"I am hardly interesting."
"Look about, how many men do you see without partners?"
"Ten—no, eleven."
"Do any of them deserve my company more than you?"
Martyne spread his arms wide, then shrugged. "Frelle, if I want to make a fool of myself I need only walk outside and bare my buttocks at the first Constable's Runner that I chance upon. That will earn me three days in the public stocks, looking very foolish indeed. You are Rochester's most attractive and alluring tavern mistress, and I have no interest in humiliating myself in your bed. The evening's compliments to you, lovely Frelle, but I have business at the night market."
Martyne turned to walk away, but Marelle strode around the table to stand in front of him. He halted.
"Secret, dangerous business involving Dragon Librarians?" she asked.
"Groceries, actually."
Not far away, out of Martyne's field of view, Velesti was back
and watching. She was leaning against the jar rack and slowly shaking her head.
"Martyne, Martyne, do you know how hurt I would be if you stood me up for groceries? Come with me, let us talk easily."
At the word "hurt," Martyne's resolve buckled. Marelle took his hand and led him away. Velesti hurried out of the tavern but did not go far. Within moments she was on the roof of a building across the street, winding a light crossbow and looking at an upstairs window where lamplight was glowing. It was Marelle's room, and Velesti could see her with Martyne. By now his cloak and tunic were off and Marelle was running her fingers across the muscles of his chest. At a prompt that Velesti could not hear Martyne raised his hands to caress her shoulders. Marelle began to disrobe. Velesti raised the crossbow and took aim. She squeezed the trigger.
The tiny dart thudded into the frame junction of the window. The soon-to-be lovers looked around, startled, then went to the window and peered out. Velesti was given a quite intimidating view of Marelle's breasts for a moment as she drew the curtains. The librarian pulled a fine wire taut, a wire that reached all the way across the street to the dart embedded in Marelle's window frame. Velesti clamped the end of the wire to a metal diaphragm mounted in a conical earpiece horn.
For a long time there was only giggling, gasps, and moans in the earpiece, but they were gratifyingly clear. Velesti pulled her cloak about her and glanced to the sky, glaring at the gathering clouds. Presently a tinny scream overloaded the wire. Martyne said he was sorry, but Marelle assured him that he had nothing to be sorry about. For a time there was silence.
"Don't either of you dare go to sleep," muttered Velesti, rubbing her hands together.
"Tell me a secret," said Marelle, her voice low and barely audible.
"Would you believe that I have just been accepted as a member of the Confessors?" came Martyne's reply across the road through the wire. "It is a league of religiously inclined gentlemen who have
arrangements with selected innkeepers. For a small fee we watch the cavortings of sundry unmarried couples in rented rooms through strategically placed spyholes. Thus we witness the sins before they are confessed, all very efficient."
"You dirty little boy," commented Velesti.
Marelle and Martyne were laughing, and their laughter led into another bout of rather familiar sounds. Velesti drummed her fingers on a tile, then took out her telescope and began to follow the activities of streetwalkers and their patrons in the dimly lit street below. Eventually there was silence on the wire spanning the street.
"You hardly know anything about me," chided Marelle.
Velesti lowered her telescope hurriedly and pressed the earpiece hard against her head.
"Er . . . so?" replied Martyne.
"Fras Martyne, really! The way to really charm a lady is to get her talking about herself! Only bores talk about how rich or strong or important they are. With some men you could probably put a cow in skirts and snuff the lamp, and they'd not notice the difference, but really suave men treat us as more than enticingly dressed flesh."
There was a brief silence as Martyne assimilated this lesson.
"I had actually wondered how you managed to buy a tavern while being barely older than me."
"Ah, flattery, wonderful— I'm actually years older than you. It was family money, I am the daughter of Mayor Glasken of Kal-goorlie by his second wife."
"So you are stepdaughter of the Prophet Jemli?" exclaimed Martyne.
"Unfortunately, yes. I came here in September, to get away from her. My mother provided me with some gold to go on with, and I saw the need for an establishment where single women of middling to high social standing could mix with a more refined class of menfolk."
"True, it is a setting that ordinary taverns do not provide."
"And it has been an overnight success. I turn a profit of eleven gold royals per month, after expenses and taxes."
"And your code name in the Espionage Constables is Frelle Orchid, but he does not need to know that for now," whispered Velesti to herself.
"I'm bored with talking of me," said Marelle. "What was the terrible deed in your past?"
"A sordid, messy, thing, Frelle. It was—no, you would despise me."
"Did the cow have a name, did she have nice, brown dewy eyes?"
"Oh, Godslove no! She was a woman!"
"Ah, see how hard it is to shock me?"
"Shock there still is. She is Velesti's mother."
"My, my."
"I had been drinking rather heavily."
In your position, I would have too, thought Velesti.
"A letter from her arrived some days ago," concluded Martyne miserably. "In it she said that I had been a most ardent and magnificent lover. I remember being neither ardent nor magnificent, but nevertheless she is now pregnant by two months."
"It happens," said Marelle, apparently not shocked at all.
"She wants to marry me."
Really, Mother, I am surprised at you, thought Velesti.
"She will visit Rochester at Christmas. You can guess what she has in mind, but marrying my best friend's mother is not to my taste."
"I'm glad to hear it," agreed Marelle.
Your best friend, thought a very surprised and flattered Velesti. Why, thank you.
"What can I do?" moaned Martyne. "She's twice my age!"
"Well, / certainly shall not become pregnant by you, neither shall I demand your hand in marriage," purred Marelle.
Spoken like a true Glasken, thought Velesti, pressing against the lee of a roof as rain began to fall.
"Now you can see what weighs upon me," said Martyne.
"Well, for tonight you can do no good by thinking on it further.
Lie at ease in my arms, Martyne. Pretend that a beautiful guardian angel is listening to your troubles, and that she will set your life in order as you sleep."
Best friend, now guardian angel, thought Velesti, whipping the wire to free the dart from the window. Well, I probably should do something about Mother
I he following morning Martyne returned to his lodgings, used the communal bath, then dressed and dropped a bag of clothes with the university laundaric on the way to the refectory and breakfast. At the Faculty of Theology he took a discussion class, and finally arrived at his study just as the clock tower was striking the tenth hour. Velesti was seated in his chair with her boots on his desk.
"Well, how was she?" she asked as Martyne stood gaping at her.
"Who?"
"Marelle?"
"Should I bother to ask how you know?"
"No."
"I have had more humiliating experiences in my life, but just now I am having trouble recalling them."
"As good as that?"
"Worse."
"Too demanding?"
"I think the men in her past have done rather more prerequisite fieldwork than I."
"She was brought up to demand quality."
"Now you tell me."
"But she is compassionate as well."
"I'd not like
to see her vindictive."
"Actually I heard that she had a truly excellent time, and holds you in high regard. Too many men want to prove things, few treat their partners as equals and friends. She has invited you back. You accepted."
"How did you know that?" snapped Martyne.
"We girls talk," replied Velesti.
"She didn't!" exclaimed Martyne, suddenly discovering new extremes covered by the word dismay.
"Actually Marelle said you were strong, fit, of excellent wit, intelligent, and most important of all, sexually deprived."
"You set this up with her!"
"More or less. Her place tonight?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"And sparring with me this afternoon?"
"Why not?"
"Merely checking."
Euroa, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
I he weekly meetings of the project masters of the Monastery of St. Roger were short and frantic, and run by the abbot. His position was one of absolute dictator. Five monks, one eunuch, and one Dragon Librarian hurried into Abbot Ashman's study, each with a chalkboard in hand. A scribe sat ready with a roll of poorpaper and a char stylus.
"Project masters' meeting for December seventh of the Year of Greatwinter's Waning 1729, and anno Domini 3961," declared Abbot Ashman. "Firstly, myself: astronomy. The twenty-inch telescope from Siding Springs has been installed, and is undergoing tests. It is expected to be operational in six days. A project has been initiated to make parallax observations of meteor strikes on the surface of Mirrorsun as a verification of the speed of rotation, but none have been observed yet. It is possible that only the biggest of the Siding Springs telescopes can resolve the flashes of such strikes. Project master Brother Varlian?"
"It has been speculated that the material used in a parachute from Mirrorsun, and preserved in an argon gas chamber for ten years, might be similar to that of Mirrorsun's body. A large frame to subject it to breaking strain tests is under construction, and will be ready by December."
"Why not cut off a small strip and test it in the laboratory?" asked the abbot.
"It cannot be cut. The parachute appears to be the strongest, lightest fabric currently on the face of the earth."
"Well, work as fast as you can, and call for laity help if you think it will speed up construction. Project master Brother Nikalan?"
"I have completed analysis of projected calculation completion dates for key computations by the St. Roger Calculor, at its current level of performance."
"And they total?"
"One hundred five years."
"Reduce that to one hundred days by the next meeting. Contact the Highliber of Libris about additional resources and techniques. Captain Andebaret, anything to report from your eunuch guards?"
"Five monks have been caught either at or within the perimeter of the nun's subprocessor. They insisted that they were repairing equipment, but there was no repair scheduled on the register."
"Seven days of cold baths and scrubbing privy barrels. What else?"
"One monk was caught within the Dragon Librarians' dormitory, with—or does that does that read within—a Dragon Librarian by the name of Frelle—"
"Thirty days of cold baths and scrubbing privy barrels, and deport the Dragon Librarian to Libris with a complaint."
"The monk was Brother Varlian."
The abbot winced.
"Brother Varlian, we can't spare you for thirty days of scrubbing privy barrels. Make that thirty strokes of the cane on your bare buttocks followed by one cold bath in salt water. Project Master Brother Pallock?"
"Stores are running down at a rate of fifteen percent faster than supplies can be—"
"Import the shortfall from the regional cities and send the invoices to Libris. Anything else?"
"No," chorused the project masters.
"Next meeting, this time plus seven days. Dismissed."
Bendigo Abandon, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
Dhadowmouse was feeling edgy about the slow speed of the wind train. The winds had been weak and variable for most of the day, and the final short stretch to the Bendigo Abandon had taken five hours. Frelle Sparrow was keeping the children amused, but he did not like the party to be near the same humans for too long. The pair of them could certainly pass for a young husband and wife, but two of the children they were escorting were eleven years old. This meant that they could help to carry the babies, but they looked too old to be children of such a young couple.
"This is pathetic, we could walk faster," said Shadowmouse as he watched the gathering dusk.
"Our contact will wait for as long as it takes," replied Frelle Sparrow.
"The contact does not worry me. It's the yokel passengers who have been trying to be friendly ever since Rochester."
"You see spies everywhere. Look, if we were going to be arrested it would have happened long ago."
"True, but I still have the feeling we're being watched."
The sky was dark but clear as they arrived at the Bendigo Rail-side. From an unimportant loading point for farmers, it had suddenly become a major gateway for people moving into the former Calldeath lands. Most of the town was tents and vendors' stalls, and even at night the market was open and everything from muskets to horses could be bought. The prices were inflated, but they reflected what people were willing to pay. Shadowmouse bought a handcart and tent, then led his family through the dusty, bonfire-lit streets as if searching for somewhere to make camp for the night.
Eventually they reached the outlying woodlands and stopped at a marker cairn. A man stepped out of the darkness and sauntered over.
"We're hunting possums here, will ye be stayin' long?" he drawled.
"Tell us of a stretch of flat, clear ground and we'll be on our way, friend," replied Shadowmouse.
"There's two horses with saddlebags for the babies," the man now hissed, his drawl gone. "How many are there?"
"Two girls, three babies."
"That's seven on two, but you're mostly small. Frelle Finch is just down that track with your horses and her pony. Go, I'll take the cart."
They took only seconds to get mounted and riding, with dark cloaks thrown over their clothing. Frelle Finch led them along a track that seemed little more than a series of less dense patches of bush-land, but at least there was no danger of meeting anyone else.
"How much longer?" asked the girl behind Frelle Sparrow after only ten minutes.
"About five hours," she hissed back.
The girl groaned.
"We had to build the wingfield far from humans," said Frelle Sparrow, "you know what humans think about engines—and aviads."
There was a distant, echoing pop. All three adults stiffened at once.
"Fras Possum, hunting his namesakes," said Frelle Finch.
There was another pop, then another, and another.
"Sounding bad," said Shadowmouse. "Those were large-bore muskets."
Frelle Finch increased the pace and they rode on in silence. Shadowmouse took the rear, with a girl riding in front of him. He kept his flintlock cocked and drawn. After the first hour there were no more distant shots, and at the third hour they reached a range of wooded hills.
"The wingfield is only an hour away, we've made good progress," Frelle Finch explained. "The hills reflect the sound of the kitewings' compression engines into the wilderness."
"But humans are pouring into the wilderness all the time," said Frelle Sparrow. "We saw at least a thousand settlers at the Bendigo Railside."
"Yes, but we have agents among them, listening for rumors of strange sounds and flying machines. So far there have been none."
"You should move farther away."
"This is five hours from the paraline. A wingfield on the coast would be ideal, but would you like to bring the children on a seven-day ride instead, hunted all the way?"
The wingfield was just clear, level ground beside the hills, but they were quickly met by two darkly dressed figures on ponies. The
exchange was brief and terse.
"Finch?"
"Finch and escorts."
"Children?"
"Two, with three babies."
One of the men blew a sharp note on a whistle, then led them along the flat field. There was a faint scent of burning wood on the air, and Shadowmouse could hear a muffled chuffing in the distance.
"A still night, sound will carry," said one of the men to Frelle Finch.
"At least the babies didn't cry, they like the motion of horses."
Shadowmouse had never been all the way to the wingfield before, but there was disappointingly little to see. The chuffing got louder, then they were told to dismount. A mixture of some type of oil and alcohol was strong on the air, and what had seemed to be a grove of squat trees in Mirrorsun's light turned out to be a wide, low building. They were herded into a small, narrow room. The door was closed behind them, then Frelle Finch opened another door.
Two lamps lit the kitewing, whose engine was muffled by a long baffle pipe as it warmed up. A woman who was even shorter than the two girls was waiting beside the wing, and one of the ground crew hurried over with fleece-lined leather jackets. The babies began crying as they were strapped into their streamlined travel boxes, but noise no longer mattered by now.
"Pleased to introduce Frelles Coralen and Patrelle," said Frelle Sparrow to the flyer, who responded with a brief bow then took the girls by the arm.
"Do you know what is about to happen?" she asked.
"We're going to fly," said Patrelle.
"Do we fly in that?" asked Coralen, pointing to the kitewing.
"Yes, for four hours. Soon there will be no more humans hunting you, you will be in the Mayorate of Avian."
Shadowmouse watched as the flyer strapped the girls flat onto the lower wing, each behind a stubby windshield.
"Four hours is a long time for the babies to be unattended," said Frelle Sparrow.
"They come down just before the coast to refuel," said Frelle Finch. "That wingfleld is more secure."
"And then?" asked Shadowmouse.
"It is ninety minutes over the salt water to King Gate wingfleld." She seemed to gaze away into some vision. "One day I shall be a flyer, like her. I've been up once, and I have even worked the kite-wing's controls during ground tests. Terian says that I can qualify as a flyer when I turn eighteen."
Eyes of the Calculor Page 26