Eyes of the Calculor (51 page)

They toasted each other, then swapped glasses and toasted each other again in a traditional Yarronese gesture. The meal had been succulent, and the wine was a curious mixture of chill and heat. Serjon poured the last of the wine into their mugs, then set the tray on his bedside table and stretched out with one leg on the bed and the other on the floor.

"You look uncomfortable," said Samondel. "Come. I'll move over."

She put her arm around his shoulders and drew him over, and they lay side by side for a time, sipping their wine in silence.

"I wonder where Bronlar is now?" said Samondel presently.

"At Lake Taupo Wingfield, alone in her bunk," said Serjon.

"You seem confident of her fidelity," remarked Samondel with a little grin.

"The problems she has with me could only be amplified with anyone else."

"Problems? Yours was the marriage of the century in Mount-haven. How could you have problems?"

Serjon sighed. "As you know, she was tricked into bedding those two mere artisans before our reconciliation. Whether by guilt or whatever, the act of intimacy now causes her considerable pain, even with me. It is a condition known well to students of medicine."

"Terrible, terrible. Have you sought help?"

"I have read books, but other than that, no. How could we have it being known that Mounthaven's two most celebrated heroes of the Great War are miserable in bed?"

There was another short silence.

"So what do you do?" asked Samondel after a gulp of her wine.

"We do very little, aside from warming each other while sleeping."

"No, I mean what do you do?"

Serjon laughed. "What do you think I do? I am a great hero, the invincible victor of a hundred and four clear air victories. Women like a hero."

"So, you have been unfaithful to her—apart from with me?"

"Why not? I was unfaithful to you too."

Samondel gasped, then giggled. "Beast!" she squealed, and poured the rest of her wine over his head. He tried to grab her arm, but spilled his own wine over her blouse. They grappled with each other, giggling and laughing for several minutes.

"It must have been Seyret," laughed Samondel. "The dumpy little airlord's daughter that you flew to freedom."

"And you must read minds, ach, I'd better be careful what I think."

"When was it? Before me?"

"No, you were my first, just as surely as I was yours. The night after I'd brought Seyret home I was taken out into the palace gardens by her very fiance, would you believe it? He said that they both wanted to thank me for freeing her by means of a couple of rather intimate hours with her. When I finally came to be abed with her she had none of the devices that you and I have always used. Perhaps she wanted the chance that her first child might be of Fey-damor blood. Everyone wants to be part of the Serjon Feydamor legend."

"Me, Seyret, Bronlar . . ." said Samondel, counting on her fingers and frowning.

"That's all."

"Three, a lucky number. You must keep it at that."

"The others are a long, long way away."

"But I am close, and I love you."

"I love you as well, far more than Bronlar."

Samondel sighed. "What a pity that it is the time of a dangerous moon for me."

Serjon considered. For that entire evening he had told the truth. Why bother to resort to lies now?

"I did have hopes for your favor," he admitted. "Only this evening I bought a packet of suitable devices, just in case your favor might turn to me again."

"Always the considerate one," said Samondel, then she rolled onto him and kissed him on the lips, a hard, greedy kiss.

Serjon rolled her onto her back, reached down and began to run his hand up her left leg, raising her skirts.

"And how many more have there been for you?" he asked.

"Just you."

"Just me? I don't believe it."

He stroked her inner thigh, noting that she wore no underclothes. Perhaps she had been intending to be his all along for this night.

"It's true."

"Not even that ex-monk you told me about?"

"Martyne? Ah, I was just lucky that you came along. A day more and I might have been his."

"Really?"

"Well. . . leave me some secrets. Now here we are and I love you, Serjon." She placed her hands over her left breast. "You have my body and my heart."

"And I love you," Serjon purred in her ear as he unlaced his trousers. "All this time in this strange land, I have bedded nobody else. I knew that you were here, alone. I could not bear the thought of you being alone if I was in company."

Serjon rolled between her legs, but she wriggled out from under him at once.

"First, apply your device," she warned.

"Not even this once?"

"In a fortnight I may consider all reasonable arguments. For now, if it is not on, then neither are you."

Serjon lay on his side, picking at the string binding of the Amar At'agnine, 6 ME package, his trousers tangled around his ankles. Samondel's skirts were around her waist as she lay on her back, watching the operation with considerable amusement and giggling continually. Serjon rolled back onto her.

"And now—"

The door burst open. Framed between Samondel's legs was Ve-lesti, and flanking her were two more women in uniform, both wielding short-barrel, wide-bore flintlocks. The fist with which Velesti had smashed the door's lock was still clenched, and a Morelac was in her other hand. Serjon made a move for the reaction pistol beneath his pillow, but Samondel seized his hand.

"No, Serjon, no!" cried Samondel, grasping at him. "She'll kill you. She's faster than humans, or even featherheads."

Cowering in each other's arms, they faced the Dragon Librarian, who was still standing in the doorway, unmoving.

"Frelle Samondel Leover and Fras Serjon Feydamor, you are

both under arrest and charged with espionage," said Velesti. "Get dressed and come with us."

"Where we are to go?" asked Samondel in Austaric.

"The University Library."

"The University?"

"It is not your place to ask questions," replied Velesti.

Samondel stood up, letting her skirts drop to cover her legs. Serjon stood with his back to the Dragon Librarian while he raised his trousers and laced up again. When they were both ready Velesti gestured to them with her gun.

"Take these two and hold them in the street outside," Velesti said to the Tiger Dragons in the corridor. "I must examine his room."

Alone in Serjon's room, Velesti did a quick but thorough search. As she had expected, there was nothing of interest apart from one Clastini reaction pistol and four spare clips of ammunition. She put the Clastini into her belt and buttoned her jacket over it, and pocketed the ammunition. His papers appeared to be in order, but were probably an expensive forgery. All of his clothing bore the marks of Seymour tailors, and he had five royals in gold and some silver.

Velesti straightened the bedcovers, dropped the remains and contents of the Amar At'agnine, 6 ME package into her pocket, then went downstairs. The landlord was waiting for her, rubbing his hands together anxiously.

"The lock mounting is broken," Velesti told him. "Have it repaired. Now."

"Yes, Frelle Dragonliber."

"And, Landlord,"

"Yes, Frelle Dragonliber?"

"I have made an inventory of the room's contents. If everything is not as it was when the young man returns, you will suspended over a slow fire and asked some very probing questions."

"Oh, Frelle Dragonliber, it will be as secure as your undoubted virtue," the landlord assured her.

"It had better be an improvement on that," Velesti warned.

Uramoren was shown into Lengina's parlor while she was still draping a red flannel dressing cloak over her nightgown. Her handmaids squealed and gathered in front of her, but she ordered them out even as the Highliber was bowing.

"Alarming news, Frelle Overmayor, a foreign monarch has been arrested after two months disguised as a student of the university," he began succinctly.

"From Woomera?" she asked, more puzzled than alarmed.

"From North America. She was in that flying machine that Ala-rek Andren arrived in. She is called an airlord."

"She? Airlord?"

"There are suggestions that she is behind these Christian Gaia Crusaders in the independent castellanies of the Southeast, and there are further suggestions that there is a conspiracy against Rochester. There are also suggestions that she has contacts with the Reformed Gentheists, and there are even suggestions that these Crusaders intend to arm the Gentheists with very advanced weapons."

"Suggestions, further suggestions, also suggestions, even suggestions? Has anyone in the Espionage Constables ever heard of hard evidence?"

"Frelle Airlord Samondel Leover has been openly associating with a Reformed Gentheist spy and activist."

"Ah. And what does she have to say?"

"She has not yet been questioned. I would bet a bag of royals that it is something along the lines of T am innocent,' yet bear in mind that we did fire upon her flying machine without provocation."

Lengina folded her arms beneath her dressing cloak and thought for a moment, but all that she could think of was that her feet were cold.

"Speaking as a fellow head of state, I suppose I would have hidden too. All right, then, Fras Dramoren, I am in the dark without a lantern. Advise me."

"I suggest a judicial duel. Their society recognizes dueling, and I have a suitable champion ready, one who can place a shot on the

target so well that she could not go on to a blood duel. We would then have a pretext to hold her for trial, and have a full trial before a magistrate. That way her government cannot be affronted if she is speaking the truth."

"If she loses."

"She is up against a former Balesha monk, gracious Frelle. She cannot win."

Lengina nodded. "Do it. Is there any point in me going back to bed just now?"

"Probably not. I shall send news as soon as it is available."

When they reached the University grounds Serjon was taken to the administration chambers by four of the Tiger Dragons. Samondel continued on with Velesti and the other five.

"We must call past your room at Villiers College, Frelle Samondel," said Velesti in Old Anglian once they were walking across the darkened lawns. "You need to change out of those casual robes."

"I do not understand. Why we are here? Why were we arrested— and how do you know Old AnglianT

"I fought in Mounthaven, against the aviad radicals. As for the rest, there are sensitive issues involved, Frelle. Politics, religion, loyalties, identities, and deception have been mixed into a most unstable and explosive paste. Unfriendly eyes watch Libris, the cathedral, the city watchouse, and even the mayoral palace. The university is safer ground, for all the parties concerned. The Highliber, City Constable, and others are waiting to speak with you in the University Library cloisters."

"But why?"

"Your lover Serjon and you have been named in a plot against the Rochestrian Commonwealth."

"No! We are innocent. And he is not my lover! Well, nearly— again—but not quite, thanks to you. But I am not ashamed—"

"Would you like to stand up at a public trial and speak under oath about just exactly what you were doing with him? I might be

inclined to lie on your behalf, but Gellien and Sylendi saw what I saw and will beg to differ."

It took only moments for the logic and full consequences to trace a very alarming set of projections through Samondel's mind.

"You think I am lying?"

"Frelle, Martyne has trained with me for many months. How many Dragon Librarians seriously believe that I have never slept with him?"

"None, quite probably," said Samondel with a trace of annoyance.

"Yet that is the truth. I believe that I forestalled a seduction, but when one is at such an advanced stage of proceedings as we caught you at, does it really matter whether his ramrod had actually been inserted or not? This is unimportant, however. Sex is legal in the Rochestrian Commonwealth, espionage is not, and espionage is what you are charged with."

In Samondel's room Velesti selected a pair of lace-up boots, riding trews, a wide belt, and her dark green satin cloak.

"You have no wide-sleeve shirts," said Velesti, rummaging about as Samondel changed out of her wine-splashed clothes.

"No, I prefer tunic over trews for general wearing, and a blouse with skirts for looking nice."

"That will never do, for where you are going. Here, take mine."

Velesti unbuttoned her coat, then removed her shirt. Samondel gaped, even though she had seen the unbelievable muscles before. She blinked. The muscles did not go away, but Samondel now noticed that her benefactor did have moderately large breasts stretched across her pectorals. Velesti's shirt was loose but somehow rakish on Samondel as she regarded herself in the mirror. Velesti struggled into one of Samondel's white blouses, but it split across her back as she bent over to pick up her Libris jacket. No damage showed once the jacket had been buttoned up, however.

They proceeded to the University Library, and past the reading rooms to the cloisters. At least a dozen lamps lit the scene, and standing at the center on a wide stone path were Martyne and three other men. A steady, chill wind was blowing through the cloisters.

Velesti spoke to the guards of their escort, then went over to the waiting men, undid her jacket, and showed them the Clastini. She spoke softly and quickly so that Samondel did not hear.

"Frelle Leover, do join us," said the oldest of the men finally. "I am dean of this university. This is our Highliber, Fras Dramoren, and this gentleman is the City Constable. Fras Camderine you already know, I am led to believe."

Martyne's face was as blank as a whitewashed plaster wall. Samondel could sense that something extremely serious was about to take place, and could not work out what part a mere edutor in applied theology could have there. Then she realized that he was wearing the jacket of a Dragon Librarian.

Plots. Trickery. Deception. She had fallen for it all so willingly. Suddenly an airlord again, she walked forward.

"My Honor, meeting all," she began. "Intending, I was, to seek audience, with Overmayor. After first reception, rather nervous, however."

"That was not her doing, Frelle Leover," Dramoren quickly assured her.

"I lived, so is not problem. What is now problem?"

"An agent of the Libris Espionage Constables has been conducting investigations into yourself and a certain foreign national named Serjon Feydamor," said the City Constable. "That agent is present, in secret, at this gathering. You and Fras Feydamor were seen in each other's company today."

"In particular, you are both accused of selling certain highly sensitive equipment and designs to enemy nationals on Rochestrian soil," said the Highliber, "and of aiding those nationals in the act of subversion within the Rochestrian Commonwealth.

"A watching order was placed upon yourself and this Serjon Feydamor. You have been heard to converse in an unknown language while keeping company. A search of his room at the Inn of Celestial Dreams revealed a very advanced weapon that fires prepackaged charges with the bullets."

Mortified, Samondel gritted her teeth. A spy. Present, but in secret. Martyne! He had never been courting her, or even been her

friend, he had been spying on her all along! He was a Dragon Librarian, and was almost certainly an agent of the Highliber.

"My agents have collected more evidence besides this," said the Highliber, his arms folded as he stared at her. "It is circumstantial, but still alarming. Can you explain yourself?"

No doubt much of it being intensely intimate as well, thought Samondel.

"Cannot! Shall not!" said Samondel sharply. "Am Airlord!"

"That's a type of mayor," said the Highliber to the City Constable.

"Have you brought agents of the Christian Gaia Crusaders into the Commonwealth?"

"Who?"

"An American organization dedicated to the abolition of all fueled engines," Dramoren explained.

"What? Me? Airlord of Highland Bartolica? If meeting Crusader perverts, have them shot for treason—and heresy, and perversion of public morals and insult to all wardens' honor."

The vehemence of her reply seemed to satisfy Dramoren in part.

"Speaking of morals and honor—"

"No more! Having not privacy affairs waved like flag on pole."

"That is why I am here, Frelle," said Dramoren. "As another head of state's representative I can grant you diplomatic immunity as an envoy if you challenge the word of my agent. The most incriminating evidence is circumstantial, you see."

"Not understanding."

"The Highliber is willing to trust your word if you are willing to fight a duel to clear your name, and that of your lover," Velesti explained.

"Do you challenge the honored and sworn word of my agent that Fras, er—"

"Serjon Feydamor," prompted Velesti.

"Fras Serjon Feydamor's actions did violate the security of the Rochestrian Commonwealth?"

"Do challenge accusation. Word of mine, do have, Saireme Highliber."

There was complete silence, and all others but Samondel and Martyne stepped back several paces.

"As champion of the Highliber and thus his agent, I accept," replied Martyne, his words barely audible.

Again there was silence. The silence began to lengthen. The City Constable cleared his throat.

"You must say 'Who will stand with me?' Frelle Leover," he prompted.

"Who will stand with me?"

Velesti took three steps forward and stood beside Samondel.

"I stand with Frelle Samondel Leover," she declared.

Martyne glared at them, his arms folded and his legs apart.

"Who will stand with me?" he asked.

"You stand champion for me, so I suppose I had better be your second," said the Highliber as he joined Martyne.

"I am registered to adjudicate without judges," said the City Constable.

"I was once Academician of Surgery at this university, so I can be the medician," said the dean.

"Seconds, confer with your principals," ordered the City Constable.

Suddenly everyone began walking to apparently prearranged positions, and the City Constable chalked a line across the path. Two Tiger Dragons stood to either side of the line, their muskets' strikers cocked and ready to fire.

"What is happening? "asked Samondel." Is there going to be a hearing now, in the middle of the night?"

"Hearing? §aid Velesti." Don't you realize? You have just challenged a member of the Espionage Constables to a duel."

"What? No! I thought I was agreeing to a trial, an inquest, whatever you have here."

"There can be no trial now. To back out would be an admission that Martyne's charges are true. Your lover would be shot for spying. You might be shot too, or at the very least be held for ransom. What you must do now is name me as champion. Martyne and I are equally matched, but I am in better practice."

"This is . . . just beyond belief. Martyne is your best friend, but now you are going to kill him. How do your minds work in Aus-tralica? Are you all insane?"

"Martyne is the Overmayor's champion, neither of us has any choice. I pledge with my life to be an honorable champion for you, Frelle Samondel. Trust me, follow my advice. I can bring him down and save your beloved for you."

"Beloved? Serjon is my friend, Serjon is delightful company, but—"

"Do you want him dead?"

"No."

"Then I must kill Martyne."

"You Australicans really are mad."

"The moderator has his hand raised, we must fight now. Let me do the talking."

Samondel nodded.

"Frelle Leover, do you call a champion?" called the City Constable.

"She—" began Velesti.

"I do not!" barked Samondel.

Velesti's head snapped around, her eyes wide.

"Declare the choice," said the City Constable.

"Miscafis," replied the Highliber.

"Declare the time and place."

"Here, now, in the cloisters of the University Library."

Both Velesti and Dramoren loaded the Miscafi flintlocks, then presented them to the duelists.

"Why did you do that?" muttered Velesti.

"I shall not let you fight your friend," replied Samondel. "Besides, I learned in the hard school of Bartolican politics that I must fight my own battles."

As challenger, Martyne shot at the conciliation target first. He stepped up to the line, extended his flintlock and fired in a single fluid motion. The smoke cleared, and a hole became visible at the top of the outermost circle.

"Frelle, with that shot Martyne is saying that he is a deadly

opponent, but he gives you the chance to better him," Velesti explained. "You must hit closer to the heart circle than that."

"I can do better," said Samondel, filling with confidence for the first time since she had been taken into custody.

Samondel stood square on to the target, holding the Miscafi in both hands. She squeezed the trigger. Released from its ratchet, the striker swung through a short arc with a loud, emphatic click, striking sparks with its flint and raising the cover of the priming powder pan. The gun boomed and kicked hard in Samondel's hand. The breeze swept the smoke aside, revealing that her shot had clipped the edge of the heart circle.

Velesti held out her hand for the Miscafi. The City Constable stared at the target and frowned.

"The duel will proceed, and may God have mercy upon you both," he declared.

"I do not understand," said Samondel as Velesti reloaded her Miscafi. "He said the duel will proceed. Was the duel not inevitable anyway?"

"Had you missed the target or hit worse than Martyne, you would forfeit the right to duel with him, and the matter would have had to go to a trial. You bettered his shot, however, so you now have to fight him. Did Martyne not teach you that?"

"No. He taught me to shoot, not dueling protocols."

Samondel's heart sank. A trial would have been public and humiliating, and would put a rumor on public record that she had slept with Serjon after he had married Bronlar. Perhaps the result had been for the best after all. Velesti handed her the reloaded pistol, with the striker cocked back.

"Now you two must duel, but Martyne will call the distance," Velesti explained.

"So he decides the number of paces?"

"Yes. After the last count, you both turn and fire at will. The moderator will actually call out the count, however, as a result of the Cybeline amendment some three decades ago."

Samondel and Martyne stood back to back. She felt the heat of his body against hers through the shirt. All that would now protect

her from his bullet would be that white cotton shirt with puffed sleeves.

"The challenged will call the distance," said the moderator.

"Ten paces," said Martyne.

Samondel's heart leaped. Ten plus ten was twenty paces, precisely the distance that the conciliation target had been from the line. The moderator began to count, and Samondel and Martyne walked away from the line, and each other. When she turned, there would be a target and she would have to hit it before it shot back at her. Just a thing, not the young man she had held in her arms and kissed as the moon had been rising only yards from where they now paced. Serjon's life was hanging by a thread, and that thread was being held by her fingers. There was a thing to be killed, then Serjon would be safe.

At the word "ten" Samondel whirled, placed Martyne and fired, both hands on her gun. Martyne was standing side on as the bullet hit him, his Miscafi pointed straight up, his left arm hanging limp. The breeze blowing through the cloisters quickly wafted the smoke away and Samondel saw Martyne fall. Exultation surged through her, she had killed him. Killed him. Devastated, Samondel realized that he was dead, and by her hand. Martyne stirred. Slowly, to Samondel's horror, he began to get up. His left arm was bleeding and his chest was a mass of red as he faced her and straightened. In his right hand was the Miscafi, hanging down but still cocked and ready to fire.

Samondel lowered her empty gun. Martyne began to raise his own Miscafi, although in obvious pain. The red continued to spread down his arm and lower chest. Samondel's right leg began to shake involuntarily. I'm going to die now, passed through her mind, but I'll show them all how a Bartolican can die. Her arms at her side, she thrust her chest out and stared steadily at Martyne. For a moment there was silence in the cloisters. Nobody moved, most were not even breathing. The dean was standing with a roll of bandage in one hand and a jar of medicinal whiskey in the other, both extended before him, waiting to rush to the aid of whoever was more seriously wounded—and still alive. Samondel did not move.

"Good-bye, Samondel," said Martyne.

She closed her eyes, then in a blaze of pride she forced them open again. Martyne was aiming deliberately wide.

He fired without taking his eyes off Samondel. The jar of medicinal whiskey burst in the dean's hand and the breeze carried away the veil of smoke from the shot. For a moment more they stood facing each other, both Miscafis empty.

"I love you," said Martyne, then he fell again.

Samondel let the flintlock drop from her fingers and stood frozen with her hands to her face. Then she screamed and took a pace toward him. Velesti darted into her path and seized her.

"No! You may not cross the line. You must leave the cloisters after the moderator's verdict."

"Martyne!" screamed Samondel.

"Samondel! The guards will cut you down the instant you step over the line. You must stay here and you must not call out again."

"Fras Camderine is unable to fight another round," called the dean as he cut the fallen man's shirt away.

The City Constable produced his own flask of whiskey as the Highliber and dean began to bandage Martyne. He did not flinch as the whiskey was poured onto his wounds.

"The result goes to Frelle Samondel Leover," declared the City Constable.

There was a brief, agonized silence.

"The duel is concluded, both duelists and seconds must leave the path of honor without crossing the line, and must not speak with the opposite principal or second for a dozen days from this moment."