Eyes of the Calculor

by Sean McMullen

  "Slowly, but increasing in reliability. Many of the skills and designs used in your first Libris Calculor have been lost."

  "I can help. Send for Velesti wherever you are having trouble. Where she goes, I go too."

  "Frelle Zarvora, that is a wonderful and generous offer," said Dramoren, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together.

  "Does anyone remember me?" asked Velesti, waving a hand in the air.

  Both hologram and human turned to her.

  "I have a small but reasonable request."

  "Speak," replied Zarvora.

  "I want to be given every item of information known about a woman named Lemorel Milderellen."

  "As in the Milderellen invasion?" asked Dramoren.

  "The sister of the Prophet Jemli?" asked Zarvora.

  "Yes. I want to see every record about her, every sketch, every report, and everything that she ever wore, fired, or used. Books have been written about her; I want to see them all."

  "She died two decades ago," Dramoren pointed out.

  "That is not a problem. I just need to know her as people remember her."

  "But why?" asked Zarvora.

  "Her sister, Jemli, profits greatly from her memory. It is in all of our interests to do so as well. Lemorel had an affair with Tarrin, a senior Dragon Librarian in Libris, then both of them betrayed you, Zarvora. I recall that you tortured three dozen librarians to extract the truth, nine of them to death."

  "I was particularly cross," explained the hologram.

  "Then tell me everything you learned. I want all of her campaign records while with the Alspring Ghans as well, and I want every gun that she ever owned."

  "I have one more question," said Dramoren. "Why are you— that is, why is Mirrorsun speeding up its rotation?"

  "To better myself," replied Zarvora.

  "I don't understand."

  "Another clue: Mirrorsun is a modern name for the ancients' sunshield in space. Their name for the project was Greatwinter, but that name was later hijacked for the stupid war that almost froze the world."

  "I still don't understand."

  "Then that is unfortunate, Highliber Dramoren. Two clues should encourage you to think. Three might spoil the surprise."

  VftNGS OF THE AIRLORD

  Peterborough, the Woomeran Confederation

  I he first audience of Highliber Dramoren with Jemli the Prophet was made at the Highliber's request, and it was he who made the journey to meet with her. Peterborough was not a large city, but it was exceedingly ancient. It was a trade center on the paraline, with high, thick walls and splendid, ancient mansions, temples, and even a university. The larger city of Woomera had endured a long siege during the Milderellen invasion two decades earlier, and after it fell the carnage saw nine out of every ten citizens killed. That which could not be burned was blown up, and it was said that more gunpowder was used after the siege than during it. When Lemorel Mild-erellen's invaders were finally defeated the new Confederation was still named Woomera, but it would have taken a century to restore the ancient capital to its former glory. Glory, splendor, and imposing buildings to impress important visitors were what the newly appointed overmayor wanted and Peterborough had just that, so the city was declared to be the new capital.

  The current overmayor had given Jemli his palace during the burst of religious fervor that had swept over the city since her arrival, thus strengthening his position with his own subjects. He moved into a smaller but more ornate palace, went about in a cavalry uniform, and gave himself the title Defender of the Prophet. Thus he retained

  control of his lands while siding with Jemli, yet Jemli gained the larger palace. True, it was no bigger than the palace at Kalgoorlie, but it was closer to the geographical center of the continent's southern mayorates.

  As his wind train pulled into the terminus Dramoren looked through the window of his carriage and saw that he had a guard of honor from the Woomeran Mayoral Musketeers flanked by cheering crowds. He also noted Christian, Islamic, Gentheist, and other clerics among the dignitaries there to greet him. He was not surprised by his reception. The Commonwealth had no state religion, so the Dragon Librarian Service was what unified the richest region on the continent—and he headed the Dragon Librarian Service.

  "Are you sure you want to go through with this?" asked his medician as he prepared to step out onto the platform.

  "Of course. I planned it all myself."

  "But it's mind-numbingly dangerous!"

  "Ah, but that is why nobody will be suspicious."

  Dramoren was put aboard a carriage after leaving his wind train, then driven through the streets to the palace. When he met Jemli, she was seated on her throne, with her hair brushed out cascading down over her shoulders and the armrests to the floor. The majority of those in the hall had ceased to cut their hair or shave, and while this was not something that Jemli had decreed to be the Deity's will, it was seen as a public affirmation of faith and solidarity. Dramoren stopped at the steps leading to the throne, gave a formal bow of greeting, then threw back his cloak and stood with his arms folded to signify that he was not reaching for a weapon.

  "You are required to kneel," prompted a herald under his breath.

  "I kneel to my monarch, I bow to all others," replied Dramoren, somewhat less softly.

  There was an uneasy shifting among Jemli's courtiers. Slowly she stood up, standing well over six feet tall and enshrouded by her calf-length, meticulously dyed hair. She stared down at Dramoren. "Do you acknowledge the Word of the Deity?" she asked.

  "I acknowledge the authority of the Christian Scriptures, the au-

  thority of the College of Abbots to interpret them, the authority of the Bishop of Rochester in general, and the authority of my abbot in matters relating to my personal behavior."

  The reply caught Jemli by surprise. "You are a monk?" she asked.

  "I am a laitor, educated as a monk, then sent out to work in the wider world."

  So far the audience was going badly for Jemli. The visitor had refused to kneel to her and she had not known a very important aspect of his background. She changed to a new approach.

  "Then you are the most powerful and highly placed cleric in the Commonwealth."

  "I do not hold office as a cleric."

  "But cleric you certainly are. Welcome to our number, welcome with honor."

  A massed band in the gallery to the left immediately struck up at the keyword "honor," and was joined by a choir in the gallery to the right. Very clever, thought Dramoren. She turns a diplomatic slight into a triumph by welcoming me without a chance for me to reply.

  Jemli descended the steps, held her hand out for Dramoren's arm, then walked back down the processional carpet with him as the entire court applauded and the music blared. Courtiers and clergy fell in behind them in order of precedence as Jemli took the Highliber out into the palace gardens. Sound did not travel so clearly, here as in the throne hall.

  "My followers have been the subjects of some violence in your Commonwealth," said Jemli as they stepped onto the lawn.

  "That very fact is why I am here," replied Dramoren.

  Guards flanked them at a respectful distance, sketchers hurried along drawing outlines for the engravings and paintings that would soon be produced to celebrate the occasion.

  "Is the Commonwealth hostile to the Word?"

  "On the contrary, Rochester welcomes everyone who would support or oppose it. You must know the saying, two Rochestrians, three opinions."

  "How can it be that you tolerate anyone opposing the Word of the Deity?" exclaimed Jemli.

  "We tolerate all opinions, that is our strength."

  "Then we must differ. My people believe in the Word that is Truth. We must proclaim it everywhere, we must denounce those who work for evil."

  "It is my place to denounce evil as well," Dramoren replied firmly. "Where we apparently differ is in the definition."

  They stopped beside a fountain and Jemli's large entoura
ge began to spread out in a circle at a measured distance.

  "The Commonwealth is unlike any other alliance of mayorates," said Jemli. "It has a secular heart, the Dragon Librarian Service."

  "It is a powerful and reliable heart, one that has reconstructed the beamflash tower network. We have even assisted in the lands where you rule, Frelle Prophet."

  "I do not rule. I declare the Word and it is up to the faithful to follow it. But it is not in the interest of the Word to have secular men and women transmitting it."

  "Then what do you want?"

  "I want all those in the Dragon Librarian Service to swear loyalty to the Word."

  Dramoren did not react at once, for he had anticipated a demand along these lines.

  "What you demand is not mine to give," he finally replied.

  "So, you can enslave every numerate adult in the Commonwealth, yet you cannot order the Dragon Librarians to acknowledge what is upheld by every faith of any consequence?"

  "I can tell them what to do, Frelle Prophet, not what to think. You are, of course, free to convince them yourself."

  "Fras Highliber, my life is dedicated to convincing people of the Word."

  "Then come to Rochester and preach to us. I have an invitation here from the Overmayor, and I have endorsed it personally."

  Dramoren reached into his jacket and drew out a folded and sealed parchment. Immediately one of the guards raised his long-barreled flintlock and fired. The bullet clipped the invitation and

  struck Dramoren just behind the right deltoid. He dropped the letter and fell. The guards rushed up, dragged Jemli back, and seized Dramoren. One managed to strike the Highliber's head three times with the butt of his flintlock before Jemli shrieked for the others to release her. Her words also caught the attention of the guards holding Dramoren.

  "Let him go!" demanded Jemli.

  "But, Frelle Prophet, he—"

  "Obey me or be damned and cursed eternally, ye disobedient servants who are foul and polluted in the eyes of the Deity," began Jemli, in a voice that carried clearly to everyone within a hundred yards.

  Finally convinced, the guards backed away from Dramoren but kept their guns trained in his general direction.

  "I thought he was trying to kill you," said one of them in a high, trembling voice.

  Jemli snatched the letter from the ground. "And how might this kill me?" she asked. "Medician! Tend Highliber Dramoren!"

  Jemli broke the seal on the letter and began to read it aloud. It was indeed an invitation to visit the Rochestrian Commonwealth and preach. Dramoren sat up with the medician's aid. Nobody else dared to approach.

  "The Highliber has a bullet in his shoulder and is cut and bruised about the head, but his life is not in danger," pronounced the medician.

  Clutching his shoulder, Dramoren shook off the medician's hands and got to his feet.

  "Take him into the palace, to my own suite," ordered Jemli. "He must have nothing but the finest—"

  "I am returning to my wind train," said Dramoren, blood seeping through his fingers and trickling down his face.

  "Fras, you are in no condition to travel!" exclaimed Jemli.

  "My father marched sixty miles with worse wounds than this during the Milderellen Invasion. Besides, there is a medician on my wind train, and a squad of more reliable guards than yours. Farewell, Frelle Prophet."

  "But the invitation!"

  "You may do with it what you will."

  "I wish to accept."

  "Well, then, I shall convey this to my Overmayor. When I have recovered from the attentions of your guards I am sure that we can arrange a suitable date for your visit. By beamflash."

  Dramoren began to walk away.

  "At least let me fetch a carriage!" Jemli called after him.

  "I have had sufficient hospitality for one trip," replied Dramoren without turning.

  Jemli snapped her fingers.

  "Overhand."

  The overhand of the city militia stepped forward.

  "Have a thousand guardsmen escort him back to his wind train. Kill anyone who blocks his path, gets in his way, or even so much as heckles him."

  "A thousand—"

  "Instantly! That man's death means automatic and total war with the Commonwealth."

  The overhand saluted, then ran, shouting orders.

  "Medician."

  "Frelle Prophet?"

  "Escort him until he is in the care of his own medician. If he dies, do not bother coming back."

  "Hospitaller!"

  "Frelle Prophet?"

  "Take twenty courtiers, pick up a fully laden feasting table, and follow the Highliber to the paraline terminus. Give him anything he wants. Have thirty priestesses walk beside him with feather parasols to shade him from the sun. Go!"

  The captain of Jemli's personal guard was summoned next.

  "Those five guardsmen who attacked the Highliber were possessed by the Polluted One," she decreed.

  "Your word is the Word, Frelle Prophet."

  "They are to be purified. See to it."

  Dramoren walked the two miles back to the terminus with con-

  siderable difficulty. The guardsmen at the palace gate made the mistake of trying to demand an explanation for his condition before letting him pass. They were shot down by the overhand's men without so much as a single word in reply. Terrified crowds cheered Dramoren every step of the way, priests and courtiers staggered behind him with a feasting table, priestesses shaded him with feather sunshades on poles, several carriages had their occupants ejected and were following in case Dramoren decided he needed a ride, and guardsmen blanketed the area three hundred yards of him. Nevertheless, with blood soaking into his jacket and almost blinded by the blood trickling down into his eyes, Dramoren did not inspire confidence in the hospitality of the Gentheists' Prophet.

  There was a light but steady wind blowing, and the rotors of Dramoren's wind train were spinning steadily as he came within sight of the terminus. Guardsmen had already informed the crew that he was returning, and with sudden inspiration, the city overhand ordered the Rochestrian medician and guardsmen to be brought out at gunpoint to meet and assist their master. Two hundred yards from the terminus Dramoren was met by his medician, and he stopped for a minute to have his wounds examined. Priests swarmed about offering the finest food and drink that the palace kitchens could produce to anyone who looked Rochestrian. Priestesses shaded and fanned them, crowds of onlookers cheered at gunpoint, members of the clergy offered prayers to the gods of a dozen major and minor faiths for Dramoren's speedy recovery, and a band came jogging up from the palace, playing as they went.

  Dramoren refused to be carried, even by his own people, but before long he reached his wind train. The paraline had already been cleared all the way to the border, and Dramoren's train was bracketed by armed galley engines before and aft, and by a hundred lancers to either side of it. The captain engaged the gears and the wind engine and its single coach glided forward.

  Jemli watched the Rochestrian wind train leaving from a tower of her palace. The captain of her guard stood beside her, watching a twinkling light at the terminus.

  "The Highliber appeared to be strong as he boarded the train,"

  he reported as he read the code in the flickering light. "An officer overheard the Rochestrian medician tell the Highliber that he was a lucky man as he treated him in the street. The priestesses shaded and fanned him every step of the way, of course."

  "But he took no refreshments."

  "No."

  Jemli pounded the limestone railing with both fists. "Rochestri-ans can truthfully say that their Highliber was given no refreshments, was shot, and walked unaided and bleeding all the way from the palace back to the terminus."

  "But he chose to walk, he was offered refreshments."

  "You are a fool, Captain, and possibly under the influence of the Polluted One as well. See your confessor, have yourself cleansed. What of the guards who attacked Dramoren?"

&
nbsp; "Four have been exorcised of the influence of the Polluted One by being buried alive," replied the thoroughly alarmed captain. "The fifth has gone into hiding."

  "Offer ten thousand gold barters for his head on a platter."

  "Consider it done."

  The Rochestrian Commonwealth

  I he wind train reached the border of the Rochestrian Commonwealth the following day, and the lead Woomeran galley engine was shunted aside to let it continue onto home soil. A Rochestrian galley train was waiting to take over as escort, and as they continued into Rochestrian territory, Dramoren and a Dragon Librarian wearing no designator of rank stood looking back at the border post and two Woomeran galley engines.

  "Well, Fras Cavor, we appear to have had a very successful mission," said Dramoren.

  "It appears to be so, Highliber."

  "That was a very good shot. I particularly liked the way you hit the letter of invitation as well."

  "That was a fortuitous accident, Highliber."

  Dramoren began to laugh, then winced at a twinge from his shoulder. "Do you have any observations, Fras Cavor?"

  "It was a very, very dangerous act, Highliber. You could easily have died."

  "So could you. The medician has removed the bullet, and he says that the injury is not severe—as such injuries go."

  "Highliber, any such wound will make its presence felt for the rest of your life."

  "I was wounded in the service of Rochester."

  "Again."

  "And probably not for the last time."

  Dramoren left Cavor and walked through the carriage, crossing the walkway to the wind engine. Passing through the gearbox gallery he continued to the captain's cabin. The captain was in his fifties, but was weatherbeaten and looked older.

  "I shall transfer to the galley engine once we are out of sight of the border," Dramoren announced. "I need to reach Rochester with more speed than the wind allows."

  "Our place to serve, Highliber."

  "While I have the chance, I would like to thank you again for all your help at Peterborough."

  "That was the second time the Great Western Paraline has gotten a Highliber out of that place. 'Tis my honor to serve."