene would, ah, take offense?”

  Glasken leaned forward. “I made no lewd suggestions, Envoy Sartov, I do not hunt seductions. I gather up those that are easily available, and Semme Laurelene could not be described thus. We had been speaking of language and travel when she seized me and—”

  “Yes, yes, saw it all. Unbelievable. Thought I was drunk. Well, ah, I knew that. And you took no liberties at all?”

  “No. Not even a little nip while I was down there. It all happened so fast.”

  Sartov blinked. “She’ll be angry, she’ll act quickly. Pack, leave now. You’re dangerous. No, Laurelene’s dangerous. You’re in danger.”

  “Long experience with angry fathers and husbands has taught me to be prepared to flee at all times. I have a gun, knife, and gold with me, my coat is warm and my boots stout. A blanket and some dried fruit and bread would be welcome, though.”

  “Done! Pantry’s there … on the right. Take a wineskin too, hey, and there’s Mexhaven condoms in there. You’ll need one if Laurelene catches up. Bartolican pox, Bartolican pox; It grabs their menfolk by their cocks; … ah shit, what comes next?”

  T
he clerk returned with the papers. Sartov signed without checking the details.

  “Anywhere in Yarron you’d like to go—particularly?”

  Glasken pointed to a map of Yarron under glass on a low table. “Middle Junction, Median, and Forian. After Forian, to Denver in Colandoro. I have, ah, colleagues there, and a library that I must explore.”

  “A library? You? You, ah, no scholar.”

  Glasken draped a leg over the arm of his chair and twirled his mustache. “Scholars can be as rakish as the next man, but they are mostly discreet about it.”

  “Mostly.”

  “Mostly. I once tried being discreet. It led to a war.”

  Sartov shook his head as he endorsed Glasken’s papers in a register. He dismissed the clerk, and did not speak again until they were once more alone.

  “Can give you papers, Sair Glasken, but steam trams only leave in the morning. Too late. You’d … better walk.”

  “I’m good at that,” Glasken replied without a trace of disappointment. “Thank you very sincerely, Envoy Sartov.”

  They stood up and grasped wrists.

  “Just why are you doing this?” Glasken asked as he buttoned his coat and pulled his cap low over his face. “I am not important and I can never hope to repay you.”

  “You are a jackhare with the whole hunt pack of terriers at your heels: I feel sorry for you. Besides, I’m drunk, and when I’m drunk I annoy Bartolicans. Annoying Bartolicans is … national sport of Yarron. Semme Laurelene will be exceedingly annoyed by this.”

  “I don’t believe that,” said Glasken as they reached the door. “You are friends with her son.”

  “Ha ha, sharp, very sharp. Vander’s fair and reasonable, a good inspector. My friend. I’ll not see my friend … dragged into the gutter. Stupid mother, she’ll do that. Force him … be her advocate. With you gone, poof! No case.”

  “I presume Semme Laurelene is jealous of her husband’s interest in the Veraguay envoy, and seeks to stir bad feelings between the two households.”

  “Aye. Now promise me to escape, Glasken. You owe me a drink for this.”

  “I’ll fetch you a drink to remember, Sair Envoy.”

  Again they seized each other’s wrists in the Mounthaven greeting. Sartov opened the door and checked for lurking constables or carbineers.

  “Take the mountain road east, past Bear Lake. It’s rough and steep, but only one hundred miles to Yarron. A fit and desperate man might take … three days.”

  “I am that man,” replied Glasken, turning up his collar.

  12 May 3960: Condelor

  The next day marked the official end of the coronation festival, and the capital of Greater Bartolica hung between revelry and normality as the debris of celebration were swept away. The bakers and tailors cleaned their shops and counted their profits, while the churls who swept the streets and hauled the refuse carts moved many loads of faded petals, dry leaves, and shreds of colored paper from the streets. The wreckage of Desondrian’s gunwing was recovered by the guildsmen and artisans of his wardenate. The airframe was cremated, along with Desondrian’s body, but the guns and engine were taken away to be stripped down and rebuilt.

  The smoke from Desondrian’s funeral pyre was rising into the calm air as Carabas met Stanbury on the promenade of the palace wingfield. The new governor of the East Region was on his way to his gunwing to fly back to his capital. There he would formally present his credentials and take charge.

  “So, I have my region,” he said nervously, aware that many pairs of eyes could see him in the merchant carbineer’s company. “What payment do you want in return?”

  “The use of an isolated and abandoned estate with a wingfield, and your help to secure the services of several artisans.”

  Stanbury threw him a sidelong glance but kept walking.

  “The first is not hard, the second will raise questions. What will their work be?”

  “It will be in support of Dorak against Yarron.”

  “Against? In what sense?”

  “War.”

  Stanbury stopped in his tracks.

  “What?” he exclaimed, louder than he had intended. “The Dorakian and Yarronese wardens have a truce going back decades, they are even developing that small, newly discovered Black Hills Callhaven together.”

  “Nevertheless, they will soon be making declarations, selecting seconds, petitioning for a council of delegates, and making territorial claims. Bartolica will second Dorak, count on that.”

  Stanbury thought this through for a moment. His new region shared a border with both Dorak and Yarron, but it was not prime territory.

  “How will a few artisans affect the outcome of a war?” he scoffed. “Even a minor war of, say, seventy dueling pairs?”

  “They will be guildsmen artisans, and they will be the price of services rendered. Your guilds guard their artisans well, and the people who sent me here have seen little return after four years of expense. The artisans are a symbol, a deposit, a holding fee. Certain factions at home will lose credibility if I can supply gunsmiths who are willing to train our own artisans in the making of reaction guns, for example.”

  “And will those reaction guns come back to us in the hands of Mexhaven carbineers?”

  “Governor, we have a whole continent to conquer, we have no interest in your dry and poor mountains. The reaction guns are for our internal struggles, to make our own sailwings invincible. Remember, our sailwings are far, far in advance of yours.”

  “I still cannot understand how your people can build sailwings powered by the sun, yet simple reaction guns and compression engines are beyond your skills.”

  “Look upon it as a mercantile opportunity, Governor Stanbury. You have something that we will pay for generously.”

  “And the war between Yarron and Dorak: do you mean to involve me?”

  “No, Governor, but you would be advised to claim the credit for our involvement. It will greatly enhance your status with Airlord Leovor the Seventh. Advice can be taken or left, but this is your single chance to seize a magnificent destiny.”

  Carabas bowed, then took his leave. Stanbury continued on to where his gunwing was being made ready. A steam engine on a cart spun the gunwing’s compression engine to life, and while it was warming the flight clerk briefed him on weather, Call vectors, and the gunwing’s performance in a test flight made an hour earlier. His ascent was untroubled, and Stanbury banked out over the mountains as he climbed, hoping for a boost from thermals. Looking to port as he turned north, he marveled that so much had changed in the capital over the days past, yet from the air it looked the same as when he had arrived.

  2

  ASSASSINATION

  Rollins had joined the Merchant Tram Service for both prospects and anonymity. As Charlegan Vandarforrin he had been a bright and promising student in the Royal Condelor Academy of Languages until he had stabbed and killed another student. That very night he had decided to forsake his career in the diplomatic service and became Teg Rollins. He had grown a beard as he fled north and been given a job as a wood-block stoker while hitching beside a backwoods tramway. The tramways and merchant carbineers were expanding, he was told by the driver. Guild families were no longer able to supply the demand as dozens of new trams were put into service. Did he want honest work? Rollins joined.

  Although a hard worker, Rollins spoke very slowly and kept to himself, lest anyone become friendly and try to go into his background. Within a year he was made a driver, and in another he became a driver first class. A senior officer in the Merchant Carbineers named Carabas interviewed him one day in the marshaling yards. Carabas explained that being a loner who was not very talkative qualified Rollins well to drive a new type of tram, one painted black that rolled only by night. The increased anonymity appealed to Rollins, and he signed on.

  In the following weeks he drove almost continually at night, transporting senior officers with names like Warran Glasken, Pyter Kalward, the man known only as Carabas,
and once even Governor Stanbury. They traveled all the backwoods tramstops and waystations, recruiting men in their hundreds to the merchant carbineers at very good rates of pay. Rollins never responded to anything but Bartolican, yet he spoke five languages fluently and could follow another eleven. He had also been trained in the elements of codework, in his earlier life as an aspiring diplomat. He listened and understood, but remained as impassive as a statue.

  A tram twenty-nine feet six inches long leaves little scope for privacy. Rollins’ masters spoke mainly in Old Anglian, and although they were cryptic in what they said, he soon pieced together a startling picture. The Merchant Carbineers, the policing arm of the Bartolican government, were being expanded to twenty times their former size and being made mobile on the new trams. Single men, fugitives, lawbreakers, and the footloose were preferred. They were trained hard and put to a life of near-continual travel on two-tiered red trams that seated fifty carbineers each. A version with roof seats and a canvas cover could even move a hundred carbineers, and all were armed with a two-inch carriage gun at the front and a heavy-caliber reaction gun at the rear. Rollins wondered how the outlaw problem in the backwoods had become so bad as to need such measures.

  13 May 3960: The Yarronese border

  Laurelene’s wrath caught up with Glasken at the Yarronese border. On the evening of the third day of his journey he presented his papers at Kemmerer, on the Bartolican side. Both Bartolican and Yarronese officials approved his transit petition, and as the whistle of an approaching steam tram sounded in the distance he paid the fees and bought maps and guide scrolls.

  The trip from Condelor to Kemmerer by the scheduled steam-tram service was twice the distance of that by road, but a tram did not need rest and sleep, and traveled at three times walking pace. Glasken stepped over an iron rail inset in the road and onto Yarronese soil, then presented his papers to the two Yarronese guards on duty, tipped them a silver coin each, and strode east. He was a hundred yards into Yarron when a bell began tolling and the bleat of constables’ whistles echoed through the evening. Glasken had beaten his pursuers with just moments to spare. Men with carbines hurried over to the border where the Yarronese guards still stood, ready to process transit papers and accept tips. There was a loud exchange in a mixture of Bartolican and Yarronese, neither of which Glasken understood well, but it was clear that the two Yarronese guards were trying to block the passage of some twenty Bartolicans.