"Warden Samondel of Highland Bartolica," called the herald.
"My statistician concurs with yours," she announced, then paused for emphasis. The airlords glanced to each other, then looked back at Samondel expectantly. "I have, however, learned through my intelligence advisors of the capacities of the Yarronese super-regals. Airlord Sartov, do I have your permission to speak about the range of your aircraft, your marvels of Yarronese artisanry?"
Sartov glowered, but nodded.
"At a cruising speed of one hundred miles per hour, a super-regal can stay in the air for twenty-five hours. With all weapons and
fittings removed to make way for extra tanks and five hundred pounds of load, a super-regal could fly for thirty hours. Using midair refueling from a second super-regal flying only part of the way, this could be extended to forty-three hours."
"True, but according to the ancient maps the largest gap over seawater is only three hundred miles," said Sartov, waving his interjection pennant.
"On Warden Drell's route, yes. Examine an ancient map of the Pacific Ocean, however, and you will see that wingfields could be established on three of the larger islands that are no more than two thousand miles apart. The route would be a mere seven thousand miles, and once the three wingfields are built we would need no more than a large volume of compression spirit for the engines."
"Seven thousand miles over water?" exclaimed Airlord Drell, holding his interjection pennant high in the air. "Madness!"
"Four leaps of two thousand miles or less."
"But each super-regal takes as much compression spirit as eight gunwings! Add the spirit burned to transport spirit to the island wingfields and each flight would take more compression spirit than Montrose, Senner, and Highland Bartolica normally use in a year."
"Yes, but with all of Mounthaven's compression spirit farms and distilleries working together, I calculate that we could establish three wingfields and reach Australica within four months. The cost would be five hundred times less than using the land route, and a hundred times quicker."
"But what about the Australican religious prohibition against fueled engines?"
"Semme Darien said steam engines. Our wings are powered by compression engines."
There is only one thing worse than an impossibly expensive scheme, and that is a realistically expensive scheme. The debate raged for another forty minutes. The airlords worked figures out on slates, waved interjection pennants, and shouted proposals and counterproposals. Sartov was curiously quiet for the entire time, although he did exchange a few words with the Cosdoran airlord. Suddenly he interjected.
"My current super-regals could carry only two horses each, based on their estimated weight. Even then they would have to be lying down."
"One might select only young horses," suggested Samondel.
Sartov thought for a moment then nodded.
"Very well, then. If the larger domains were to donate twenty gunwing compression engines, and a very large quantity of fabric, wire, and flight-standard wood, my artisans could build two super-regals that could remain in the air for fifty hours and carry six young horses," Sartov declared.
"While each gulps down as much spirit as ten gunwings for those fifty hours," scoffed the Montrassen. "Even that does not include the spirit needed to transport spirit to the island wingfields."
"But it could be done," said Samondel.
To the surprise of most present, Airlord Sartov agreed with her once more.
"Include a few bags of barley and sunflower seeds on each flight, and we could be growing enough compression spirit locally to halve the cost within a year," he suggested. "With a flight every week, we could have three hundred horses within a year."
"Airlord Samondel was saying that one horse carbineer is worth ten infantry carbineers," said the Cosdoran.
"Indeed!" exclaimed South Bartolica's airlord. "We had best introduce the death penalty for horse stealing."
"Or selling them to Mexhaven," added Sartov.
He gazed across at Samondel, stroking his beard, then leaned over to South Bartolica's airlord.
"How did a girl of nineteen with barely any flight experience until only months ago manage to think of this?" he whispered. "Where does she get such drive?"
"We grew up surrounded by engineers and artisans, Saireme Sartov. She also studied history and ancient languages—oh, and mathematics."
"Fine and suitable subjects for a well-bred girl, yet now they are the very skills that the rest of us do not have. I hear that Warden Feydamor plucked her royal flower."
so sean Mcmullen
"In exchange for his, yes. But last night he slept with Bronlar, and they intend to marry."
"On further thought, sense begins to emerge. Samondel loses a legendary hero to Bronlar, another legendary hero, leaving her as the airlord of a defeated, third-rate domain."
"True, and Bronlar has eight times more clear air victories than Samondel."
"But Samondel's were in a single day. This would be Samondel's chance to become a legend without having to wait for another war or fight thirty-five duels."
"Why? To get Serjon Feydamor back?" the South Bartolican laughed softly.
"No possibility. The marriage of Serjon and Bronlar has been announced for next month. Even the greatest of royal weddings in history will not rival it for sheer size and splendor. The Condelor palace will be the setting, with all airlords present. No, I think that Samondel's pride is at stake here. As Airlord Samondel Leover, who established a path over the greatest ocean in the world, her name will become immortal. In a hundred years people will say, 'By the way, did you know that Samondel treated a hero of the Great War to a couple of nights in her bed when he was feeling depressed? What was his name again?' "
"Point taken. How much would you say that she weighs?"
"When stripped for action with Serjon Feydamor? One hundred ten pounds at most."
"That's twenty more than Bronlar, but less than any male warden or airlord. I hear she asked the Australican agent, Semme Darien, to provide her with a common Australican language's basic grammar and vocabulary this morning. Austaric, is its name."
"Ah, so she definitely hopes to lead this venture to Australica."
"I think she may be the only one qualified to do so."
"How will you vote?"
"Affirmative, I should think."
All the time that they had been whispering, the debate on Samondel's proposal had raged on. When the division was called, the
vote was nine for Samondel's proposal and nine against, but as presiding airlord Sartov did not have a vote. Convention was that any motion was lost on a tied council vote, but there was a single option still left open.
"Is there any dispute against the count that declares this motion lost?" called the herald.
Samondel waved her interjection pennant.
"Saireme Airlord Samondel of the house of Leover, you may state your dispute with any vote."
Samondel rose from her cockpit-seat chair and strode across a stretch of uncarpeted floor, her boots echoing like gunshots with every step. She stopped in front of Airlord Drell, slowly removed the glove from her left hand, then backhanded it viciously across his face. Three of the gemstones on the jeweled and gilt-embroidered glove tore scratches across his right cheek. Samondel offered the glove to Drell.
"I say that you led the vote against my motion out of revenge against me for the invasion of your domain," said Samondel clearly and slowly. "You do not have the interests of either this council, Mounthaven, or even you own domain, at heart. I challenge your vote as an airlord."
Drell felt his cheek, regarded the blood on his fingertips for a moment, then snatched the glove from her.
"I accept your challenge."
"What stake do you call?" asked the somewhat rattled herald, who had not been expecting anything remotely like this at the victory meeting.
"I demand that Highland Bartolica become a province of my domain in the event of Airlo
rd Samondel of Leover's defeat."
"Airlord Drell Darontien of Montras accepts a clear air duel challenge," the herald pronounced.
IMews of the duel caused an instant sensation throughout Forian. There was no word about the cause of the dispute, but within two
hours of the meeting breaking up, the compression engines of the gunwings Starflower and Dirkfang were chugging evenly as they warmed for ascent. The airlords' reception to honor the newly engaged Serjon and Bronlar was scheduled to last all afternoon, and through matters of precedent and protocol it could not be canceled. After the official announcement, however, Samondel appeared before the honored couple. Her knee-length red hair was bound up tightly, and her violet eyes were alarmingly wide.
"Airlord Drell Darontien and I wish to take leave of your celebration," said Samondel tersely. "We may be back in a half hour."
"Granted," said Serjon and Bronlar together.
Drell and Samondel walked away across the wingfield and past the royal guards. In the distance artisans swarmed over their shuddering gunwings.
"Drell wears Princess Varelfi's colors on his arm, but Samondel wears none," said Bronlar, staring after them.
"Very unlucky," responded Serjon.
"You have colors," said Bronlar pointedly.
"You wear them," said Serjon.
"But I am not dueling today."
"You have already returned my colors to me once. That was one time too many."
The Conciliator spoke with both airlords, but neither was interested in a retraction. He stepped back from them, and the wingfield adjunct cleared his throat.
"Saireme Airlords, do you swear to fight with chivalry and dignity, in honor of the ladies whose colors you wear?"
The words were a formula, but the formula had never before been applied to a woman fighting a clear air duel.
"I do," replied Drell with a smirk.
"I wear no colors because I fight for the honor of all Mount-haven," replied Samondel.
The airlords and wardens looking on applauded, and Drell cast a sneer at Samondel before they turned away and walked for their gunwings. Moments later the two gunwings were in the air, speeding
away for towers at opposite ends of the city. Both circled the towers correctly, at summit height, then climbed sharply as they closed again. Samondel climbed more steeply in the Yarronese tri-wing, but Drell climbed faster. Both were inexperienced, fighting with energy and ferocity rather than savvy.
After a head-on pass with reaction guns blazing, they got into a climbing chase, circling each other as they clawed for height. Drell's gunwing was faster, but Samondel was able to turn sharply enough to get several bursts of reaction gunfire his way. The adjunct noted several hits to Drell's wings, then abruptly Star flower seemed to lose power, stalled, and dropped into a dive. Caught by surprise, Drell broke out of his climbing circle and hurtled after her. Samondel dropped into a steeper dive, but Drell was not anxious to lose the chance to catch Starflower from behind. The Yarronese gunwing had already walked shots across his wings, and he was behind on points. As Starflower roared down at the wingfield, crews and spectators began to scatter. Samondel began to pull out, as if attempting a highspeed touch with her wheels. This would grant Drell a forfeit, but he wanted a clear air victory and nothing less. At extreme range he opened fire, the throttle of his compression engine wide open. Some thirty feet above the ground Starflower^ three wings provided just sufficient lift to break out of the dive. For several seconds of intense terror Drell realized that Dirkfang had too much speed and not enough lift.
Dirkfang ploughed into the Forian palace wingfield at over two hundred miles per hour, marking its own end with a mighty, mushroom-shaped plume of smoke, flames, and dust. Starflower made a single circuit of the wingfield, then descended to the ascent strip and taxied up to the pennant pole. There was blood trickling from Samondel's nose as her crew helped her from the cockpit. By then it had been confirmed that Airlord Drell was most definitely dead. Samondel gave her report to the wingfield's adjunct.
"Starflower's guns jammed while I was in the chasing climb, Sair Adjunct. It was only a matter of time before Drell realized that I was not able to shoot back, and after that he could keep doing
break passes until he hit me. I decided to tempt him into a dive, hoping to make him think that I had lost my nerve and fled to make a touch. I was successful."
From behind her there was cry of surprise from the crewmen examining Starflower.
"These cartridges, midway in the belts," shouted the armorer. "They're stuck in with resin!"
The result was awarded to Samondel, and the scandalized Forian officials launched an immediate investigation of the sabotage to her ammunition belts. The airlords took early leave of the engagement celebration and returned to the palace. The late Drell's vote was struck from the proceedings of the previous meeting, and Venture Australica was signed into law.
As the sun was setting Airlord Sartov found Samondel at the crater in the wingfleld that had been blasted out by Dirkfang's crash.
"The last time I was standing by such a pit was at a coronation in Condelor, just before the Great War," she said. "I never dreamed that the next one I stood beside would be that of my own victim."
In the fading light Sartov could see that there were tears on her face.
"Did you know him?" the Airlord of Yarron asked.
"Yes. Last year there was talk of an alliance between Montrass and Greater Bartolica. A marriage between a prince and princess would have greatly aided negotiations. I traveled to Montrass to meet Drell. He stole a kiss in the palace gardens one afternoon. I pinched his bottom, he squeezed my breast, and I accidentally pulled his codpiece off just as our chaperons returned to check on us. There was meant to be a big reception that night to welcome me to Montrass, but even as I was dressing for it in my newest gown a Bar-tolican regal arrived and flew me back to Condelor. I thought it was because the prince and I had been behaving in a rather too familiar manner with each other, but the next day I discovered that our domains were at war."
"I'm sorry. The duel was your choice, however."
"And I stand by my choice. Walk safely in the great blackness,
Saireme Drell," Samondel said to the sky. "You were diverting to be with."
They began to walk back to the tents at the edge of the wingfield, and their path took them past the strange wing that had arrived the night before. Its upper surface was charred and shriveled, and the inside of the cockpit was a blackened ruin.
"This is how the featherheads got here from Australica," said Sartov. "It was built by intelligent machines in Mirrorsun's mines and factories on the moon. Fantastically light and powered by the sun during daylight. Apparently stored electrical essence drove it by night."
"Who destroyed it?"
"Nobody. The guards said that it suddenly began burning in the early hours of the morning. Some electrical devices in the University of Forian also burned about the same time."
"Vandalism. Perhaps by the same enemy who tampered with my ammunition?" asked Samondel.
"The damage was spontaneous, it just happened. Perhaps it was something to do with the Call vanishing."
Samondel touched the tip of a wing. To her surprise she realized that she could move it easily.
"Unbelievably light, and the structure seems to be intact," said Sartov. "With some innovative repairs and a pair of conventional compression engines installed it could be of use in your Venture Australica. Its range could well exceed that of a super-regal, or so I am advised."
"When it is available, be sure to let me know. In the meantime, I had better get some experience at the controls of a super-regal."
They began to walk on.
"Airlord Samondel, do you have a feel for how far away Australica really is?" asked Sartov, bowing his head and folding his arms as he walked. "Sheer statistics say that one of my super-regals would have to fly for three days continuously to reach it."
"Legend has it t
hat our ancestors took three days to fly to the moon. Three men flew in a spacewing, and they slept in shifts."
"I doubt that we can afford the luxury of three men in our crews. Two flyers only, and very small flyers at that. Flyers weighing less than one hundred and twenty pounds. Our wardens and flyers will have to go on diets."
"A half hour ago the wingfield physician weighed me, as naked as the day I was born. I was one hundred and five pounds. What was Warden Bronlar's registration weight yesterday?"
What Samondel had neglected to say was that she had drunk one mug of water and had not eaten at all for twenty-four hours, but Sartov did not need to know that. They stopped at the adjunct's office and being the presiding airlord of the council, Sartov could access the records of registration weights. Bronlar's kitted weight was 132 pounds, and a standard kit weighed thirty-five.
"A growing girl," said Samondel.
"Your weights are practically the same, and Warden Jemarial is known for her distance flying."
"Warden Jemarial is both unstable and insane, Saireme Sartov. Would you chose her as your envoy to the Australians?"
Sartov would have cheerfully appointed the chicken that had laid his breakfast egg as Australican envoy before he would have appointed Bronlar.
"I am inclined to favor you" said Sartov, "but your lack of navigation skills counts against you."
"Navigation skills can be learned, and / am a scholar!"
"You will be looking for very small islands over very large distances," Sartov warned. "One little mistake in navigation could kill you and lose a very expensive multiengined wing that is sorely needed in Mounthaven. We don't even know the weather patterns over midocean."
"I shall find out for you."
"The sheer amount of fuel to get the first six horses back will be more than any one of my super-regals burned for the entire war."
"And how long will we have fuel in such quantities, Airlord Sartov? Just now we have reserves, but in a year or two the guild systems will be breaking down as people leave to hunt, farm, and build their own little empires in the frontier lands. With horses we
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