Eyes of the Calculor (52 page)

Martyne lay on the ground, his chest and arm a mass of blood and his torn shirt and bandages stained. Samondel continued to struggle in Velesti's grip, and her hair burst free of its pins and cascaded down over her shoulders and dueling shirt.

"Why, Martyne, why?" she cried.

"Come, we must leave the cloisters," said Velesti, finally resorting to an armlock and applying moderate pressure to force Samondel to move away.

They stopped in Mirrorsun's dim light, just outside the cloisters.

It was a windy but mild night, typical of a summer approaching equinox.

"Tra? Fen cavas indiate des g'vrastin —"

"I don't speak much Bartolican, just Old Anglian."

"Why? I just don't—"

Velesti suddenly seized Samondel in her arms and pressed her face against her shoulder.

"Don't look," she whispered in Samondel's ear as the stretcher bearers came past them.

"To the dissection chambers," said the dean as he hurried after the stretcher. "At the Faculty of Medicine."

The dean flicked a wink to Velesti as he passed. Velesti released Samondel's head, Samondel turned, saw dark drops of blood on the stone path, then pressed her face against Velesti's shoulder again.

"Perhaps he will be all right," Velesti began.

"I know enough Austaric to understand what 'dissection chamber' means. Martyne is dead."

"There are worse ways to go."

"They said he was spying on me, yet he, he . . ." Samondel burst into another fit of sobbing and it was some time before she could speak again. "Martyne, Es cor valoricel, Martyne, oh, Martyne, my love. Why did he fight, Velesti? Why?"

"He—he volunteered, and now I think I know why." Velesti sighed. "He knew anyone else would try to kill you if you chose to duel. If you named a champion, well, champions exist to be shot at. He gave his life to let you win. Now you are established as a foreign envoy, unless further evidence is brought against you. I am your liaison, and you may seek an audience with the Overmayor."

"He died for me?" whimpered Samondel. "Deliberately?"

"Er, yes. The Highliber will be annoyed, but that is hardly Mar-tyne's concern now. I—"

"I killed Martyne! Your best friend. Don't you care?"

"Yes," replied Velesti, her voice a trifle ragged. "He was more than my friend, he was my sensei, my master, my teacher, my edutor, my, my—mentorian, is that the Bartolican word?"

"Warrior teacher, yes. Mentorian."

"I hate my body, I hate my life, I hate filthy, lecherous men, I hate my breasts, I hate the way men's eyes fondle me, and I hate, I hate . . ." Velesti shook her head. "When Martyne was instructing me, when we were sparring together, just for a moment here and there, I stopped hating. I felt ... as if I had a place. I care about losing that, Samondel, and there is nobody to replace him."

Velesti looked around. Students on the way home from late-night revels were beginning to gather in small groups and point at them.

"Frelle Samondel, come with me. By tradition, you must now leave the city for a fortnight. I know a place where you can have some peace."

"Where?"

"A research monastery. A very quiet place. But first you must meet the Overmayor, I'll arrange an audience for midnight."

I hey stopped at the administration chambers, where the four Tiger Dragons were waiting with Serjon. Velesti dismissed Serjon's guards.

"You may go," Velesti said to the Yarronese flyer.

"What is this?" asked Serjon as the Tiger Dragons filed out of the room.

"I have just killed Martyne in a duel," said Samondel quietly. "By law I must avoid my—my opponent's second for a fortnight, so I am leaving Rochester."

"I don't understand. You killed him, yet we are free?"

"Yes. You may return to your room at the inn. In a fortnight I shall join you again, and we can speak directly with the Highliber about open diplomatic ties with Rochester."

"Rochester? But your sailwing was shot down by Rochestrians, you face charges of heresy for using compression engines."

"No, that has changed. The Reformed Gentheists are only one faction here, and they are losing support all the time. The Highliber is interested in trade with Mounthaven. Our venture is about to become a great success."

Serjon stood up and tried to take Samondel's hand, but she pulled it away.

"I shall be at a monastery with Velesti, praying and meditating," Samondel explained.

"But why are you so upset about that monk if he tried to kill you?" insisted Serjon as he snatched for her hand again.

Velesti's hand shot out and seized his, twisting his wrist around and bending it at an excruciating angle. She dropped slightly, so that Serjon doubled over with the pain.

"Velesti, let him go!" exclaimed Samondel.

Velesti released Serjon and folded her arms beneath her breasts again.

"Do nothing to alarm Velesti, she is very dangerous," Samondel cautioned.

"Easily alarmed," said Velesti quietly in heavily accented Bar-tolican. "Away, fortnight. Leaving, now."

"Yes, we must go," Samondel repeated.

"Er, so what should I do?" asked Serjon.

"You will be safe here. Explore Rochester, enjoy yourself, you can go about openly now but beware of Gentheists. When I return I'll take you to all my favorite places, and we shall move into a nice hostelry with double beds."

"But what about you?"

"Velesti is my bodyguard as well. She is very effective."

Velesti gave a shallow bow, her eyes never once leaving Serjon. Serjon shuddered at the sight of her eyes. They were deep and hungry, and whatever was behind them was definitely not human. Another aviad, concluded Serjon. Samondel came across and kissed him on the cheek, then placed a purse on the table.

"Spend time in the markets and do try the riding school," said Samondel as she returned to the door. "Work hard on your Austaric. Misunderstandings can happen very easily unless one is careful with language."

Lengina lay slumped in her reading chair, her feet propped on a padded stool and warming before a fire. A book of protocol theory lay open on her lap, and three heralds and a magistrate hovered in

the shadows behind her, all clutching books on intermayoral law. Before her stood Dramoren, his jacket still stained with Martyne's blood.

"Now, let me repeat this back to you in the Overmayor's Aus-taric," she said as Dramoren cringed before her, his hands clasped firmly behind him and shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I am Overmayor, after all, so by definition my Austaric should be the finest available to human ears."

"Without doubt, Overmayor."

"Airlord Leover was seconded by the Dragon Librarian who arrested her, Frelle Disore. Your champion was the ex-monk and Espionage Constable, Fras Camderine. You were his second. Fras Camderine allowed Airlord Leover to shoot him in the duel, then declared that he loved her as he fell. Frelle Leover was then led away in tears by Frelle Disore, who then beat up Frelle Leover's American lover before taking Frelle Leover away to . . . somewhere. How am I managing?"

"Word perfect, gracious Frelle."

"Had I found a plot like that in a romantic novel I would have flung it into the fire."

"Justifiably so, gracious Frelle."

"Did anyone think to ask Frelle Leover whether she is at war with my Commonwealth?" shouted Lengina, standing up and flinging her book to the floor.

"That is a rare book, gracious Frelle, please be—"

"Answer me!"

"She has never heard of the Christian Gaia Crusaders. When I explained who they were meant to be, she said that she would have had them shot for treason and heresy had she encountered them in North America."

Lengina kicked the book of protocol theory away across the floor, and a herald hurried to snatch it up. Her shoulders slumped, and she collapsed back into her chair.

"Dramoren, advise me!" she pleaded. "What do I do with Airlord Leover?"

"In a dozen days we can both meet with her, she seems anxious

to buy horses and other trade animals and goods, but will probably insist that we not fire upon her flying machines."

"Oh. So she is not angry?"

"No, there are no residual resentments. Americans also think duels to the death are a good way to settle intractable disputes."

"Well, I do not, but what I think does not seem to matter. So we are not at war?"

"No."

"Is she pretty?"

"Oh yes, beautiful. Violet eyes, long red hair, and no more than perhaps twenty years of age."

"Beautiful, young, brave, dedicated, what a woman! I am looking forward to meeting her."

"I am so glad, gracious Frelle."

"Meantime, can I achieve anything by staying out of bed any longer tonight?"

"Ah, well, yes."

"Fras Highliber, you look uneasy. Precisely what can I achieve?"

"Well, being a duel disputant I cannot speak with Frelle Leover for twelve days, so I arranged a meeting for her, with you, in approximately ten minutes."

Lengina stood up so quickly that her reading chair flew back and struck a herald.

"What!" she shrieked. "With my hair entangled, and wearing a nightsmock and dressing cloak and slippers, and with no makeup or jewelry?"

"But Airlord Leover is only dressed in boots, trousers, and a dueling shirt—"

"Rouse my maids!" shouted Lengina as she dashed from the room, flinging off her dressing cloak, then her night smock, as she ran.

Dramoren watched her receding, naked figure as it vanished into the shadows of the passageway.

"Now, there's a sight you don't see every day," said the magistrate from behind him.

We must be at the palace at midnight, but there is plenty of time," said Velesti as she walked along with Samondel leaning on her arm. "Then a special galley train will take us away."

"I must rest, I feel dizzy," said Samondel.

"Over there, we can get the best coffee in Rochester."

"Cafe Marellia? But Martyne said—"

"He took you thereV

"Yes. He said it was only for lovers. We can't go there."

"I can be very persuasive," said Velesti.

The door of the cafe looked just as subtly enchanting as when she had first seen it. Even though it was nearly midnight the place was packed, and the waiter hurried across looking harassed and carrying an ashwood tray with three mugs of coffee and a plate of butternut shortbreads.

"Ah, sorry, so sorry, all full—Ah, beautiful Frelle Samondel, so sorry but—"

Although it was the waiter's arm that Velesti's hand closed around, it squeezed the words from his throat.

"There has been a terrible mistake," said Velesti in a voice that was not loud, but was absolutely distinct to everyone within ten feet. "Frelle Samondel has just killed her beloved in a duel and needs somewhere to sit down."

The waiter dropped his tray of coffee and butternut shortbreads. Although his lips managed to say no more than an anguished "Ah!" his face said a great deal more. Velesti's words were transmitted to the more remote tables within moments, and over a dozen of the closest patrons bounded to their feet and gestured to their seats and tables. Soon Samondel and Velesti were seated in a corner, while the displaced couple squeezed onto a bench at a larger table. Manuel had tears in his eyes as he set two mugs of the finest Northmoor coffee before them, each with a spiral of cream slowly sinking into its depths.

"Beautiful Frelles, eleven people have asked if they can pay for whatever you have to eat and drink," he reported.

430 SEAN McMULlEN

"Pay? Why?" asked Samondel.

"Rochestrians fancy themselves as being very romantic," said Velesti in Old Anglian. "You have just been part of the most intense romantic tragedy possible. They consider that their own ability to feel love is greatly heightened by just being in the same room as you, and that your tragedy blesses their own lives. Nobody will leave this cafe while you are here."

Samondel put a hand to her face and closed her eyes. "Australians, all mad," she said in Old Anglian, "except that some are madder than others."

"Thank them, but I shall pay," Velesti told the waiter. "What we really need is a pedal gig to be brought here to carry Samondel. She is feeling dizzy and—"

"Stop! No more! It is happening."

Manuel dashed off.

Suddenly everything made sense to Samondel. Although Velesti resembled, acted like—and probably was—a dangerous and homicidal psychopath, she was remarkably kind, understanding, and loyal to those in her favor. Samondel had somehow joined this quite exclusive elite, which had also included Martyne until an hour or so earlier.

"Did Martyne ever speak of me?" she asked after a sip from her mug.

"Continually," said Velesti, staring up at the ceiling with her chin on her fist and drumming her fingers on the table. "Try to have a sensible conversation about spinning back kicks and all I ever got was eyes of violet gemstone, hair like a summer firestorm, and a lot a speculation about whether you would be willing to hold his hand. You are apparently also brave, beautiful, charming, sophisticated, witty. . . . This may take a while. Do you really want me to continue?"

Samondel closed her eyes again. "God give me strength. Why did he say all that to you instead of meV

"I'm not sure. My eyes are sort of bluish gray and my hair is auburn."

"Do not try to cheer me up, Frelle Velesti. Answer my question."

"It is complicated. Martyne would rather have faced enemy bombards than face you and be laughed at, but also—"

"I never laughed at Martyne!" shouted Samondel angrily. "With, yes. At, never! After our last dinner together he walked me back to Villiers College, and I kissed him. I—I really did fall in love with him. I wanted to tell him, but. . . another girl, he had another. Soon after that Serjon arrived. Oh, Martyne ... yet he spied on me, he denounced me."

"Wrong. I spied on you, I arranged for you to be denounced."

Samondel blinked. Velesti nodded. Samondel's already protuberant eyes bulged with rage. She flung the remains of her coffee in Velesti's face, then backhanded her across the cheek, but as she raised her hand to strike her again Velesti offered her a Morelac, handle first.