Eyes of the Calculor (59 page)

"Sensible," agreed Samondel, greatly relieved.

"Present from a lover?"

"Is what?"

"Whatever you dropped back there."

"From him, no love involved."

King Island

Ixing Gate Wingfield might almost have been in Mounthaven, for there were marker pyres all along the ascent strip, and a flare trailing smoke to indicate the wind's direction. Handlers were sprinting along the ground and steadying the wings even while the kitewing was still in the air, so low was its stall speed. Samondel slid from the wing, numb and stiff. The wingfield was a stone inn, several tents, and a fuel store. Samondel identified herself to the wingfield adjunct, and he arranged for a steam cart to take her south overnight, in spite of her pro-

tests that she could not afford the time lost. But thirty miles that could be traveled by burning wood was several gallons of spirit saved.

Tasmania Island

r\s the sun was rising Samondel ascended in another kitewing, this one with a louder and far more powerful engine. Within an hour she was on Tasmania Island and arguing with the wingfield adjunct of Smithton. Once more, there could be no kitewing spared to take her to the Avianese capital at the Launcestion abandon, but a steam gig had just arrived towing a tank of diesel spirit, and she was invited to ride the hundred miles to Launceston if she helped with the stoking and wood cutting. This time the driver was even friendlier than the one on King Island, and at sunset insisted on stopping to camp for the night by the roadside. There was a short but one-sided scuffle before the driver lit the mutton-fat headlamps and drove the last two hours through darkness with his own flintlock pointed at his back by Samondel, who was seated on the wood tender.

Euroa, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Brother Nikalan went where he wished, whether it was in the Monastery of St. Roger, the Mayorate of Euroa, the Rochestrian Commonwealth, or anywhere on the continent of Australica. Like Jemli the Prophet, or Liaisary Ilyire, he was seen as a skilled juggler employed for entertainment at a family revel: excellent value for an afternoon, but one hoped he would move on quickly and let life return to normal. With Rangen, however, it was different. He admired Ilyire greatly and aspired to be like him.

"I have been reading about births, deaths, and lynchings for the past three hundred years," declared Ilyire as he walked into the phys-

ics workshop where Rangen was ordering a team of his own superiors about.

"I have been sucking water through pipes," replied Rangen.

"I have also been to Libris."

"I have stayed here."

Half a dozen monks sat back on benches, while others began to hurry in from outside. They hissed at each other for silence.

"I have used the Libris Calculor to make a discovery," explained Nikalan.

"I have developed a new calculor," replied Rangen.

"Did you know that I have discovered something about aviads?"

"Did you know that I can calculate by sucking?"

Nikalan unrolled a scroll on the bench beside a very complex arrangement of several hundred pipes, levers, wheels, dials, and valves. Rangen lifted a pail of water from the floor and poured it into a cistern held above his apparatus by three stout wooden legs carved with ornamental spirals.

"Tell me how to live in peace with the aviads," said Nikalan.

"Screw the aviads. Pose me a simple exercise in calculation."

"Correct. Ah, the square root of four thousand, eight hundred seventy-two, rounded to the fourth decimal place."

Rangen began working levers and valves, then he turned a stopcock below the cistern and released a governor spun by clockwork. His labyrinth of pipes began to chatter softly to itself.

"Aviads must intermarry with humans, else they become childless after the fourth generation. You know what that means?"

"The weight of water in pipes forms an excellent method of opening and closing logic gates. You know what that means?"

"You should have dalliance with a fourth-generation aviad woman."

"And you should use water for your calculations."

"It would be an act of harmony between species, God would approve of it."

"It would be a humane alternative to human-powered calculors,

God would approve of it. Have you had a dalliance with a fourth-generation aviad?"

"I have indeed. Have you the square root of four thousand, eight hundred seventy-two, rounded to the fourth decimal place?"

"I have indeed: sixty-nine point seven nine nine seven."

"Correct."

"Did your experiment with the fourth-generation aviad Frelle prove fruitful?"

"I cannot say, it was only last week."

'There is a chemical test that will provide proof either way."

"Good, I like binary arithmetic. Why have I not heard of it?"

"You have neglected to read Beamflash Abstracts this month."

"Careless of me."

"Give me her name, I shall test her."

"How?"

"She must piss in a beaker."

"She is sure to cooperate. She is a medician, a woman of science. May I test your hydrocalculor?"

"Yes. I shall write instructions."

"Instructions? Instructions? Only fools read instructions. Here is her name and address."

"And here is another bucket of water."

Three dozen monks, the abbot, nine Dragon Librarians, a member of the Espionage Constables, five nuns, and an off-duty beam-flash transmitter burst into applause. Nikalan and Rangen turned to their audience and bowed, then Nikalan took Rangen's seat and Rangen walked out of the workshop. The abbot tapped the beamflash transmitter on the shoulder as they were leaving.

"Come with me to the beamflash tower, I have an encoded message to send to Rochester," he said urgently.

"At once, Reverend Abbot. What is the content?"

"Those two brilliant lunatics have just changed the universe. I think that our leaders ought to be told before they read it in Beam-flash Abstracts or else the Highliber will probably demand my admittedly redundant balls on a silver platter."

Launceston, Trasmania Island

Damondel was blindfolded before being taken into the rookery, as the Avianese called it. They were ruled by the mayor, but he was in turn advised by four experts and six representatives elected by those living off the mainland. The experts were selected according to the issue. Samondel counted 310 steps, mostly on hard paving. There was also one short stairway of fifteen stairs. A door was opened and she was ushered into a room that echoed slightly and smelled of burning olive oil.

"Fras Mayor, advisors," said one of her escorts. "Permit me to present Airlord Samondel Leover of Highland Bartolica."

"Thank you, Fras, you may go."

"Your word, Fras Mayor."

The voice sounded like that of a man in his early sixties, mature and well intoned, but with its edge starting to fray. Samondel put her hands to the blindfold.

"No! That stays on," barked the mayor. "You may not learn either our names or faces, because if you are who you say you are, there is a chance you will go free again. You may call me Fras Mayor. Present are my marshal, Fras Gun, my spymaster, Frelle Eye, my flockleader, Fras Wing, and a member of the mainland underground, Fras Shadowmouse. We have all read the deposition that you presented to the Constable of Launceston two hours ago, and we have discussed it. It has caused no small amount of alarm."

"Fras Mayor, every word true, being," Samondel assured him.

"You could not be expected to say anything else, but there are matters to be clarified. You say that Fras Feydamor plans to return here tomorrow with the super-regal Albatross and at least four armed sailwings. He plans to seize the wingfield, murder all of our artisans, flyers, and leaders, then burn the workshops, kitewings, stores, and compression-spirit distillery."

"A venture, name of Tornado. Meant to be, for seizing of horse farm, by force. Carry off horses."

"But as you point out yourself, Fras Feydamor, ourselves, and

the Warlord of Traralgon have already cooperated to fly twenty-five young horses to your American dominions by peaceful means. Why should Fras Feydamor suddenly turn against us, especially when everybody is benefiting so greatly?"

"Because the Mayorate of Avian is only other air power in the world. And Avianese hated in Mounthaven, so much. Your Radical Aviads starting a terrible war there. None so bad in two thousand years. American airlords want to shatter your tiny mayorate. They can do it."

"True, we are only a few thousands, compared to the millions on the mainland, and even compared to your American mayorates, but how many musketeers can be flown on the Albatrossl Six? Eight?"

"Thirty, Fras Mayor! Fly here, just enough spirit to reach. Thirty finest carbineers from Mounthaven with reaction guns. Four best wardens in armed sailwings, having firebombs. Catch by surprise, seize wingfield. Refuel. Fly to Smithton, King Gate, destroy there, too."

"Fras Gun, what do you think? Can it be done?"

"Two or three dozen highly trained musketeers with reaction guns could indeed set us back by years with such an attack," agreed the marshal.

"Fras Wing?"

"I could check with Traralgon, but it would take days. They only expect a wing to land every ten days, so the wingfield is only cleared of sheep and horses then. Trying to land there without beacon pyres, unexpected, with livestock on the ascent strip, could easily lose us a kitewing and flyer."

"Frelle Eye, have you an opinion? Have your heard anything?"

"Nothing, Fras Mayor, but some of the girl's story has a disturbing consistency with known facts. Frelle Airlord, have you heard of Equinox Day?"

"No."

"A week after the Call ceased and all electrical machines burned, a faction of Avianese rose up against the Radical Aviads. Most of the Radicals' leaders and best warriors were in Mounthaven, so un-

EYES OF THE CALCULOR 483

der the leadership of Fras Mayor and with the aid of one of the Radicals' leaders—me—the Equinox Day revolution was successful. Before you ask, I then had myself put on trial as a war criminal, was found guilty of crimes against your own people, and I now direct our spies from a cell in this palace."

"Integrity, are having, Frelle Eye."

"In the Radicals' files we found transcriptions of radio messages from Mounthaven. One concerned the killing of the entire royal court of Bartolica by one Yarronese super-regal and two gunwings. It struck unexpectedly, in a very, very long-range attack. It was led by Serjon Feydamor, and it marked the beginning of the end for Bartolica and the Radicals. Are any patterns apparent to you, gentlefolk?"

Samondel assumed that glances, nods, and winks were being exchanged in the silence that followed.

"Fras Feydamor has toured our wingfields and inspected them," admitted the marshal. "He knows our strengths and weaknesses in considerable detail. You say an attack is expected tomorrow, Frelle Airlord?"

"Yes," said Samondel. "Is little time, for to prepare."

"Prepare? How?" asked the marshal. "We could move our artisans and academicians to the woods, we could even disperse the kitewings, but experts and kitewings without fuel, workshops, and the Academy are about as useful as fins on a bird. I suppose we could drag logs across the ascent strip to stop the Albatross landing."

"Parachutes, firebombs, reaction guns, can use," said Samondel. "Landing not needed."

"If Fras Feydamor is blameless and arrives to find the wingfield on battle alert, it could be very bad for the relations between our peoples," said the mayor. "I call for a show of hands. Who is in favor of telling Frelle Leover what has been arranged for tomorrow?"

There was apparently a show of hands. The verdict went in Samondel's favor.

"When he came through here seven days ago, Fras Feydamor

said that the first of a flock of armed sailwings would be traveling here with the Albatross" said the mayor. "These would be given to Avian, along with the artisans to maintain them and train our own people. We had a big revel planned to welcome them, a wing show with flypasts and demonstrations of all our kitewings. There was also to be an exhibition of sailwings and gunwings brought here during the war, although most of those are no longer airworthy. There are Welcome signs everywhere, and leafy vines strung up in the workshops—we cannot spare paper for streamers. Every senior and junior artisan in Avian is currently within a mile of where we stand. All will be on the wingfield tomorrow."

"Suspicious," was Samondel's opinion.

"In more ways than one," said Frelle Eye. "You might not be American at all, you could be a Rochestrian with a fake accent, here to destroy the pact between Avian and Mounthaven. We have heard that the Inn of Celestial Dreams was bombed, and that you shot one of our agents in a duel in Rochester—"

"What?" cried Samondel. "Martyne is aviad?"

"Why, yes, didn't you know?"

"He never told me."

"Indeed! So now you turn up here, with a pass of transit from the Airfoxes that might have been taken from a dead body. Why are you so anxious to help us, especially after what our misguided Radicals did to your homeland? Or are you an Espionage Constable, trying to provoke a battle so that the Americans take their trade and skills to the humans of the Commonwealth? Can you give us real proof of what you are saying?"

Samondel hung her head and clasped her hands in front of her.

"I have no proof," she admitted.

"Do you know where Martyne Camderine is now?" asked Fras Shadowmouse.

"Balesha, am told."

"And you disliked him?" asked Frelle Eye. "You shot him?"

"No! Loved him. Loved him. Then too late. Forced to fight him. He was Overmayor's champion, Serjon's life threatened. Now know truth. Should have shot Serjon."

Samondel paused. There was a rustle of clothing as someone folded their arms.

"I realize this is difficult for you, Frelle Airlord," said Fras Wing, "and I sympathize with the cruel trick that was played upon you, but what has all this to do with the prospects for tomorrow? Do I tell my flyers to prepare for a revel or an attack? I need hard evidence."