The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  “So, his tools were stolen as he traveled to a new patron to work out his debts. Got drunk and shot himself.”

  “So it seems, but I would like to point out that two teeth were broken, and that bicep and hand development indicate that he was left-handed. There is also evidence of bruising to the arms. It may well be murder.”

  “How can you tell, when he’s so far gone?” snapped the sub-inspector, desperate to leave and annoyed at having his word questioned.

  “Oh my good sair, even a child could tell. Come, come, let the body speak for itself.”

  Ten minutes later, having inspected the corpse, vomited on the floor of the post-mortem room, then fled into the cool night air, the sub-inspector lay gasping on a couch while his wife fanned him and dabbed at his forehead with a damp cloth.

  “The misanthropic little turd, he did it on purpose, he made up that murder business just to get me in there and see me retch. He knows I have a weak stomach. When I saw that he’d left his sandwiches on the body, gah! At least he’ll have to clean up the mess himself.”

  “Poor darling, but what about the broken teeth and bruises—”

  “Oh, the drunken sot probably struggled with whoever stole the tools.”

  “But if he had a gun—”

  “He was probably too drunk to shoot straight. Melline, whose side are you on? My finding is that Giles Normandier shot himself, and there’s an end to the matter. His guild can cross one whisky-soaked wretch off its register and good riddance to him too.”

  Just over an hour’s flight to the west, Giles was being strapped into the observer’s seat of a huge, matte-black sailwing. Even in the dark, Giles estimated that its wingspan was over seventy feet. He wondered why the Sentinels did not shoot at it.

  “It is proof against the Sentinels,” said an accented male voice beside him, anticipating what he was thinking. “It is also very light for all its size.”

  There were two thumps at the side of the canopy, and Giles heard the flyer clicking levers in the darkness. A low whining began, which slowly rose in pitch, accompanied by the swish of airscrews to either side of the cockpit. They rolled forward, and even Giles could tell that the sailwing was rolling only slowly compared to a normal sailwing. In Mirrorsun’s light he could see that they seemed to be racing toward the line of nothingness that marked the edge of the cliff, yet the wheels were still on the surface. They lurched downward into empty space and Giles shrieked in terror, but the sharp dive soon provided the airspeed for the sailwing to level out. Slowly it began to climb.

  “How are you feeling?” asked the flyer, with some stiffness in an otherwise Bartolican accent.

  “Surprised,” said Giles hoarsely.

  “It seemed best not to warn you how we manage to get this thing flying when its night ascent run is twice the length of a standard flightstrip. Now in sunlight, we can use a normal wingfield.”

  “Why sunlight?” asked Giles mechanically.

  “Because this sailwing is powered by sunlight. It collects it through its wings: some it stores in essence tanks called capacitance batteries so that it can keep aloft at night, the rest it uses to power those engines you can hear. It is best to ascend during the day while we have stored sunlight as well as what is shining down; but then people would see us and that would never do, would it?”

  “It is very smooth, ah, apart from the ascent run—oh and very quiet.”

  “Yes, it is a very advanced sailwing, it can stay aloft for weeks, or even longer.”

  “This is rather cramped for the long journey that I was told about.”

  “This is just the beginning. We shall climb above the clouds as we fly to the Mounthaven frontier, that is forty miles west. After that we go another two hundred miles before dawn.”

  “Straight out over the Callscour lands? Are you mad?”

  “Mad, yes, suicidal, no. Fras means Sair where you are going, by the way. You are to learn the language during the trip. Both of our scholarly languages are based on Old Anglian, and the changes come from two thousand years of isolation.”

  “What happens when—where we land?”

  “When I land, Fras Normandier, I shall brief my clerk on this mission, then eat breakfast. You shall not land. Now returning to your new language, if you meet a girl or goodwife she will be Frelle. Pretty is serie, a carbine is rifan, but until very recently we had no flying machines so we say gunwing and sailwing, just as Bartolicans do.”

  After several hours of clouds dimly illuminated by Mirrorsun the sky brightened with dawn. As far as Giles could see there were clouds and mountains below, but even had they been just circling the Pocatello wingfield, nothing would have been familiar from this height. An hour after sunrise he saw the sunwing. It was a long, dark line against the sky which kept growing and growing as they slowly caught up to it. Its sheer size had Giles speechless by the time they were closing on a snagline that trailed from the huge aircraft.

  “It’s as big as an entire wingfield,” Giles finally managed. “There must be hundreds of people aboard.”

  “There’s only one, the wingcaptain,” said the sunwing’s flyer. “It too is powered by the sun, so it must be big enough to collect sufficient essence of sunlight to fly, and store some for the night. It flies continually and is home to the wingcaptain and passengers for weeks or months. There is plenty of open space, but everything that it carries must be very light because the power from the sun is limited. Hush up, now, this is going to be tricky.”

  The snagline caught in the sunwing’s grapple, and it was drawn up hard against the underside. The flyer swung the canopy aside and helped Giles unload his bags into a large bare compartment with a floor that was covered with handholds. Another man appeared through a circular hatch.

  “Brother Meltomley, this is Fras Giles Normandier,” said the flyer.

  “Tarmen gis,” replied Meltomley, who bowed to Giles then helped the flyer back into his sailwing’s cockpit and lowered the canopy. “This way, Fras Normandier, we must be out of here when the sailwing is released.”

  Giles waved to the flyer, but could not see if he waved back. Beyond the circular hatchway was a long corridor with walls like smooth white silk. The air was cold, but Meltomley was wearing only a brown robe and cowl, and his feet were bare. The man is a monk, Giles nearly exclaimed aloud. After at least a hundred feet Meltomley ushered Giles into a small room that had a type of double door and was quite warm compared with the corridor. There was a bunk built into the wall, a wickerwork chair, a scribe board, and a shelf of books in the bedhead.

  “This is your bedchamber,” Meltomley said as he stood in the doorway. “The privy and ablution cell is within that alcove, and a pane in that curved wall shows the land below. I shall be back soon.”

  Watching through the circular window Giles saw yet more mountains; then there was a slight lurch as the black sailwing detached. It dropped into his field of view and flew a little ahead before banking to the right and descending.

  “Fras Normandier.”

  Giles gave a gasp and spun around to see the huge craft’s flyer standing just inside the door.

  “I apologize for startling you, I am not used to company.”

  “Ah, I see. It’s nothing.”

  “As you may have gathered, I am from a religious order . where extensive prayer and contemplation are practiced. We are ideal caretakers for these sunwings, where long periods of isolation are common.”

  “I—I’lltry to stay out of your way.”

  “That will not be necessary, I have been ordered to teach you something of the language of your new apprentices during the trip. Normally my passengers sleep for the entire journey, it saves the weight of extra food and prevents boredom.”

  “Am I confined to this room?”

  “No. There is a short corridor and small refectory room where you may go freely. My bedchamber, the main stores lockers, purifiers, and the control cell are barred to you, but if you need to speak to me urgently just press th
e green stud beside any door.”

  “The green stud … Fras Meltomley, why is there such a small living space in such a huge wingcraft?”

  “We are climbing at present, and by late afternoon we shall be at over five times our present height. The air is very thin there, and is cold beyond imagining. These few rooms are heated and sealed, but go anywhere else before we descend and you will be dead within a minute and frozen solid within twenty more. Now then, we shall start with a breakfast of dried figs, chickenwurst and limewater, and after that you will learn a few basic nouns and verbs.”

  The tiny refectory could have seated ten people at most, and had a larger portal with a view of the landscape that was ahead of them. Giles stared in awe at the view. “With machines like these, why do you need the skills of a humble gunsmith like me?” Giles said without turning from the incredible vista of clouds and mountains.

  “That is a very complex matter, Fras. Far better that you find out for yourself.”

  1 June 3960: Opal, In Yarron

  Six days after being shot in the ribs Glasken crawled out of the woods and into the Jannian estate. News that the Bartolicans had pursued someone over the border had spread quickly, but the fate of the fugitive had remained a mystery. He was known to have been wounded, but not so badly that he could not run. Terriers were sent after him by the Yarronese, but he used streams to smother his trail and lit no fires.

  Glasken was found by oilseed planters, who took him to the estate’s infirmary. He had lost much blood and his wound was infected, yet he was tough and recovered after a fortnight’s care. By this time Warden Jannian and his guild crew were back from Condelor, and Glasken was flirting with his nurse. The stranger showed his gratitude by offering to work on the estate, and the warden agreed to let him stay. Jeb Feydamor began showing him around on the first day of June.

  “In Mexhaven the estates are not like this,” Glasken said as they walked. “They are walled, and governed like fortresses within the dominions.”

  “Not so here: our estates are like little dominions within larger dominions. Wardens hold fealty to the airlords, but the airlord holds the land. Warden Jannian could move his estate over to Bartolica if he wished, and if land was granted to him there.”

  “Has that happened?”

  “Not often. Airlords look after their wardens because wardens provide all the parts that build the wings. The guilds of springmakers and valvesmiths have a big guildhall at Opal, and we grow our own oilseeds and sugar beets for the production of compression spirit. The refinery is those stone buildings at the edge of the wingfield, indeed the Guild of Fuelers has given Opal six awards over the past decade for purity and caloric content. The wingfield needs no explanation. The stone guildhalls and houses date back three hundred years.”

  “So do you grow anything useful, like wheat or birds?”

  Feydamor teetered on the brink of taking offense, then reminded himself that Glasken had asked the question in innocence.

  “Useful? There is no higher, more noble produce than that which keeps the gunwings and sailwings of Yarron flying!” he responded.

  “I, ah, meant food and clothing.”

  “Oh yes, we grow fiberweed and vegetables, as well as some birds and swinelets for the table, but the merchant estates provide most of that sort of thing. We do it better, of course, but they do it in quantity. This is a wardenly estate, Sair Glasken. The Jannian family has a crest on its pennon, not just a number.”

  They toured the core of Opal, finishing at the engineering guildhall. Here there was a compression engine being tested after a recent rebuild. Glasken watched as a steam engine was fired up, then its trolley was wheeled over to a test rig, to which one of the Feydamors’ famous radial compression engines had been bolted. A geared spindle spun a wheel attached to the compression engine, and the diesel cycle engine was spun until it caught and came to life. It was left to run up to its operating temperature.

  “That one is Bantros,” said Feydamor proudly. “He is over two hundred years old.”

  “He? Bantros?” asked Glasken, who had considered laughing but thought the better of it.

  “Why yes, gunwing engines all have names and are always male. They are big, brash, and powerful, while sailwing engines are female for being smooth, enduring, and steady. Bantros has been in thirty duels and combats, has been burned out nine times in overboost, and has crashed twice.”

  “And, ah, is he to have a new gunwing?”

  “No, he is to power the warden’s present gunwing for the foundation celebrations at Forian next July. Bantros has a distinctive voice, you see, and the warden wants to make a strong impression as he lands.”

  The guildsmen began to run power tests on the engine with slip-gear measuring jigs. By now the warden had arrived to watch.

  “Ha there, Glasken, may your full moon shine forever in Bartolican skies,” called Jannian.

  “But in Yarron it can stay eclipsed,” Glasken replied as they grasped wrists.

  The warden was a small, wiry man, as most wardens were, and barely came up to Glasken’s ribs. He was wearing a scarlet greatcoat with the family crest at each shoulder, and his boots were polished like mirrors and seemed to repel dust by magic. Feydamor had already explained that wardens were considered to be monarchs on their own estates, and were expected to go about as if continually on parade.

  “Have you thought about where you might like to work?” asked Jannian.

  “The guildhalls are fascinating, Warden.”

  The warden and Feydamor exchanged glances. It was a subtle exchange, but Glasken noticed.

  “That cannot be,” replied Feydamor. “We have an embargo against letting any skills relating to flight artisanry reaching any other Callhavens.”

  “I see, yes, your pardon please, I did not remember. We do have steam engines in Mexhaven, however, and you also use these for your starters, trams, and millshops. Do you need a stoker and oiler for your steam engines?”

  “That is not the most noble of callings,” Jannian pointed out.

  “Ah, but I am not the most noble of men,” responded Glasken.

  Warden Jannian and Feydamor burst out laughing, and their laughter echoed through the guildhall above the roar of the compression engine.

  “You’re right, Glasken,” said the warden. “We all have a place. Why, we would disappear beneath our own refuse if Sek did not haul away the trashbins.”

  “Oh but where I come from the building and tending of steam engines is the very summit of guild skill,” Glasken assured him.

  “He speaks good sense,” Feydamor agreed. “Do you have much skill with steam engines, Sair Glasken?”

  “My foundation skills are with weapons and explosives, but I would guess that these are also restricted artisanry in Opal.”

  “You are correct, I regret to say,” said the warden. “Still, if you consider steam to be a noble calling, then how could we affront you by speaking of it badly? Tend our steam engines, Sair Glasken. Tend them as a Mexhaven guildmaster, and you may sit at my table as a guildmaster each night.”

  7 July 3960: Forlan, Capital of Yarron

  An event capable of overshadowing even the Bartolican coronation was approaching in Yarron. On August 7, 3961, the Dominion of Yarron would reach the thousandth anniversary of its founding. During its first five hundred years it had withstood dozens of attacks and invasions, and since the wardenate system had been established its wardens had been among the finest in Mounthaven’s dominions. Although every square foot of Yarronese soil had been occupied at some time or another, the Yarronese airlords and wardens had always managed to regroup and win their land back. Only Bartolica had a comparably long history in Mounthaven, being founded fifteen years after Yarron.

  The 999th anniversary celebrations in the Yarronese capital, Forian, were well attended but less of a spectacle than those of previous years. The gathering of wardens was primarily for planning the greater anniversary that was soon to come.

  A
procession of the wardens through the capital was marred by a Call that swept across Forian just before the climax of the celebrations, and the disruption was compounded by a summer rainshower. The airlord’s court took place indoors, and while it did not match the sheer spectacle of the coronation celebrations in Bartolica, the pipe bands were truly stirring as they marched into the throne room flanking the Airlord, who was wearing a flight jacket and trousers ablaze with red and green gems, gold thread embroidery, and tiny white tassels. In contrast, his throne was a plain gunwing seat mounted at the head of a flight of stairs, all of which had been cut into a single granite block. Everything in Mounthaven had symbolism in its form, and the throne of Yarron symbolized that the Airlord ran the dominion as skillfully as he flew his gunwing.

  That evening there was a feast for the wardens in an ancient hall that had been the throne room in previous years, a huge building of heavy stone walls and tiled roof supported by massive ironbound oak beams interspersing stone arches. As feasts went it might have been considered dull: this was not a gathering for envoys, children, courtiers, or even wives; this was a working meeting of the Airlord and the three hundred wardens, squires, and merchant nobles who formed the elite of Yarron society, government, and defense.

  Mere flyers were not invited. Serjon and his peers remained with the sailwings and gunwings in the maintenance halls and tents, tuning and guarding the machines that gave the wardens their very identity. Serjon had by now accumulated twelve hours aloft in nine flights, all in armed sailwings. As the only son in a family of five, his ambitions did not have the support of his guildmaster stepfather, however.

  “Chivalry and the Art of Dueling?” sneered Feydamor as he entered the tent where Serjon lay reading against a stack of compression spirit barrels. “Chivalry never got an engine tuned.”

  “Even guildsmen have standards of chivalry to follow,” retorted Serjon, without looking up.

  “But guildsmen don’t stay guildsmen unless they mind their craft. Just remember how the warden dismissed Falcrick’s house after five generations of service tending the Jannian airframes, and even after two years of probation Guildsman Jemarial has not been given articles of service.”