Eyes of the Calculor (46 page)

Traralgon Castellany, Southeast Australica

Uusk was long past as Serjon and Galdane stood waiting at the edge of a stand of trees. Behind them a dozen of Galdane's warriors stood ready with five blindfolded young horses, all recently weaned, and behind them was yet another group.

"I hear nothing, I see nothing," Galdane said yet again, scanning the dark skies.

"Approaching unpowered," said Serjon, "not want to be noticed."

"Why do they worry? The Rochester Overmayor has changed the laws about persecuting birdmen."

"Changes in law not stop Gentheist terrorists and vigilantes."

Off to the south a brilliant point of light appeared, dropping rapidly and leaving a trail of smoke. Serjon pointed.

"There! Light fires."

Eight bonfires lined the edge of the makeshift wingfield, and at Galdane's call these were ignited. They were made of dry brushwood, and they blazed up quickly. The light in the sky winked out, but nothing else happened. They waited.

"Is your flying machine so small that we might have missed it?" Galdane laughed without mirth.

Serjon knew what to look for, and in Mirrorsun's weak light he gestured to the enormous shadow that swept past them and on down the wingfield. Galdane fell over his own feet as he attempted to duck, turn, and run all at once.

Galdane's initial shock was not lessened by closer inspection of the super-regal. This was one of a pair especially built for the transport of horses, and featured a huge, oblong bulge beneath the main wing structure. It was driven by ten compression engines, but all of these were currently silent.

"Have horsemen ready to turn wing," said Serjon. "Is clumsy on ground."

"You said it would have to be pulled all the way back along the strip," replied Galdane.

"Tonight is no wind. Must descend and ascend facing wind."

Serjon entered the huge aircraft as it was being turned by a team of uneasy horses. Aboard were just the wingcaptain and navigator.

"Here we are, and with very little compression spirit in the tanks," said the wingcaptain. "I've never flown this thing so lightly laden before."

"All is safe enough here, both cargoes are ready."

"Then we need to open the doors. Come, you know what to do."

The aircraft was still moving as they began to wind the frame and canvas doors open. Once it stopped, Galdane's men fearfully advanced with a wooden ramp and placed it on the lip of the decking, then the first of the horses were led aboard.

"They're smaller than I've been told, Sair Feydamor," remarked the wingcaptain.

"They are very young, it saves weight."

They watched as the horses were strapped into their stalls and given nosebags. One defecated copiously, and Serjon ordered the pile of manure to be removed.

"Anything to save weight," he commented. "Ah, here are the extra items."

The aviad children began to file aboard, each carrying a sedated baby in a sling. The navigator hurriedly took them to a number of padded recesses in the structure of the super-regal and helped them to strap themselves in.

"Eighteen children and babies for delivery to the Launceston Wingfield, Sair Wingcaptain," said Serjon as they began to wind the doors shut. "Then you can replace their weight with compression spirit and return to Lake Taupo."

"It goes against the grain, Sair."

"Maybe so, but it means that we are supplied with a vast amount of compression spirit that does not have to be flown over from Mounthaven. Safe flying."

"Sair Feydamor, the Mayor of Launceston gave me this message just before we ascended," he said as he handed a sealed fold of poorpaper to Serjon. "He said to burn it, then take whatever action you would."

"Thank you. Do you know what it concerns?"

"He said it was personal."

Serjon and the navigator made their way along the top of the vast wing, firing compression charges to start the engines. When all ten were chugging steadily and warming up, Serjon slapped him on the back and dropped to the dark grass. Galdane was waiting for him.

"Would that I could see this in daylight," Galdane sighed.

"Unlikely," responded Serjon. "Too many think engines instruments of devil."

"Hah! Pale, cowering city mice! We of the grasslands believe in gods, not devils. Good gods and bad gods, great gods and weak gods. Your sky machines are free to come down here, in Traralgon. My castellany will keep the Gentheist vermin in their place."

The wingcaptain now brought the ten compression engines up to a steady, uniform speed, checked that all were in balance, then pushed the main throttle forward. The super-regal began to roll, and a great moan went up from the horse handlers to see their beloved charges taken away in such a strange monstrosity. The black super-regal merged with the darkened trees at the end of the wingfield, then lifted clear and was faintly visible for a moment before it turned south. The Traralgans all cried out, then began to cheer.

"Feldar Harg!" roared Galdane, waving his gun, "Feldar Harg, fil'dar."

The others took up his cry.

"What are shouting?" asked Serjon.

"Thunder Horse!" he replied in Austaric. "The flying steed of our greatest god, who flies with a roar like thunder. Our foals have become the children of Feldar Harg."

Serjon walked over to the smoldering coals of one of the bonfires, fanned it into brightness, then broke the seal on his message and opened it.

Fras Feydamor, one of our agents has reported that a girl going by the name of Samondel Leover is enrolled at the University of Rochester. She has red hair that reaches down

past her knees, and eyes of a very strange shade of blue. We have also been told that a man was pulled alive from the wreckage of the Swallow, and is being held in the Over-mayor's palace. Cleren, Mayor.

Serjon read the note twice more, then dropped it among the coals where both paper and wax seal blazed up for a moment. Straightening, he returned to Galdane and his men.

"Need travel to fringes of Commonwealth, are certain devices I need artisans build."

"But my blacksmiths are at your command!" exclaimed Galdane.

"No, need fine clockwork and gears."

"What sort of machine are you building?" Galdane asked suspiciously.

"Machine make little bullets reaction gun fires."

"Hah! You should have said! When would you like to leave? Tonight?"

Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Word of the first ferry flight of the super-regal reached Rochester's aviads a few days later, and with it came a coded message from Serjon. While no avaids went about flaunting their identity in public, they were celebrating in secret. Terian and Shadowmouse walked together in the market, talking quietly and taking no interest in the stalls and vendors.

"The first American super-regal made its visit three days ago," Terian reported. "It took eighteen of our young, even laden with five horses."

"Four times what can safely go on a kitewing," replied Shadow-mouse. "Without the horses they could carry perhaps fifty."

"Such feats are being negotiated. The Americans want horses, but they need fuel as well. Avian can provide fuel, but not as much as the Commonwealth."

"Have you some scheme?"

"I have exchanged beamflash messages with an American in Seymour. They are using fuel faster than Avian can produce it, but the distilleries of Rochester's may orates could produce unlimited amounts. At present they have one spare super-regal, they expected to lose a few to accidents by now but they have been fortunate. They are willing to dedicate it to flying our people to Avian if we can supply fuel at Traralgon when Avian's stores run out."

"That can be done easily enough. The castellanies are anarchic, lawless places where the Reformed Gentheists have little influence. We could move wagonloads of spirit out there."

"And we could have those wagonloads being produced by unsuspecting human distillers by May. For now, you will begin recruiting trustworthy people for a dummy spirits-and-cooking-oil merchant house in Seymour."

"As good as done. Anything else?"

"The Americans want their people back, those flyers from the sailwing that was shot down over Rochester."

"Flyers? Word is that only one was involved."

"The Americans say there were two. The navigator was taken prisoner, but the venture's leader escaped unseen. That leader is also the envoy of their overmayorate, and a mayor of one of their states. Their mayors are called airlords, by the way."

Shadowmouse whistled and shook his head.

"A brave, resourceful, and important man," he said with genuine admiration.

"Woman."

"You jest!"

"I do not. She has been going openly by her American name, hoping that any rescue attempt would hear of her. Frelle Samondel Leover also has long, flame red hair that reaches past her knees, and her eyes are of a violet color."

Shadowmouse walked on for a few paces, his head bowed.

"Yes, I do know her. She is a student of theology and Austaric at the university. Do you want her taken to Seymour?"

"No, just ensure that she remains safe. In a fortnight an American spy will arrive to escort her to the Traralgon wingfield. From the sound of it she is like our Dragon Librarians, brilliant, educated, brave, and deadly. She had shot down six other warriors in airborne duels, and is known as Red Death. Once she is safely away, we are to rescue the navigator. You will participate in that as well."

Shadowmouse stopped at a stall selling sabers and tried one for balance. After executing several vicious cuts and thrusts on a practice dummy he tried another, then another. He haggled with the stallholder for some minutes, then drew his own weapon and pointed to a deep nick in the blade. He tried his preferred choice in his own scabbard. At last some coins and the damaged saber were exchanged for the new weapon.

"I have been talking to our own flyers at Apollo Wingfield," said Shadowmouse as they walked on.

"Fine young women they are, too."

"Indeed. One of them told me that Avian has a strange weapon of the ancient technologies. It is called Skyfire, and only men are allowed to operate it. What do you know of it?"

"What I know I should not be telling you."

"But will you?"

"In a fashion. I do not know the nature of Skyfire, but I do know that it tends to kill its operators."

"My informant said that it sounds like thunder. Her lover was an operator, and it killed him. When she saw his body it was burned hideously."

"Yes, I know that too."

"Can you tell me something I do not know?"

"Fras Shadowmouse, Avian can produce a new compression engine every three months, and even then many parts are made by unsuspecting human artisans on the mainland. Our spies have reported that hot air balloons shaped like vast sausages and driven by pedaling musketeers have been tested in the deserts of Kalgoorlie. They are sound in terms of Reformed Gentheist dogma, but currently can travel only ten miles before the fuel to heat their air runs out.

Still, calculations show that in the near future these things could cross the salt water to Avian."

Terian let the implications register with Shadowmouse, but this took only moments.

"Surely our kitewings could destroy them."

"Yes, but our kitewings are very expensive to build and maintain, and they are needed to transport people and supplies to Avian. The Skyfire machines are extremely cheap to build by comparison, and they can spray their fire up to ten miles. More than that I cannot say."

"How can I volunteer?"

"You?"

"Me."

"Have you not been paying attention? The device is almost as deadly to the operator as to the victim."

"But I meet all the criteria. I am a young male, I have no sweetheart, and I want to serve Avian and my people."

Terian thought for a few steps.

"You are of too much value here."

"After I have done all of my current assignments, what then?"

"There will be more assignments. Fras Shadowmouse, there are plenty of young men in Avian already, and there are many more worthy passengers than you to ferry over the salt water before a case could be made to take you as well."

"But will you at least send my petition to the people in charge of the Skyfire weapon?"

Terian sighed. "That I will do, but nothing more. Are you happy now?"

"That much is better than nothing. Yes indeed."

Jamondel said I have soulful, dreamy eyes today," Martyne told Velesti as she read his analysis of the market extortion reports.

"No wonder, you stayed up all night doing these reports."

"So, when else can I do them?"

"What about during the day, like the rest of us?"

"I'm busy during the day. Surveillance."

"You mean shadowing Samondel and looking for any possible excuse to meet her by accident."

"She could be under threat. The Gentheists—"

"The Gentheists could not organize a beer festival in a brewery, let alone an abduction in Rochester."

"She held hands with me in the refectory today."

"I arrested that Dragon Green from the Calculor dissemination register team today. He was selling half-price bookings for wind train trips that end outside the Rochestrian Commonwealth. The verification system for those is not at all rigorous."

"Samondel asked me to go to the University Music Festival with her."

Velesti drew her Morelac and pointed it between his eyes. "I could put you out of your misery," she speculated.

"Samondel's flintlock practice is coming along very well. She has a natural talent."

"She's a professional warrior, Martyne! What do you expect?"

"She has such smooth, white skin, and have you noticed that her hands—"

Velesti slammed fifteen silver nobles down on the desk in front of her. "Martyne, take this money, leave this office, and do not come back until you have taken her out to an expensive cafe and told her at least a thousandth of the things that you have been telling me. Oh, and our parents are traveling here. They arrive on March sixteenth."

Martyne shrieked with dismay as he jumped to his feet. "Oh, no!"