The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  “Why did you accuse me at all?” she demanded, growing annoyed and impatient.

  “The evidence pointed to you.”

  “The evidence? The evidence? You had no evidence, I had no trial, deliberation, or judgment, yet you shot those lies at me. If I had been in Yarron at the time I would have been before a firing squad within a week.”

  “True. But you were not, and now I have cleared your name.”

  “And I might have been a month dead by now! I kept imagining myself dead: tied to a post, blindfolded and shot full of gaping holes. You know, I found that taking lovers helped remind me that I was still alive. I have had lovers, I learned that willing girls have a far easier time of it than boys. Would you like to be my next lover? It would be the thirteenth time that I have done it! It’s an unlucky number but I’ve saved it for you.”

  Serjon winced at the word thirteen. “You needn’t have bothered, I’m already unlucky.”

  Serjon’s bland reaction to his nemesis number took Bronlar by surprise. She now sauntered forward and past Serjon, stopping at the red rope and looking out over the ruins of the Bartolican throne room.

  “When I first heard that you had accused me …” She stopped, jaw clamped and breathing heavily through her nostrils. “I decided that you did not like sharing this … this triumph. I hate you, Serjon! Do you understand that?”

  “Only too well,” replied Serjon softly, his voice flat.

  “I used to write your name on scraps of paper and fling them into the privy pit before I squatted.”

  “That seems reasonable.”

  Serjon’s penitence was beginning to try her patience.

  “Reasonable? Reasonable? I don’t want it to seem reasonable, sair Feydamor, I want it to hurt you! What does it take to hurt you?”

  “Nothing much, it’s not hard. You’re already doing it.”

  “Don’t bother begging for pity.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Damn you, Feydamor! Were it not for your slip of the tongue before the Airlords’ council I would still stand accused. I would not be able to walk into that banquet on the other side of the palace and sit in honor at the Yarronese table. Why did you stay silent for so long?”

  “I had no decisive evidence—”

  “You did, damn you!” shouted Bronlar, furious. “You withheld your gunner’s words, words that would have cleared me. All because you trusted some scum-piss warden boy.”

  “As soon as I had proof that he lied about crashing his gunwing, I came to doubt everything else that he had sworn in evidence.”

  “But your testimony about the tail gunner cursing me for a stupid bitch would have proved that it was I who broke off, and that I was too far away to have shot at you. You knew that! You hated me because you thought I broke and ran! Well I hate you! I hate you so much that I spread my legs for my guildsmen so that I could walk in here and fling their cod-buttons at your feet!”

  She reached into her pocket and tossed two brass cod-buttons at Serjon’s feet. They rolled to the edge of the pavement, near the gap where the old throne hall had been. Serjon watched as they skittered, then looked up directly at Bronlar’s face.

  “Does that hurt?” shrieked Bronlar. “Two lovers, Feydamor! I had my revenge, and it felt good all twelve times.”

  The changed look on Serjon’s face cut her short. It frightened her, but she misunderstood what was behind his expression.

  “You’re hurt, now I can see it, and you hate me too. That’s better. Thirteen. That’s my gift to you! Thirteen! What can you give me in return? Can you do better than that? Two lovers and twelve times?”

  Serjon straightened, adjusted his collar, then clasped his hands over his belt buckle and stared unblinking into Bronlar’s face. The patient resignation was gone.

  “Well before your next little gift I’d like to give you a truth,” he said, each word a clipped, hissing snap. “My only lie was to the Council of Alliance Airlords. The tail gunner shouted nothing down the pipe when you broke off. Nothing! Understand? Nothing! As soon as I so much as suspected that you were innocent I lied to clear your name, Warden Bronlar Jemarial, I lied to the Alliance Council itself. I found Princess undamaged in Gunwing Hall Eleven and I assumed the worst about Alion. I had no more evidence, he might have just turned tail and defected, but my faith in you was stronger so I lied to clear you and abased myself. That lie brought upon me undeserved guilt, disgrace, demotion, fines, and the contempt of nearly everyone whose regard I value. Worst of all, it has brought me two grinning, gleeful little cod-buttons.”

  For a brief eternity there was silence between them. Sounds of the distant banquet echoed through the passageways and cloisters, people were laughing and shouting and a band was playing Yarronese marching tunes.

  “What? You’re lying now!” she retorted. “The rear gunner’s grave was dug up on the day of your testimony. A bullet from Alion’s guns was found in his corpse. You changed your testimony as soon as you found out.”

  “I suggest that you read the Airlords’ dispatch more carefully. It is all written there, quite clearly. The rear gunner’s corpse was dug up after my testimony was given. It’s there in flawless Old Anglian, followed by my apology in plain, unambiguous Yarronese.”

  “No, I—it was translated for me, word for word,” said Bronlar, still aggressive in her tone but now visibly shaken.

  “By who? Some chubby little pudding of a Cosdoran guildsman wearing a pottery gunwing, anxious to paint me blacker than the devil’s turds, fill you full of whisky, and slip your drawers down? I lied to clear your name, Bronlar! I lied as soon as I became suspicious of Alion.”

  “Serjon!” He had started to walk away, but she strode after him and seized his arm. “Serjon Feydamor, wait! How did you know what Ryban looked like?”

  He shook his arm free.

  “Because I personally flew in with the Airlords’ dispatch! I was desperate to give you the good news. I’d realized that I loved you by then, but you’d already decided to take whoever was to hand. I missed most of what was being said at first because my compression engine was ticking over, but when I came near the pennant board you were kissing everything in guildsmen’s overalls and shouting ‘Piss on Feydamor!’ or words to that effect. When I ascended it was with the wind and I nearly hit a mountain.”

  He paused for her reply, but the shocked Bronlar clearly did remember that all had been as he said. It was a direct hit to her engine, and now the chivalric thing to do was break off the duel.

  “Now leave me alone,” Serjon concluded. “I’ll not cross your path again if I can help it. I have my own lover now.” For the last two hours, at least, he added to himself.

  “Serjon, you bastard, you’re still lying!” she shrieked, seizing his arm again. “I know you’re lying. I’ll prove it. Come with me!”

  “Let me go!” he shouted back, shaking her loose. “There’s nothing to prove and there’s nothing between us.”

  “No! I want your damn filthy lies dragged out for everyone to see. I’m not finished with you!”

  “Go nail some poor yoick for your thirteenth hump, there’s a banquet hall full of heroes to choose from—”

  Bronlar had meant to slap his face with an open hand but a year of war and death had trained her to instinctively hit with a fist. The slap that had become a right cross landed between Serjon’s cheek and jaw, then caught his nose. Serjon fell, striking his head on a column. He lay still. Bronlar spat on him, scooped up her two brass buttons, and strode off down the corridor.

  The palace echoed a great deal, and although Bronlar tried to walk in the direction of the sounds of the banquet, she seemed to get no closer. Several servants that she met spoke only Bartolican; then she cried out in joy to see Kanoshi in the distance. The former adjunct of Middle Junction wingfield was reeling but exuberant as she ran up and embraced him.

  “Damn this palace, I can’t find the banquet,” she laughed.

  “I’ll take you there now,” he cried
jovially. “I had to deliver some dispatches to the adjunct for delivery flights tomorrow. The Airlords have been signing ’em on the very banquet table.”

  “Would Sair Feydamor the younger be one of the couriers?”

  “The same,” he replied with a nudge of his elbow. “The mighty Warden Killer is now a courier to the new Bartolican dominions. I hope he doesn’t mind being spat on.”

  “Kanoshi, you speak and read Old Anglian,” she said as he tried to guide her down the corridor.

  “Only when I have to.”

  She drew some folded, wrinkled sheets of paper from her boot and handed them to him.

  “What happened, has someone been dancing on these?” he exclaimed.

  “If you please, could you clear up a little misunderstanding by translating these for me? As a second opinion.”

  “Translating—but it’s nine-thirty, Semme, the toasts will be soon and I have to show you to your place at the Yarronese table.”

  “Kanoshi, I’ll enjoy the banquet at lot more, and I’ll even do it in your company if you translate this and lay a troublesome ghost for me now.”

  She winked at him, and Kanoshi blushed.

  “Ah yes, I see—well no, I don’t see but I, ah, see well enough to … translate. It’s written in Old Anglian, the scribes of the council use it as a common language. Now let me see …”

  He began reading the Old Anglian back in Yarronese. Bronlar paid close attention, and leaned forward eagerly with an arm draped around his neck as the adjunct reached a critical passage.

  “‘Serjon Feydamor changed his testimony to exonerate you by mentioning details that he had not included in the previous testimony. Later that day the body of the tail gunner was exhumed and a bullet was recovered from the pelvic region. This was determined to be from the guns of Warden Alion’s gunwing, adding weight to Serjon Feydamor’s second testimony. Serjon Feydamor was ordered to pen the following apology to you—’”

  “Later that day, you said!” she exclaimed, suddenly feeling a pang as if she had been flayed internally by shards of flying glass. “Are you absolutely sure it says Later that day?”

  “Not only does it say that in plain Old Anglian, Semme, but I was there at the Council of Alliance Airlords on that very day. First Serjon testified, then around lunch the body was dug up. Within an hour the bullet was found and—”

  Bronlar had gone chalk-white with horror.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, “has Serjon ever parachuted into Condelor—like before the occupation?”

  “Never, Bronny. He’s only been shot down once, and that was in the super-regal. Why last week he told me in Wind River that he’s only used a parachute in training.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely positive! I worked as deputy adjunct at Wind River, which is his home wingfield. I signed him in every day from when he escaped Condelor until he returned here with twenty gunwings after the surrender.”

  “They all lied,” whispered Bronlar. “Except for Serjon. He said he loved me. Loved. Used to.”

  “Semme Bronny, what—”

  “SERJON!”

  She snatched the pages out of Kanoshi’s hands and ran back the way she had come through corridors still echoing with her cry.

  “But Semme Bronlar, it’s nine-thirty-five!” he called after her. “The banquet! The toasts!”

  This time it was even harder for Bronlar to find her way around. She seized servants that she found and demanded the way to the demolished throne hall. Eventually she was shown to the new, temporary throne hall. Again she ran through the corridors, shrieking and cursing, clutching the dispatch and calling for Serjon. Another ten minutes passed before she reached the place where she had hit him.

  There was blood on the floor in darkening pools, and smears leading away that thinned to nothing. There were two sets of footprints in the blood: those of Serjon’s dress boots and smaller, feminine slippers. She followed the trail as far as she could, calling to him with a voice that had grown ragged, harsh and weak.

  “Serjon, love, listen to me, please. Give me a minute, give me a heartbeat.”

  If Serjon heard, he did not come. She went back to the pools of blood and smeared it on her hands and face. Her tortured, knotted stomach finally gave up the struggle with what she had eaten in Evanston, and she threw up down the front of her uniform. Two Dorakian guards found her writhing on the floor, contorted with cramps. She was unable to speak and was smeared with vomit.

  “Ho ha, too much drinking!” chuckled one.

  “Ho yes, we have ways for curing of too much drinking,” the other replied.

  They picked Bronlar up by the arms and legs and carried her away.

  “Silly girl dress in warden’s uniform after jumpy-humpy, yes?”

  “Ho yes, and somewhere is warden wearing skirts and apron. Ho ha!”

  Outside in the palace gardens, Bronlar was dumped into a shallow fountain. The guards stayed to laugh, then turned back for the palace. She crawled out of the fountain and collapsed on the grass, shivering and retching. Pounding through her mind was a single, horrifying thought: three fatal nights ago in Cosdora she had not asked anyone else to check Ryban’s translation. Nobody had asked anybody to check, they all wanted to believe what Ryban said.

  “And you were there in the very flesh,” she whispered to the grass beside her lips. “I could have reached out and touched you. You must have wondered why I took the good news so badly. You must have wondered why, why, why, why, why … ?”

  She raised her head enough to gaze at the lights of the palace. Her hands and face were clean now. Although the Airlords’ dispatch to her was wet, the lacquering that was applied to all dispatch papers had prevented the ink from running.

  “Serjon, oh Serjon! I couldn’t even keep a few smears of your blood. But I have your apology, and I shall keep it beside my heart forever.”

  Serjon had revived with his head on Seyret’s lap. She was wiping blood out of his eyes. His forehead hurt like fire, as did his jaw and nose.

  “Serjon, can you hear me? Are you in bad pain?”

  He pushed at her as he tried to sit up. The columns swayed and wavered before his eyes as he looked around. Blood began streaming from his nose, and he pinched it with one hand.

  “Best that you go,” he mumbled.

  “But Serjon, you are hurt.”

  “Good. I want to die.”

  “You are hurt,” she said, holding him steady. “You need to be tended.”

  Taking a flask from her apron she dabbed a little firedew whisky on a handkerchief and wiped the gash on his forehead. He winced, but did not resist. She had a gentle, warm touch, and was wearing a subtle, pleasant scent. Serjon was cheered, in spite of himself.

  “Funny, but I don’t feel so desolate anymore,” he said.

  “Your pardon?”

  “I mean … I feel better. You have a nice touch, like a nurse.”

  Seyret unbuttoned her blouse and to Serjon’s surprise placed his hand against a soft, warm breast featuring a particularly large and hard nipple.

  “It is a nursing thing. Arousal of the male feelings makes the pain less.”

  Serjon smiled. “Clever. It works well.”

  “I will hold your pain away all night? Yes?”

  “Please, Semme. I’m in disgrace. If you want protection or favors, one of the wardens would be a much better prospect for you.”

  “Wardens need no help. You need help. Come, I shall help you walk.”

  As she helped Serjon back to his assigned room in the palace hostelry they heard Bronlar screaming Serjon’s name and other incoherent words in the distance.

  “The madwoman!” gasped Seyret. “What can I do? She knows where your room is.”

  “Samondel,” whispered Serjon. “Find Airlord Samondel’s room. She will help.”

  The hall where the banquet was to be held had been decked out with the Yarronese, Cosdoran, Dorakian, Sennerese, and Montrassian battle pennants, and the c
olors of every noble present were strung between the walls. Bartolican banners were draped as tablecloths, while some Bartolican tapestries on heroic themes were on the floor as carpets. Everyone was dining from palace silver, while the Airlords and their consorts who were present had gold plates and goblets. Two woodwind bands alternately played the marching songs and anthems of the victor dominions, and all the servants were dressed as wardens of Greater Bartolica.

  The toasts were nearly over as Samondel entered the banquet wearing Serjon’s flight jacket and with her hand upon Serjon’s arm. Serjon’s face and shirt were still streaked with blood, and his forehead was unbandaged. The entire hall plunged into a silence as deep as if a Call had just swept past. The pair walked a short distance between the rows of tables; then Serjon stumbled over the edge of a tapestry and Samondel caught him. They walked the rest of the way to the council’s high table with Serjon’s arm around her shoulders.

  “My apologies for being late, Lordships,” Samondel declared as she came to a stop before the assembled airlords. “There was an incident. Sair Feydamor came to my defense. He was good enough to lend me his flight jacket, too.”

  “Who did this?” demanded Sartov, rising from his seat. “Floor marshal, take note. Airlord Samondel, who attacked you? My people?”

  “Many people have suffered through Bartolica’s fault, Lordship. Let them go, but grant me one favor.”

  “Just ask.”

  “Let Sair Feydamor stay with me for what remains of the banquet.”

  20 August 3961: Condelor

  The sun was above the horizon when Serjon arose and began washing himself at the handbasin. Samondel had already left for the palace wingfield with a note for his guildsmen to prepare Starflower for her use, and as he dried himself he heard the sound of his radial compression engine in the distance. Seyret entered with the clothing and bag from his room, and she reported that Bronlar did not appear to have gone there. Samondel and he had talked about the servant as they lay together. She was in an occupied city, and she was Bartolican.