Eyes of the Calculor (36 page)

"Is not allowed?" asked Samondel apprehensively.

"It is allowed," said Saresen. "Just difficult. Have a seat; I've just worked out a curriculum for Frelle Disore, a Centralian."

The curriculum that Saresen proposed seemed to suit their needs, and it did not take long to work through. He signed several more books out to them.

"There is one potential problem, however," he said as Samondel and Corien stood up to go. "Several students in the lectures and tutorials are from somewhat extreme acetic cults and sects, and are prohibited from having women as colleagues or associates. This includes attending lectures and tutorials with you two."

"Having suggestion?" asked Samondel.

"I could arrange for the academician to lend you his notes after each lecture. As for tutorials . . ."

"Yes. Day and time?"

"Ah, I suppose ... I had arranged a private tutorial for Frelle Disore . . . yes, I suppose I could include you two as well."

Once out on the lawns again Samondel discovered that Corien was also living at Villiers College. They decided to have dinner together at the college refectory that night, but Samondel was wary of letting anyone learn too much about her and wanted a few hours to think through her new persona.

"For all the trouble, great thanks," she said as they reached her door.

"Think nothing of it, Frelle. I really admire you, coming here alone and knowing so little Austaric."

"You too, are being alone."

"Ah, but my uncle is Rector of Villiers College so I am not really alone. Your accent is odd. Where are you from?"

288 SEAN McMULlEN

"Jarbrovia."

"I have not heard of it."

"Is long way north."

■ he charred remains of the sailwing did not take up much space once they were cut up and carefully bundled. Most of the wide and elegant flying wing had been just air enclosed by fabric and supported by lightweight wood strengthened by wire. The fuel tanks were of tin, and were almost as flimsy as the wings. The engines were another matter, but artisans were already at work dismantling them while Gentheist priests prayed and muttered exorcisms.

Meanwhile Jemlfs guardsmen had been disarmed and bound, and a train to return them to the Woomeran border was arranged. Jemli remained free, but that freedom involved facing Overmayor Lengina.

"Nobody! Nobody gives an order for any organized force to fire in Rochester, except for myself or my delegated officers," Lengina shouted angrily as she paced before the much taller woman in one of the palace's parlors.

"I ordered fire upon abominations, both aviads and their machines."

"Why?"

"They are a danger, a pestilence. They used fueled engines to fly over the salt water where they cannot be followed."

"Considering that the alternative is public execution in some mayorates, and lynching by vigilante mobs in others, this is understandable."

"But if they are gathering and settling on some island beyond the saltwater there is nothing to stop them."

"Why bother? They harm nobody."

"They must be sponged away."

"You are the only one who needs to be removed, Frelle. The single thing that is out of place in a tolerant state is a person who preaches intolerance. You are such a person, and I want you back over the border with all possible haste."

I he palace guardsmen had not been far behind the city militia at the crash site, and were quick to take control of the area. The wounded survivor was apprehended and hurried away, but the Swallow's cockpit had been burned before anyone discovered that it could accommodate two. A search had found no trace of any other, so Alarak was assumed to be alone.

Within the palace dungeons it was quickly determined that Alarak spoke nothing remotely like Austarac, and that communication with him was going to be a real problem. He had, however, escaped with more than just the clothes he was wearing. The contents of his survival pack caused consternation in the highest levels of government exceeding that of the Swallow's appearance over Rochester.

"This was found in the airman's pack," said the Overmayor to Dramoren, gesturing along a polished table where Alarak's survival equipment and supplies had been laid out.

"Ah, what am I to make of this?" asked Dramoren, unused to having his monarch give a technical briefing.

"A pack of dried meat strips, a tin canister of water, two packs of something resembling chocolate, one contraceptive device, one small utility knife with several small tools in the handle, one signaling mirror, one thumblamp and striker, the value of about ten royals in small gold bars, a dozen gold and silver coins of some unknown mayorate, what appears to be a pouch of medicinal powders and tablets, a phial of whiskey, those three boxes of tapered cylinders made of brass and lead, and this gun."

"This is a gunV Dramoren said doubtfully, staring down at it.

"It is not only a gun, it is the most advanced gun on the continent, Highliber. It fires packaged charges, using the reaction of each shot to work the reloading mechanism. One palace artisan was killed in the course of determining its secrets. It has a rate of fire of several hundred shots per minute. A couple of dozen warriors armed with such pistols could take on the entire city militia and win."

"Where did it come from?" Dramoren asked.

"Beyond the continent, Highliber. This pistol is about two hundred years ahead of our flintlocks."

Dramoren could not disguise his astonishment.

"Is it safe to handle?" he asked, his hands hovering over the weapon.

"The remaining charges have been removed; you can pick it up."

"This would be a very attractive device for our musketeers," he decided presently.

"Technically, it is also an engine driven by fuel, and so proscribed by the Prophet's teachings."

"Oh no, you are . . . well, yes, perhaps you are right. Technically. Is the fellow from the wreck an aviad?"

"No, he has been examined very carefully. He appears to be from a distant human civilization of great power and energy. Come this way."

The Overmayor led Dramoren to a very old global model of the world, one with the ancient political divisions and names labelled.

"Even without language I managed to extract some sense from him," explained Lengina. "With some signs and prompting he traced a path from our continent here, across this blue area of water—"

"The Pacific Ocean."

"—to here."

"North America."

"He calls it Mounthaven, but yes, he is from America. Think upon it. The aviads can fly too, and they may have weapons such as this. If not, the Americans can soon supply them."

"Pah, why should the Americans side with a lot of admittedly clever but very poor Avianese when the wealth of Rochester could be opened up for trade?" asked Dramoren.

"Because we have just fired upon an American flying machine. The Americans and Avianese combined could wipe us out."

"But we treat our aviads well. Years ago we passed laws outlawing the killing of aviads, provided they register and then present themselves for chaining during any Call. Our laws are the most enlightened on the continent."

"Except for the aviad agents being hunted down by your Espi-

onage Constables as they try to smuggle aviad children to their feath-erfields."

"Wingfields, Your Highness. And my Espionage Constables are merely obeying your laws."

"You know I can't change them all overnight. The people need to be coaxed to tolerance. Pah, what a dilemma. If we adopt Prophet Jemli as our religious leader can we retain even the few tolerant laws that exist? Food for thought, Highliber."

"In the meantime, Your Highness, all laws must be upheld. Remember, too, that organized aviads tried to take control of the Dragon Librarian Service in the not-too-distant past. Aviads are forbidden to organize or associate with any group other than family under pain of death, and marriage and procreation between certified aviads is similarly forbidden. We are at war with aviads as a group. My own Espionage Constables are your warriors, hunting their agents within the Rochestrian Commonwealth—in your name."

"Do your Espionage Constables do anything to enforce the current laws protecting aviads when those laws are flouted by the occasional lynch mob?"

"When they are in the right place at the right time, yes. I enforce all laws, Your Highness."

"Well, I suppose that having charge over such weighty issues is why you live in Libris and I live in a palace. What are we to do about the flying American? His name is Alarak."

"I can confine him in Libris with some of our best linguists so that an exchange of languages might take place."

"Good, do it. We have some words unraveled already. He said this thing is called a reaction pistol. My finest armaments artisans have taken measurements and are even now duplicating its individual components. Given perhaps two years, we may have a working prototype."

"A thousand aviads waving these things could conquer the Commonwealth within months."

"Very true, Highliber. Perhaps Jemli the Prophet could offer up some prayers on our behalf."

IVIartyne watched as the goldsmith examined a gold bar that had been brought into the shop. It bore no stamp. In the front of the shop a man with a grubby, brownish coat, drooping hat, and lank, black hair was waiting.

"Worth eight royals," said the jeweler. 'The gold is of a somewhat more pure type than is to be found in the Rochestrian Commonwealth."

"Offer him two," said Martyne quietly. "Then let him beat you up to something more realistic."

After ten minutes of haggling, the man departed with five royals added to his purse. He was even smiling.

"Are you not going to follow him?" asked the jeweler.

"I know who he is, and I know that he will not return to the one who gave him that bar."

"He has taken quite a loss on it."

"Yet he took it easily. He may have paid as little as three royals for it."

"What do you make of that, Fras?"

"I do not intend to tell you, Fras."

I he Filthy Swine was a tavern frequented not only by militiamen and musketeers; spies and Espionage Constables were also numbered among its patrons. Martyne had many contacts who were regular drinkers there, and some patrons were wanted by the very same people who were unknowingly drinking beside them. Martyne leaned against a wall, having discreetly spilled enough of his drink on the floor to give the appearance of a genuine drinker. Another drinker strode across and clanked his tankard against Martyne's.

"Need a message, Hakara," said Martyne.

"Outward?"

"Yes."

"Text?"

"No."

Martyne slapped the man on the chest, as if to emphasise something, but slipped the little gold bar wrapped in grease paper into his pocket. Next he backhanded Hakara against the chest and laughed, as if they were sharing a joke.

"Tell the Highliber," said Martyne softly, "this is circulating, so there may be another man from the flying machine."

'The gold could have been gathered from the crash site."

"That is possible, but I want that to be proved to me."

I error squads have arrived at night since time immemorial. At night people post more guards, lock secret doors, and leave tripwires attached to bells. The University's laundaric did nearly all of its covert business by day, however. As he waited in the queue, Dellar could see that many of the patrons were paying for very small amounts of laundry with quite large quantities of silver, while others were given packages and even things that looked like weapons wrapped in cloth mixed in with their clean clothing. Two features common to all laundarics were that they were open long hours and that everyone had a good reason to visit them frequently. This laundaric was apparently using those features to cover the laundering of far more than clothing.

Skew was a ratty-looking little war veteran who looked to be in his forties, while his helper had a shaven head and was much younger. The University of Rochester's laundaric had been established in 1337 GW, for the better hygiene of the sons—and now daughters—of gentlefolk while they went about their studies without the benefit of family servants.

Dellar waited patiently in the queue, and slowly worked his way toward the desk. Skew, the small cripple, was serving at the counter. At last it was Dellar's turn.

"Just this coat," said Dellar, putting a stained promenade coat on the counter.

Rangen reached out to smooth it flat—and Dellar snapped his ratchet shackle down around his left wrist.

The little veteran bellowed in a mixture of surprise, fear, and

outrage as he tried to pull free. Chained to Skew, Dellar was dragged almost over the counter. By now the other students in the laundaric were screaming, shouting, and scattering. A crush of bodies jammed the door, but one of those from the queue was Martyne. The eunuch hurried in from the back, saw what was happening and drew a knife. Martyne cross-blocked the knife, twisted his arm around, doubled him over, and kneed him in the face. He collapsed. Dellar pointed a pistol between Skew's eyes.

"Best not to move," he advised.

Martyne presently had four other customers laid out on the floor. The rest had fled by now, but there was shouting outside. Martyne came over to Dellar.

"Good work, we had to catch this one even if all the others got away," said Martyne. "Now raise your scarf."

They pulled their scarves up to their eyes just as three militiamen entered. These began shackling those on the floor after a deferential bow to the two masked youths. Brindilsi was carried out on a stretcher, leaving Skew alone with his captors. Skew's wrist was skinned and bleeding where he had fought and struggled against the ratchet shackle.

"Only work 'ere!" protested Skew.

"You certainly do work here," agreed Martyne's fellow Espionage Constable. "It's the word 'only' that I take issue with. Lie on the floor."

Skew was stripped naked, and it very soon became apparent that he had no war injuries whatsoever. Furthermore he had the skin of a teenager—including acne. A wet cloth removed the pox scars on Rangen's face to reveal half a dozen very ordinary pimples.