The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  Perhaps what followed seemed like a good idea at the time, perhaps he was just tired of being polite, but Glasken should have known that a beaten enemy is not a vanquished enemy. As the Bartolicans stared angrily after him he unbelted his trousers, raised the flaps of his journeycoat, and bent over to present his pale white buttocks for the Bartolicans’ inspection while calling “Full moon!” in Old Anglian.

  A shot echoed among the mountains and a bullet whizzed through Glasken’s coat, flaying open his skin and raking his ribs. There was a scuffle back at the border rail and the two Yarronese guards were quickly overwhelmed and pinned down, but by now Glasken was running for a thick stand of trees, his right hand pressed against his side and his left holding up his trousers. More than a dozen Bartolican carbineers ran after him, firing into the air. There were several more shots amid the trees, but to the dismay of the Bartolican town constable his men returned with neither a prisoner nor a body. It was a small consolation for him to learn that the fugitive had been wounded before he had escaped. A Mexhaven handkerchief stained with fresh blood was presented to him as proof.

  The town constable returned to his office in a downcast mood. There would be an incursion inquest to be endured, and he was quite clearly in the wrong. Worse, the fugitive had escaped in spite of the incursion. Waiting for him was a senior inspector from Condelor.

  “I regret that the man Glasken is now at large in Yarron,” the town constable reported. “He was wounded by one of my guards, however.”

  The inspector examined the bloodstained handkerchief and smiled.

  “You have done well.”

  “But I’ve made a Class Five incursion and have no prisoner to show for it.”

  “I know my mother, Sair Constable, I know what satisfies and pacifies her. If I tell her that Glasken was shot as he crossed the border and was left to bleed to death by our carbineers she will be filled with elation and sponsor a great revel to celebrate. More to the point, she will cease nagging me to avenge her honor, and that is all that I am concerned about.”

  “Sair Inspector, we don’t even know that he is dead.”

  “Sair Constable, we also know better than to tell her that.”

  16 May 3960: Pocatello

  Giles Normandier was on hard times. The gunsmith was forty-four years of age, divorced, close to bankruptcy, and behind with his contracts to the gunsmith guilds of the East Region wardens. He was no longer a member of the guilds himself, having been expelled five years earlier after he had been jailed by the city inspector for public drunkenness. His shop was rented, and the rent was three months in arrears.

  The man who entered his shop had a gauze sunframe over his eyes, even though the day was well advanced and quite overcast. Giles looked up and knew at once that it was the bailiff. His bearing was erect, and his journeycoat faded but expensive in cloth and cut. Two men in similar coats had entered with him, and they proceeded through the shop and on into the back room before anyone had said a word. Giles stood up very slowly, placing a reamer on the workbench and keeping his hands visible. One of his visitor’s escorts returned after a few moments and reported that the shop was clear. The man did not sit down.

  “Sair Normandier,” he began in a hard, commanding voice, “I have been reviewing your work history in the guilds’ records.”

  Giles swallowed, cleared his throat, and swallowed again. Anyone who had access to the archives of the guilds was at least a magistrate, if not an inspector.

  “Circumstances … are not good for me, Sair—um, Sair.”

  “I know. Your shop is rented, your tools and materials are on trust against your debts, and even your books and broadsheets are no longer your own.”

  “I once had promise, sair. Twelve years ago I was assistant gunsmith to Warden Beecherven of Snyder. I made six pairs of reaction guns for his flock, all of which are still in use. Two of ’em brought victory in duels. Fine work, those guns.”

  The visitor nodded. “I know, I flew one of Beecherven’s flock last week.”

  Giles opened his mouth, then closed it and swallowed. A warden. He tried frantically to think which warden would have cause to deal with him.

  “I’ll have the general spares contract finished in three days, Warden. I have no apprentices, you see. I can pay nobody because of my circumstances, so I do everything myself.”

  As Giles stood rubbing his hands together his visitor reached into a pocket and withdrew a leather palmfold, walked over to Giles’ workbench, placed it in front of him. Giles picked up the palmfold and looked inside. It contained receipts of discharge for his rent, for all his tools, for nine fines by the Bartolican SuperGuild of Armorers, for metals, materials, even for groceries.

  “I—I do not understand. Warden, you must have paid what I couldn’t earn in two decades to clear these debts.”

  “Do any other debts stand between you and serenity?”

  “Some moneylenders are due small amounts.”

  “Write down the names of the moneylenders. It is a wonderful thing to be given another chance at life, is it not, Sair Normandier?”

  “Why have you done this?” he asked in astonishment.

  “Why, Sair Normandier? You are a good master to apprentices, when you have them. You are a slow worker, but your guns are as good as those from any master alive. You also have no ties, and I need of a teacher who is free to travel.”

  “Where?”

  “Very, very far.”

  Giles gnawed at the dried skin on his lower lip. “I am a loyal Bartolican, Warden. I cannot help the enemies and rivals of the Airlord.”

  “Your loyalty is commendable, but your fears are unfounded. My clients are much further away than the enemies and rivals of the Airlord of Bartolica. They are so far away that they could never be his enemies and rivals.”

  Now Giles began to recall scraps of gossip from his clients and suppliers. The coronation had been attended by a woman from the very southernmost nation of the Andean Callhaven—Veraguay, that was the name of the place. She was said to be a roving envoy, and had taken three years to reach Bartolica. More questions tumbled into Giles’ mind, but too many questions and too little enthusiasm might lose what was being offered.

  “I accept!” he blurted out.

  The visitor removed his gauzeframe eyeshades. It was the face of the new portraits in every public building: Governor Stanbury. Giles came around his workbench at once and dropped to one knee. Stanbury hauled him to his feet.

  “Begin packing, now. Just tools that you could not rebuild easily. The bags must weigh no more than two hundred pounds.”

  “Two hundred pounds? A thousand would not—”

  “Those which exceed two hundred pounds can be sent later. Hurry now, you leave in five hours.”

  “But can I have time to drink an ale at the Blue Fox and tell—”

  “Absolutely not. Word will be put about that you have gone to the capital on indentured work to clear your debts. There are delicate politics involved, concerning the welfare of Greater Bartolica.”

  “With all possible respect; Sair Governor, how could the work of a broken-down guildsman carry such worth?”

  “No more questions. Pack!”

  Some time after midnight Giles arrived at the Pocatello wingfield. A heavy overcast rendered the scene as dark as pitch and there were very few people about. The flightstrip was firm and familiar under his feet as he became aware of a sailwing trainer in front of him. He could just distinguish its looming presence in the light that leaked from a pinlamp carried by one of the Governor’s guards.

  “Here is the hatchway, your tools are aboard,” said Stanbury.

  “Sair Governor, I—I don’t know what to say. When I ate my lunch I was staring despair in the eyes yet now I, I—”

  “Sair Normandier, the cost of sending you to where you are going is several times your weight in gold. Work hard, stay healthy, obey orders, and teach diligently. A lot of people are going to be very angry if they do not get a go
od return for their investment. The first installment is a dozen apprentices able to build reaction guns.”

  The compression engine was started, then idled until warm. Someone slapped the side of the cockpit twice and dim shapes ran to pull the chocks from the wheels. The ascent run was in near total darkness and it seemed an eternity to Giles before the aircraft rotated and climbed into the air. It banked as it climbed, and Giles could see the distant lights of Pocatello far below through a pane of the canopy. He did not need to be told that he would never see them again.

  Stanbury met with his enigmatic partner after Normandier had left, at a local warden’s mansion. Carabas was composed and relaxed, and carried nothing with him.

  “I delivered your drunken gunsmith to the wingfield, or are you aware of that already?”

  “Oh I know that, and I thank you.”

  “And is he satisfactory?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know that he must be inspected as present every month, or declared dead.”

  “You may declare him inspected or declare him dead, Sair Governor.”

  “I may do that for three months, then the Regional Inspector will arrive in September to inspect my books. He will note that the gunsmith has been inspected by only one man, while the law requires three officials to rotate the inspections. I shall have a lot of explaining to do, and the penalty for trading in weapons guild artisans is death.”

  “By September you could have Bartolica at war, Sair Governor. Alternately I could arrange a very convenient fire in your palace.”

  “Fire? War? What is all this? Who are you?”

  Carabas placed his hands together as if in prayer and sat back.

  “Why tell you what you would not believe? How are your carbineer brigades growing?”

  “The carbineers have been increasing steadily enough. They train at moving rapidly about on steam trams and pump carts, and can reach a trouble spot on the tramways before any outlaw bands would have time to disperse. Banditry has dropped to almost nothing and the East Region is becoming a popular place for merchants to invest, but …”

  “But?”

  “But this increase in carbineers is costing me five times what I used to spend on tramway defense.”

  “Money will be made to appear if it is needed. Just keep recruiting and have no doubts. Tell me, who was Fudarvier?”

  “Fudarvier? He, ah … I know the name. He lived many centuries ago, before the warden system was established. He was governor of Absaroka back when it was part of Greater Bartolica, he, ah, put down some rebellion or other, there’s a song that the carbineers still sing about him. Do you want me to get down a volume of military history?”

  “No, I obviously know the story better than you. Furdarvier held Absaroka with a garrison of two thousand troops, and in the fifteenth year of his appointment he defeated a well-armed rebellion of eight times as many Absarokans in a series of tactically and strategically brilliant battles. He was called to Condelor to be decorated by the monarch of the time, but died of a fever on the return journey. The brother of a mistress of the monarch was made his replacement, seeing that the locals were obviously able to be kept in order so easily. Within two years the Absorakans had successfully crushed the local garrison and fought off three Bartolican armies sent to reclaim what was now calling itself Dorak. Thirty thousand Bartolicans died before a truce was declared and Dorak was recognized.”

  “Yes, now I remember my tutors mentioning all that. The land of Absaroka was of little profit to Bartolica, and within a few years they were trading with us again.”

  “Thirty thousand lives call your words nonsense. The monarch wanted that land kept Bartolican, make no mistake, but he did not realize that Furdarvier was one of the most brilliant commanders in the history of the Mounthaven dominions. Furdarvier had a very peaceful rule for his first fourteen years as governor, however, when he was forced to fight he made it seem so easy that everyone else wanted to take the credit. There are lessons in his life for you.”

  Stanbury was no fool, and was quick to make extrapolations.

  “Is there a rebellion being planned?” he demanded, jumping to his feet.

  “Not a rebellion, but something better. Peace is not conducive to military advancement. Furdarvier was a brilliant man, but had he died of a fever one year earlier, who would even bother mentioning him today and what soldier would sing songs about him? Pay a great deal of attention to the military resources of your region, Governor, especially over the month to come. You may be needed to save Bartolica from outlaws. Goodnight to you now.”

  “Wait! What outlaws?”

  “There will be outlaws.”

  “What makes you think that I am a brilliant commander, anyway? I am good in a gunwing duel, yes, and I have won five skytourneys and two blood duels, but I have never led a flock of gunwings.”

  “Soon you will do more than just that, Sair Governor, you will lead the whole of Bartolica into battle—and you will be brilliant, trust my word for it.”

  After over an hour of flying, Normandier noticed that they were descending to what looked like mountains. From Mirrorsun’s position Giles was able to tell that they were flying almost due west. As he looked down a pair of lights appeared below, then gradually became a twin line of lights as runners lit the torches that flanked a wingfield. The wingfield ended at a precipice.

  They landed, and two dark figures helped Giles from the cockpit. The sailwing made its way back down the flightstrip, then turned and ascended into a light breeze.

  “So, is this my new home?” asked Giles.

  “Waiting, seven days,” said one of the men, then they left him with his tools beside a small tent while they smothered the torches flanking the wingfield.

  When Giles emerged from his camouflaged tent the next morning he was astounded to see that the wingfield had vanished, covered with scrubby trees and bushes in large pots painted to resemble the surrounding rocks. Going down on one knee he brushed his fingers over the surface of the flightstrip. It was not just secret, it had been graded only recently.

  Giles whistled, then stood up, shivering in the morning sunlight. He had never seen a new flightstrip, or even a flightstrip less than five hundred years old. This was not just the theft of a few guns and guild secrets, this was the overturning of something as old and fundamental as the civilization of Mounthaven itself.

  18 May 3960: The East Region frontier

  Rollins was reassigned back to the black trams in mid-May, after an extended interview with the officer Warran Glasken.

  “Would you kill for Greater Bartolica?”

  “Yes.”

  “What languages do you speak?”

  “Bartolican.”

  “Nel hisi optil?”

  “Your pardon, sair?”

  “Never mind. What do you know about the outlaw problem?”

  “They’re said to come from Yarron.”

  The windows of this black tram were boarded over, and small forced-air ventilators were installed in the roof to allow the passengers to breathe. Again Rollins slept by day and drove by night. After a fortnight he noticed that just after a Call had passed over whatever siding the black tram was standing in, the merchant officers would return with a dozen or so outlaws in chains. To Rollins they did not look like outlaws. They were well-groomed and pale-skinned men, more like shopkeepers, bank clerks, and such. The occasional women did not resemble gaudily dressed, raucous outlaw women as much as disheveled and frightened schoolteachers.

  They were kept on the upper level of the black tram, and when it was at rest in sidings he could hear the officers taking them through rote lessons in a type of numeric code. Rollins, the stoker, and the two gunners were ordered to have no contact with the prisoners. Rollins was inclined to obey, being uninterested in drawing attention to himself. Not so the front gunner. Caught in the act of fornication with one of the female prisoners during a meal and privy stop, he was shot through the head by Warran Glasken with neither t
rial nor ceremony. He was buried where he died.

  23 May 3960: Pocatello

  The decomposing body that was wheeled into the town morgue had been nibbled at by vermin for several days and was unrecognizable. The sub-inspector for the town had just finished quite a pleasant dinner when the runner came to his door, and now he busied himself with the registers of travel and absence while the coroner worked with the stench in the adjoining room. Presently the coroner joined him, still wearing his stained, reeking smock.

  “The body was found in an overgrown culvert at the edge of town,” reported the coroner, sitting uncomfortably close to the sub-inspector. “A passing farmhand noticed the smell. A handmade pistol of .35 caliber was found in his right hand, and two empty whisky bottles were lying beside the body.”

  “The clothing and papers belong to Giles Normandier, master gunsmith,” said the sub-inspector quickly. “Drunkard, heavily in debt, debts recently bought out in return for a couple of decades of work in Condelor. Registered as traveling with tools in a barrow.”

  “Neither barrow nor tools were found.”

  “What was the cause of death?”

  “One .35-caliber, hollow-point bullet, administered orally, and at high speed. It removed the back of his skull as it exited, along with most of his brains. The bullet was recovered from the wall of the culvert and matched with the weapon discovered in the right hand of the body. The brains had been consumed by the local fauna by the time of discovery.”

  By now the sub-inspector was chalk-white, and his hands were shaking.