"My point is that the Calculor components are not all felons," she explained, just loudly enough to be heard by Dramoren.
Dramoren walked another five feet across to her, then stopped again.
"Rochester depends upon the Calculor no less than Rochester depends upon the Dragon Librarian Service, army, local militias, or Constables, and their runners. Young men—unless they are at university—have no choice when it comes to serving in the army or militias. Everyone who can use an abacus with any reasonable skill has no choice about serving in the Calculor, unless they are in a reserved occupation."
"I can operate an abacus."
"The office of Overmayor is classified as a reserved occupation."
Lengina considered. She was regarded as a reformer, so what would it matter if they were overheard while she was defending her own reforms? She took five paces away from the Highliber then turned again.
"I could send in the palace guard and set all of your components free!" she declared stridently.
"And you would instantly unify every one of the mayors in the
Council against you. They would send in the Commonwealth army in to restore the status quo."
"That would tear the Commonwealth apart!" Lengina exclaimed.
"So would attacking Libris. Overmayor, the Calculor runs our trains, generates beamflash code tables, calculates taxation schedules, catches financial felons, and even checks the troop movements of our neighbors for suspiciously warlike tendencies. The overmayorates to the north and west are in near-anarchy with the Call gone and all their electrical essence machines reduced to charcoal and melted copper. The Kalgoorlie Empire and Woomeran Confederation are now ruled by a religious fanatic and Alspring is on the verge of joining them. Rochester alone is intact and strong, but that same religious fanatic already has followers in the Commonwealth."
"I cannot allow slavery for the greater good!" said Lengina, taking a step closer.
"Compulsory service, not slavery!" said Dramoren, taking two steps toward her.
"Well even soldiers in the army can go home on leave. Prisoners in jails can have visitors. Why should components in the Libris Calculor be kept under such tight security? They might as well be dead."
"It's because I don't want outsiders spying on our Calculor programs and operating system design."
"Your operating system design is public knowledge! I read a book about it when I was at Rochester University."
"You—what?"
"When I studied mathematics."
Dramoren looked her up and down, taking in the frothy lace of her white gown, her classically pretty face, and fashionably low neckline. It had been many months since he had read her personnel file—and then it had been late at night, and he had been very tired. He had skimmed the paragraph headed "Education," and had only noted that she was bright enough to have gained a degree.
"You studied mathematicsT he exclaimed now.
By now they were only inches apart. Lengina's hand lashed across Dramoren's face.
"That is for even thinking that I am too stupid to study mathematics."
Dramoren took several deep breaths.
"For that and that alone I apologize, Overmayor. Hear me out now. I respect your courage and the wisdom of many of your reforms. That is why I fought the duel that made me Highliber with sabers instead of flintlocks, and I have this scar on my face to prove it! I supported you. Remember that!"
"Very gracious of you, Fras Highliber."
"Now I expect you to support Rochester!"
"So now hear my decision. Those serving in the Libris Calculor will be allowed visitors, and no less than once a week. If the visitors are kept out, my palace guards will storm Libris and shoot down any Dragon Librarians and Tiger Dragons that get in their way until they reach the Calculor. The visitors will be allowed a weekly audience with the components of their choice who are not actually on duty."
"The mayors will never stand for it!" shouted Dramoren.
"The mayors will ask why you met a more than reasonable request from me with violence that disrupted the working of the Calculor. Oh, and seeing as you compared the Calculor to the army, even conscripts in the army receive pay. See to it that the components receive the same pay as musketeer recruits."
A furious but constrained Dramoren strode out through the palace gates into the plaza that separated Libris from the palace. The four Tiger Dragons of his escort were hard-pressed to keep up with him without almost jogging.
"Pay for components, visiting rights!" he ranted as they walked. "What next? Abolition of the death penalty for disrupting the operating system? Leave of absence for maternity? Mark my words, let this sort of thing go too far and we shall be soon settling disputes by arbitration instead of duels."
"Oh, that could never happen, Highliber," said the squad captain soothingly.
"Don't bet money upon it."
Griffith, the Central Confederation
rt the infirmary of the Griffith barracks there were two dozen musketeers and officers under treatment for burns. Some had been trapped in the A2 dormitory when the building had burned, others had been injured while trying to rescue those inside. Two of those from A2 had been put in a separate ward, and armed musketeers stood at each corner of the room. Nobody else was willing to share a ward with them, after what had happened to seven of their squad and twenty-eight other musketeers and officers who had happened to be nearby. More guards were outside, and only nurses and medicians were allowed to enter. Even then it was only after the oils and bandages had been inspected, and their meals tasted for poisons.
The first sign that anything was wrong took the form of groans, then screams, coming from the heavily guarded building. A medician and three nurses rushed to investigate, only to be stopped by the guards outside. They stood with their hands in the air while the screams continued. A guard from inside emerged to say that the two musketeer patients were writhing on the floor and vomiting. The guards conferred. At last one was sent to fetch the duty officer in command. By the time the lieutenant had arrived the screams had ceased. The medician and nurses were finally permitted to enter, muskets trained on their backs. The two musketeers were lying beside their bunks, covered in vomit and blood, their eyes bulging and their bodies contorted from their final agonies.
"Poisoned," was the verdict of the young medician, Haspen.
'That's as bloody obvious as balls on a bull," replied the lieutenant. "How?"
The corporal in charge of the musketeers within the ward was brought forward. A nurse had entered, carrying a tray with a jar of ointment.
"Some of it was rubbed on a test rat, but it still lives," he concluded, holding up a rat in a wire cage.
"It's dead," the lieutenant pointed out.
"No, it's not, it's . . ." The musketeer peered into the cage. "Dead. But it was alive, er, like, it did not die."
"Looks dead to me," said the lieutenant.
"I mean not as fast as the prisoners."
"I think I can explain," said the medician Haspen. "The poisoned ointment soaked only slowly through the rat's uninjured skin, but the nurse applied it the musketeers' burns, where it was absorbed more quickly."
The lieutenant studied him as he spoke. He was a very young and recent graduate, and had probably grown his neat beard to appear older. Nevertheless, he was an authority.
"She looked like a nurse," the corporal volunteered. "And her jar had the seal of... er, a medician."
"Duty Medician Norrel," said Haspen, holding up the jar. "He is unwell today. I am Medician Haspen. This seal bears his name, not mine."
"Oh," replied the musketeer. "Er, but I can't read."
"But hopefully you can recognize faces," said Haspen, indicating the three nurses who had been on duty. "Was the nurse any of these?"
"Er . . . no."
The sergeant in charge of the musketeers outside was now summoned. His story was identical to that of the corporal. During the incident the three nurses on duty had been ch
anging the bandages of a musketeer in the other infirmary dormitory, in full view of all the other patients. There had been no other genuine nurse on the grounds at the time.
"I shall inform the magistrate," said Haspen to the lieutenant. "Meantime keep the three nurses on the grounds. Not under arrest, just. . . discretely confined. You never know."
A horse was fetched and the medician rode out through the gates at a brisk canter. The lieutenant was prodding the dead rat with the tip of his dagger when there was a scream from nearby.
"Would you like to bet a copper that the naked body of a nurse has just been found in a broom closet?" the lieutenant asked the dead rat.
Moments later a musketeer burst into the room.
"Medician Norrel's body were found in a broom closet, hidden under a nurse's uniform and wig," he shouted. "He were naked and his neck were broke."
The lieutenant suddenly had a pang of alarm that sliced through his abdomen like a saber blade chilled in midwinter frost. He buried his face in his hands. Norrel was the duty medician. Haspen was the reserve, but the lieutenant had never actually met the fresh-faced but bearded Haspen until that day. He spread his fingers and looked down at the dead rat.
"I owe you a copper," he muttered softly.
I he news of the additional deaths produced something close to blind panic in the survivors of Mattrel Grammain's squad. Mattrel had found the bodies in his father's mansion. He fled at once, pausing only to raise the alarm before meeting with the other lieutenant, sergeant, and two corporals in their hostelry. They decided to flee in divergent directions, the corporals north, and the others south. The corporals hired horses and loaded their field packs with food and water. Forged passes for the city gates were not hard to buy.
Corporal Demitral was dressed as a journeyman saddler as he checked the harness of his horse. He had a flintlock in one hand and was glancing around constantly, determined not to be surprised from behind. Corporal Laharre was at the doors, checking the street outside.
"Damn you, we should just ride out!" rasped Demitral.
"Not until I'm sure it's safe."
"It's broad daylight."
"We can be shot just as easily in broad daylight."
"Do you even know what you're lookin' for?"
"Someone special. Someone out there, beyond the doors of these stables. Someone who took on the Griffith barracks alone and left four dozen dead. Someone like that is gonna look special."
"I want to get out!" insisted Demitral.
"Why? We're safe in here, nobody can see us, we're even disguised."
"It's bein' in stables. Like those girls, the last they ever saw was the inside of a stable."
"One. The other's alive."
"I keep thinkin' that it's gonna happen to me. Had dreams. Lookin' at straw, someone on top of me, light fadin'."
"Well, it's daytime now, so you're safe."
"Call's balls, but I didn't mean to do it. If they'd just jollied along an' not screamed about havin' us hung before we gagged 'em—"
"You gave 'em both hot iron, just like the rest of us! Just you remember that!"
"I thought they might be enjoyin' it! Some women plays reluctant at first, you know."
"Name me a woman who enjoys bein' done over by fifteen men, name me one who enjoys bein' pissed on, shat on, and kicked, and sliced. Then I'll call you innocent. You said nothin', 'cept how we shoulda killed both. Now hold those horses and shut up. I'm checkin' the street from the loft. If I were that mean fykart out there I'd hide on a roof with a couple of long barrels for a daylight hit. If it's clear we ride out, fast."
"And if it's not?"
Laharre held up a sniping musket. "Big reward out for the Barracks Phantom."
Demitral watched him climb the ladder, and Laharre called down that the loft was clear and safe. Demitral continued to glance about as Laharre's footsteps creaked boards on the loft's floor. He reached the loading doors.
"Seems clear," said Laharre after a moment.
"Then come down and let's be out of here. Damn all stables."
Demitral untied the horses and led them to the doors. Laharre jumped to the ground behind him—then Demitral saw his companion suspended in midair, his arms hanging limp and his head at an acute angle. A momentary gleam of harpsichord wire betrayed the real nature of the apparent levitation.
Corporal Demitral whirled and fired his flintlock. The horse di-
rectly behind him collapsed, shot between the eyes. A cloaked, hooded figure stepped out from behind the other horse. Demitral presented the pistol and fired but there was only an emphatic click. Taking the gun by the barrel, he raised it and swung the butt, but his wrist was seized and twisted, then his arm was wrenched up above his head and his wrist bent so acutely that the blinding pain forced him to drop.
A knee rammed into the corporal's back, his face was pushed into the straw. Soft fingers caressed the skin of his neck, then pressed firmly into his flesh. Corporal Demitral tried to struggle against the hold and wristlock, but he had no leverage. He began to feel drowsy. The artery hold, he thought. Pass out, never wake up. Darkness and lethargy clouded his mind. The light faded, he was held down as he once held Velesti down. Someone was banging on a door, asking if everything was all right, asking about a shot. Unlike Velesti, the corporal died.
Velesti was fetched from the reference desk of the theological library by two Constables' Runners. They were unaware that they were being watched and followed by a young man with stubbly hair and beard, all the way back to the Disore mansion. Velesti arrived home to find the city constable, ten runners, her mother, Ju-lica, the cook, and the groom in the parlor. The argument that was raging was of such an intensity that they scarcely noticed she had returned.
"You are saying that nine of Elsile and Velesti's attackers have now been killed?" Elene Disore exclaimed as one of the runners tried to write down a statement and another stood by with a pair of lock shackles.
"Along with the city magistrate, his steward, a military medician, twelve additional musketeers and their officers, and ten members of the local criminal community," said the city constable.
"Who did this?" asked Elene.
"If I knew that, would I be here? The general feeling is certainly
that it was done to avenge the ravishing and murder of Elsile Cam-derine, the death of your son, and the attack on this young lady here."
He gestured to Velesti. Velesti stood with her arms folded, listening to everything.
"And my husband," Elene Disore added, anger smothering her grief. "I have just heard that his body was found, and that he had been murdered. Nobody will tell me more."
"I know, / gave that order . . . but what does it matter?" The city constable sighed. "A paper found with the body of the medician in the barracks infirmary had the words 'Harren Disore 1 and 'Lake' written on it. That is why we trolled grapples through the lake's shallows. We found Harren's body, and it had a knife wound in the back. The cloth of a dueler's second was still pinned to his sleeve. He was obviously your son's real second—"
"And the duel was obviously a double murder!" concluded the enraged Elene.
"Well, that does seem possible. Lieutenant Grammain and his surviving comrades have meantime disappeared as well. Evidence suggests that a Balesha vigilante was responsible, and that he had some justification in taking vengeance on the city magistrate, but his actions are nevertheless criminal."
"Balesha? Are you saying that Brother Martyne Camderine renounced his order and came two thousand miles to avenge his sister?"
"Yes. Where was Brother Camderine of Balesha on the night of the twenty-ninth of September?"
Beneath the floorboards of the room Martyne listened to the conversation with great interest.
"How am I to know?" asked Elene. "The last we heard, he was still in Balesha."
"Then who is responsible for at least thirty-four killings plus an additional fifteen deaths that resulted from the consequent mayhem?"
"I
don't know, but I approve," replied Elene.
"There is also a rumor that some secret lover of Elsile has been avenging them," said Julica.
"Then why did he wait so long?" demanded the city constable. "Was he intending to share a few killings with Brother Martyne, but got tired of waiting?"
"He may have been away at the war," suggested Elsile.
At this point a militiaman entered, dusting his jacket and carrying a dispatch folder. He presented it to the city constable.
"Ah, the statement of the river galley captain and extract from the Darlington immigration registers," said the city constable as he broke the seal. " 'Boarded at the free port of Mildura, mail galley Black Duck . . . twenty-ninth, Balranald . . . Fras Martyne Camder-ine, good character, strong and diligent rower. . . fifth of October, arrived Darlington. Extract of Entry, Darlington Inwards Register of Souls: Martyne Camderine, eleventh hour of the morning, fifth of October.' "
He handed the folder back to the militiaman, clearly disappointed.
"This means nothing. He could easily have paid some yoick to carry his papers and answer to his name."
"So, how many of the filthy swine are still alive?" asked Elene.
"Two members of the squad are under protective guard."
"Yes?"
"But both were proven to be elsewhere when your daughter was attacked. As I said earlier, the remaining five are missing. The squad's lieutenant, sublieutenant, a sergeant, and two corporals."
At that moment yet another militiaman arrived, wide-eyed and smelling of a horse hard ridden.
"Who is dead this time?" asked the city constable wearily.
"The two corporals, Fras."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"In a stable, about two miles from here."
The city constable looked around, his hands on his hips and an expression of exasperation on his face.
"Well, there is clearly no business to be done in the name of justice and the enforcement of the overmayor's law in this house," he said to Elene Disore. "Frelle Elene, Frelle Velesti, good folk, I
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