Eyes of the Calculor (63 page)

"Correct," said Samondel quietly as she drew the Clastini from her jacket and opened fire.

With the reaction pistol in one hand Samondel examined her victims. All were dead. She walked to one of the other bodies and saw that it had been dead some days. The fiction was obviously that aviads from Tasmania Island had mounted a sneak attack and destroyed most of the wingfield facilities and stores before being driven off. A counterattack was sent to Launceston to destroy their capacity to fly or build wings. The Council of Airlords would sanction an alliance with some human faction to establish a base on the mainland and mount further raids on the Avianese survivors.

All very clever, Samondel concluded, looking down at the dead.

Launceston, Tasmania Island

Let me clarify this yet again," said the Overhand of Avian. "You say she reached down and drew your reaction pistol, then pressed it against your head."

"Yes," replied Martyne.

"Did you not struggle? Did you not try to stop her?"

"I was making my first flight in a new wing, I was giving it all my concentration."

"And you took six hours to return to the wingfield after parachuting out."

"I had no say in where to jump."

"You were seen to perform some ceremony with her after the battle," said the adjunct.

"The American colors salute, yes. We carry each other's colors."

"Might I suggest that you were less than reluctant to give her your gun?"

"You might, but I shall deny it."

"The wingfield guards cannot say where the airlord slept on the night after the battle, Fras Shadowmouse. Would you have any suggestions?"

"No more than for where you slept, Fras Adjunct."

"You seem of good humor," said the mayor, "especially for one facing a charge of treason. Do you really appreciate your position?"

"Somewhat better than the three of you," replied Martyne, his face and voice suddenly hardening. "Yesterday you promised the Airlord of Highland Bartolica the use of the sailwing after she had instructed us in the flying of the super-regals and sailwing. I acted within the parameters of that agreement."

"And you had my direct order not to let her escape with the sailwing," shouted the overhand.

"Your secret order, Fras Overhand."

"You can also be secretly shot, Fras Shadowmouse."

"Not so. Frelle Samondel agreed to fly via the mainland, refuel, and leave a message before ascending for Taupo. That message is

for the Highliber of Libris, consort of that well-known and highly placed aviad sympathizer, the Overmayor of Rochester. It explains everything, Fras Overhand, and it includes a personal plea from Air-lord Samondel that the Overmayor make diplomatic representations to have all charges against me revoked—and make me a flyer instructor on the ferry flights to the mainland."

Martyne's audience of three took some time to assimilate this news.

"/ have authority here," said the mayor.

"Would you like to test your authority against that of the beloved of the Overmayor of the Rochestrian Commonwealth? She who could grant a treaty? She who could order secure wingfields built? She who could authorize the building of distilleries to supply unlimited compression spirit? Yield to the logic of the situation, gentlemen. You have lost one sailwing in return for benefits to Avian exceeding your wildest dreams. Would you endanger all of that for the sake of one petty act of revenge?"

Martyne walked from the room a free man, and the Avianese leaders' secret decision to betray Samondel was sponged from existence. By the time that the mayor, overhand, and wingfield adjunct of Launceston learned that Samondel had made no descent to the mainland, and that the message to Dramoren had never existed, their emotions had cooled somewhat and they were content to let the matter rest.

Lake Taupo, New Zealand

/\fter sleeping for the best part of the day, Samondel awoke in the late afternoon, and refueled her sailwing. With a cloth tied over her face, she dragged the decomposed bodies to the compression spirit store, then took her three victims to the firewood stack. Soon everything was blazing fiercely while Samondel stood flinging reaction guns and carbines as far into the lake as her strength would allow. She stood watching the blaze for a time, rubbing a mixture of glycerine and charblack into her hair, then she tied it back tightly.

At last she returned to her sailwing, pulling a little steam engine on a trolley behind her. Once it was stoked up and chugging strongly she strapped it to her compression engines and spun them into life, then stood back and fired a short burst from her reaction pistol into its boiler. She ascended with a pall of black smoke rising into New Zealand's overcast skies.

Samoa

f\s she approached the Samoa Wingfield, Samondel noted a smoke flare rising to welcome her, and she wound down her wheels and banked into an easy approach in almost windless conditions. Three men were waiting for her as she stopped her engines.

"Aye then, Sair, what news?" asked the leader, who was wearing an adjunct's jacket embroidered with silver thread and set with onyx plates.

"Semme, if you please," said Samondel as she unstrapped.

"Semme Bronlar, my apologies," responded the wingcaptain.

"We had complete success, and we even arranged direct trade links with the Rochester humans," continued Samondel. "Thus we still have a supply of compression spirit and horses."

They began to whoop and cheer as she climbed out of the hatch. "And our losses?" asked the captain.

"Heavy, heavier than expected."

"Defeat would have been worse."

Samondel jumped to the ground.

"Now, then, who is still alive here?" she asked.

"As of last week, just us three."

Samondel drew her reaction pistol and sprayed them with fire until the clip was empty. She slapped another clip into the gun.

"And as of now, just me," she said to the bodies.

The following day Samondel refueled her sailwing. Ascending, she circled the wingfield, noting that from the air all was identical to when she had arrived the day before.

"I truly am sorry," she said softly to the three lying dead below her, "but you chose the wrong side."

She turned the sailwing for twenty degrees past north and began a long, slow climb to cruising altitude.

Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Vorion was not the type of man to defy his superiors, but neither was he liable to shirk from telling Dramoren any unpalatable truth. He handed the Highliber of Libris a closely written sheet of poor-paper and stood back while he read. Presently Dramoren looked up.

"Who else knows of this?" he asked.

Vorion snatched the sheet from his hands, crumpled it, and tossed it into the fire.

"Only me, Highliber."

"You spied on me?"

"I filled holes in your security, through which the like of this might have leaked."

"Thank you."

"Highliber, you cannot do this! Your name will be reviled by both aviads and Rochestrians."

"The Reformed Gentheists will probably make me a saint."

"But you will die, then be hated forever. It will break the Over-mayor's heart when she learns that you were a traitor."

"Better one broken heart than the death of my species."

Tears began to trickle down Vorion's cheeks, and his face contorted with sobs before he covered it with his hand.

"Over may or, don't do this. It makes me so sad. You are the finest person I have known since Frelle Zarvora died, your name deserves to be remembered in honor and glory, just as hers is."

"Vorion, if the truth that I am an aviad is revealed, Lengina's enemies will say that her humane policies toward them were whispered by my lips into her ears. She will lose credibility, and there will be more massacres and lynchings. No, I must play the role of

traitor. She will be filled with hate for all Reformed Gentheists, and she will bring the Commonwealth down on them like a brick on a peanut. I have already arranged for Avian to offer help to Rochester once . . . well, when I am gone. It will be the start of the first aviad-human alliance. My death and disgrace is worth that."

The little librarian wiped his tear-streaked face and stared defiantly at Dramoren.

"Service to the Highlibers has been my life, but now I must make a stand. Make me part of your plan or kill me, Highliber. Otherwise I shall reveal your schemes to the Overmayor this very hour."

Dramoren closed his eyes and thought through both the offer and alternatives. It did not take long.

"Very well, you give me no choice. You are recruited."

"Thank you, Highliber. I swear to betray Commonwealth and Dragon Librarian Service with dedication and diligence."

Dramoren laughed softly as he stood up. "Go now, I shall have instructions for you at the stroke of the next half hour."

Vorion pulled the door shut behind him as he left, then set off for the little office that had been his for nearly four decades.

"And I swear to betray you too, Highliber, and to become a saint," he whispered as he walked.

Hawaii

By the time Samondel reached Hawaii her nerve was beginning to fail. There would be more people to kill face-to-face, more bodies to drag away and bury in a shallow trench. The flight had been perfect, with strong, consistent tailwinds. She had made near-record time and had ample compression spirit to spare.

She circled the wingfield and tiny settlement. All but one house had been burned, and bodies were visible even from several hundred feet. A streak of smoke speared up, clearing her to descend, and she could see a single sailwing on the dispersal track with two figures beside it. She made a low pass, the pair on the ground waved. She

came around, wound down her wheels, and approached more slowly. Those on the ground could not see her unlock the sailwing's reaction guns.

The spray of gunfire cut down the two figures on the ground almost before they realized that anything was amiss. Samondel wound her wheels back up and came around again, this time strafing the sailwing, from which fragments scattered. Nobody came rushing out to shoot at her. She brought her sailwing around to a heading for the North American mainland. She noted that the winds continued to favor her, and hoped that it was a sign of divine approval.

Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

It started with the traditional Alms Day ceremony, in which the mayors of all mayorates in the Commonwealth went among their people to distribute alms to those most in need. The day had no specific date, for past experience had shown that all manner of people in very convincing beggars' robes would be present if advance notice was given. Overmayor Lengina simply appeared in the streets, trailed by several lackeys and escorted by a dozen of the palace guard. Also present in the background, and attempting to look inconspicuous, were several members of the Dragon Librarian Service. Present, but succeeding in not being noticed at all, were representatives of the Espionage constables. The latter were taking notes on people encountered by the Overmayor and how they behaved.

Lengina's route had been determined on the Calculor, so that the most beggars were encountered while she was visible to the most people in the smallest time, while walking the shortest possible route—and thus being vulnerable to the least number of assassination opportunities. Amputees, the blind, and the visibly diseased tended to be interspersed. The alcoholics, older orphans, and slow of wit were more mobile and mixed in with the crowds to beg in the markets, and so were not well represented. This was Lengina's first Alms Day, and she approached it with unease.

The first few amputees and blind were approached without incident. The young Overmayor handed the coins over, asked about their circumstances, and was told that she was as generous as she was young and beautiful. Meantime an orphan managed to cut the strings to her purse and slip away with it, only to be caught by the Espionage Constables once out of sight of the mayoral party, relieved of the purse, and handed over to the Constable's Runners. In the wake of the mayoral party were the shadowboys and protection guilds, intent on a share of the mayoral largesse, and watching them in turn were the Espionage Constables. Widows and young orphans followed the mayoral party, not so much to get a second coin as to gain the protection of the mayoral guard until they could slip away from the street predators before being robbed.

Lengina was listening to a three-part-harmony chorus of drunks singing "Rochester the Brave and Learned" when the catcalls began.

"Why's you cut your hair?"

"Live for the Word!"

The Constable's Runners were quickly in action to move the offenders away, but the numbers of Reformed Gentheist sympathizers grew quickly.

"Jemli for Overmayor!"

"Blasphemer!"

"Aviad!"

Rotten fruit and stones began to fly, but the Calculor had allowed for this as well. Several houses, workshops, and merchant houses had been flagged as good routes to escape through in order to meet with a heavier escort that was following in parallel. The palace guardsmen and Constable's Runners laid into the offenders in the crowd, while Lengina was surrounded by Tiger Dragons and led away. Nordy's Nut House was briefly turned into a thoroughfare for one Overmayor and eleven armed librarians, and Fras Nordy had scarcely time to thrust a bag of almonds oven-roasted with cinnamon at the Overmayor before she was hurried through his back door. Fras Nordy then chalked 'By Appointment to the Overmayor' on his shop door, only to have his shop smashed, looted, and set on fire by the

mob conducting the religious riot that was now in control of the street.

Lengina was not a great orator, and spent little time in contact with the lower social orders of her subjects. Overmayors were, after all, high-level rulers of rulers, rather than rulers in tune with the people who were actually ruled. Zarvora had been so formidable that none dared raise a voice of dissent against her, and the first two who followed her were steady administrators with no particular interest in people. Lengina was, in a quite real sense, the first overmayor to take a heartfelt interest in the welfare in the lowest of her subjects. Thus it was that she took the insults, missiles, and the riot personally, and was deeply disturbed by the time she was hastened back into the palace. Dramoren had naturally been alerted, and arrived as a gaggle of servants with bowls of scented warm water and towels were cleaning the fragments of fruit from the Overmayor's face and hair. Her soiled robes had already been removed, and she wore only a dressing cloak.