"Count yourself lucky."
"How do we confront her with your evidence, whatever it is?"
"We?" asked Velesti innocently.
"We!" replied Martyne very emphatically. "I am never, ever going to let myself be alone with her again."
"For now, just do nothing. I have the matter in hand."
"You are a saint."
"Please, no insults."
"And Marelle?"
"She's pregnant too?"
"No! But what do I do about her?"
"I shall tell her you are more than you seem, and that you were wounded in the service of the Rochestrian Commonwealth. She finds wounded men erotically stimulating, so expect an errand boy with Marelle's apology—and save it. Apologies from Marelle are not common."
"Velesti, I feel so light that I could float out through the window."
"Savor the feeling, Martyne. Within one sidereal day fate is sure to do something so pointlessly unspeakable that you will wish you had never left Balesha. Can we discuss a training syllabus for my Baleshanto guild now?"
"Is that all you want? Help with your bloody guild? For freeing me of your mother you could have asked for a thousand gold royals."
"I value your help more than that, Martyne." She pulled the striker back on her reassembled Morelac and pulled the trigger. There was a healthy shower of sparks. "And now I must be off to see Marelle. Make sure that she sees your wound, but don't show her that Bronze Cross. She is an aviad sympathizer."
rangen and Julica were lying together, but not actually in the act of intimacy when the Espionage Constables burst into Mica's little bedroom. Predictably, they sat up in bed. Julica screamed. The intruders tramped around the room holding lanterns high. They looked under the bed, emptied the bags and baskets, and flung the shutters open and looked out.
"What's the meaning of this?" demanded Julica, summoning her courage. "We have done nothing wrong."
"There is a fugitive numerate in this building, a woman named Frelle Sharmalek," said the leader of the Constables.
"Never 'eard of 'er," said Rangen.
"What's a numerate?" asked Julica.
"Nothing here," reported one of the other Constables.
"There's a reward, three gold royals," said the leader as he left.
Rangen jammed a chair against the door, pulled the shutters closed, and returned to the bed. A woman emerged from a hollow in the feather mattress beside Julica.
"This building will be watched for some days to come," said Rangen. "However, in three days your name will be discovered on an emigration register in Deniliquin."
"But Fras, an unescorted woman cannot cross the Southmoor border," said Frelle Sharmalek.
"Ah, yes, but the gate register will show one man too many passing through. That gate will then be watched carefully by our friends in the Espionage Constables for a very long time."
"I regret that I have closed down a path in your most humane invisible paraline network," said the woman.
"No matter, Frelle, we never railed people out through Deniliquin in the first place. Now then, we must be disguising you as Frelle Julica here."
Lake Taupo, New Zealand
Damondel and the others watched as two sail wings circled the Taupo wingfield. The wings had immense spans, and were pushed by three compression engines between a pair of booms supporting the tail-plane.
"In a storm those things would be torn to pieces," Samondel muttered to herself, but clearly there had been no storms for the past six thousand miles. With a stall speed lower than even the new super-regals', the first of the odd sail wings approached the new wingfield, did a single, shallow bounce and rolled smoothly to a stop. The eleven members of Lake Taupo Wingfield ran out to greet the new arrival. The hood slid back.
"Serjon!" Samondel shrieked.
Bronlar was in the second sailwing. It was quite some time before Samondel's former lover and his wife were able to tell their story. Over a meal of possum and wild potato stew he described how Bartolican artisans had been experimenting with extending the range of existing sailwings, rather than building the huge, heavy super-regals that had won the war for Yarron. Two of the sailwings had already undergone gliding tests when Bartolica had surrendered, and Airlord Sartov soon realized that they might have a range half again as long as his newest super-regals. The Yarronese took over the venture, and more were now in production.
"Those sailwings out there are wonders of the age," he said, pointing at them with a carved wooden spoon. "We could have bypassed Samoa to get here."
"I don't believe it!" exclaimed Samondel.
"True. They have a four-thousand-mile range, carrying one flyer, provisions for forty hours, and two reaction guns."
"Reaction guns?"
"Yes, with two hundred rounds."
"That must weigh at least a hundred pounds in total, you could have carried another six gallons of spirit," Samondel pointed out.
"Samondel, Samondel, we—"
"Compression spirit is worth its weight in silver here, and each gallon that you fly in is a miracle. What idiot authorized such a waste?"
"Gracious and beautiful airlord, have you forgotten what happened during the Great War, before the huge sunwings built by the ancients were destroyed? At least ten Mounthaven wings were towed to Australica by the aviads, along several of our artisans. They will have war flocks by now, make no mistake."
"I'm not believing what I hear. After all this time, distance, money, and effort, you just want to fight? This was meant to be a trade venture."
"And so it is, but we must approach in strength. Besides, our quarrel is not with the humans but the featherheads on Tasmania Island."
"When / approach, it will be in peace. So, the tanks of both your sailwings must be half-full—if they really have such a great range."
"Yes, we carried the maximum load of compression spirit, to build up the reserve here."
"Then transfer all fuel to one, and prepare it for flight. I shall leave for Australica in the morning."
"Impossible. You will need a conversion course first. The compression engines are quite different to the traditional designs, and the handling is tricky. Besides, they have been granted in lordship to Bronlar and me by Airlord Sartov, and you know what that means."
Samondel certainly did. A grant in lordship made the transfer of a wing absolute, and any use of it by another flyer would be an act of treason.
"Why are you here with those things, if not to make my work easier?" Samondel asked.
"When the first of the new super-regals flies out to Australica, we shall be flying an escort. That's what Airlord Sartov charged me with doing."
"Nothing was written to me about this."
"You are a long way from Mounthaven, and politics can change alliances and priorities very quickly. The aviads are known to be building wings and compression engines in the north of Tasmania Island, and these could be a very serious danger to the super-regals.
We cannot afford to lose either of the new ones. Only they can carry horses, and we need horses as quickly as possible. The Council of Airlords is desperate to stay in control, and the super-regals are needed to help them supply and rule our settlers in the wilderness. The fires of Mexhaven peasants can already be seen from Moun-thaven's borders in places. We need results, Samondel, and very quickly. Horses and cattle must be standing on a Mounthaven wing-field within a month, if more compression spirit is to be ferried six thousand miles to here."
Samondel rubbed her face in her hands.
"Well, I cannot flout the will of Airlord Sartov and his Council. I did lose the war with Yarron, after all."
"These are not orders to humiliate you, Saireme Samondel. The other airlords are walking a tightrope of thinly stretched resources."
"So am I, except that my tightrope is six thousand miles long. All right, then, you can escort the super-regal when it flies west. In the meantime will you sign over your sailwings to me as adjunct of Taupo Wingfield?"
> "Of course."
"There is a dormitory tent behind this one; I imagine that you are weary."
I he following morning Serjon and Bronlar woke to the sound of a compression engine revving for an ascent. They rushed outside, then made for their sailwings. The two aircraft were neatly tied down and their engines idle. Out on the ascent strip the second engine of Sa-mondel's sailwing belched smoke as the compression charge was fired, and it began to chug. Samondel was beside it in her flight jacket. Her navigator was kneeling on the wing, screwing an engine access hatch closed.
"Ah, good, I was about to wake you," she said as Serjon and Bronlar arrived. "I have decided to leave for the large Australican city of Rochester that the aviad prisoners told us about."
"In the SwallowT exclaimed Bronlar. "Even with a full load of fuel you could only get there and halfway back."
"And last night you were saying that you have barely any compression spirit," added Serjon.
"That was before I drained the remaining spirit from your two sailwings. I can get as far as the city of Rochester and descend on one of the outlying roads."
"What?" exclaimed Serjon. "You had no authority to—that is—"
"Actually I did have authority to requisition your sailwing's compression spirit, as adjunct of the wingfield, while under orders from the most senior noble present—myself in both cases. If the humans are friendly in Australica, I should be back in a fortnight at most. They have seed oil and alcohol in Australica, so we should be able to distill compression spirit. If I do not return, fly your sailwing to a city farther north and parachute a diplomat down."
"And if that fails too?" asked Serjon.
"Then Project Tornado will be followed. By one means or another, we must have horses."
"But why all the haste?" demanded Serjon.
"Because you told me I am running out of time! Sair Vardy is hereby made adjunct in my absence, and I believe that you are the ranking noble, Serjon."
The Swallow made a long, labored run along the ascent strip, but rose smoothly into the morning sky and turned to head due west. Bronlar and Serjon examined their sailwings once she was lost to sight.
"Enough compression spirit for an hour and a half in the air for one of us, no more," reported Serjon.
"If we share it equally, we could fight off an attack by an aviad flock," Bronlar suggested.
"I would be surprised if the aviads are doing much more than learning to fly, just now."
"But they stole some very advanced sailwings and gunwings, not to mention guildsmen to maintain them."
"No more than ten, and their supply has been cut off. Bronlar, if I was an aviad mayor or airlord, or whatever they have to rule themselves, I would be learning to brew compression spirit and to build compression engines and airframes. If you ask me, the only
aviad sailwings being flown are locally built. I doubt that any of those has a range of more than two hundred miles or a speed above seventy miles per hour. There will be no raids on Taupo Wingfield."
Bronlar climbed into the cockpit of her sailwing, rummaged for a few moments, then let out a shriek.
"My Clastini! My reaction pistol is gone. And all the ammunition clips too."
Serjon checked his own cockpit, but he knew that his reaction pistol would be missing as well. In times of peace some people seem unremarkable, but give them a crisis and they can perform miracles. Serjon and Bronlar had turned out just that way, but who would have suspected that a spoiled and indulged princess like Samondel could have been hiding so much drive? Underlying Samondel's bravery and determination was one additional factor that everyone had chosen to ignore or overlook: the Airlord of Highland Bartolica was more intelligent than any of her peers and opponents.
Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
Damondel looked down on the city of Rochester from a height of two thousand feet, noting that a large crowd was assembled in one of the plazas.
"A human city, even larger than Condelor," she said to her navigator. "Within the city, a lake, and on an island on the lake, an inner city. Look there, it must be one of their wind trains, the thing with rotor towers spinning and driving it."
"This is as far as I can take us," replied the navigator. "Now we need to be able to descend on a smooth, firm surface."
"There are outlying roads, Sair Alarak."
"There are indeed, Saireme Airlord."
"We shall—look, there!"
Rearing and plunging in their yards were horses and ponies, terrified by the noise from the sky. Pens with cattle were close by.
"Everything is here, everything!" said Samondel in triumph.
"Even horses. The Albatross could take four or five breeding pairs, provided they were juveniles."
"As many as that on the first trip?"
"Yes, while the price is low. The Australicans will soon realize that we have no horses or cattle at all in Mounthaven."
"Ah yes, and before you know it they will be demanding one diesel engine for every vole."
"I think the word is foal."
They circled the outer city at three hundred feet, the navigator hurriedly sketching and writing while Samondel called out things of interest. Samondel ordered that a parachute flare with a message be prepared to be dropped into the gardens of what looked like a palace on the central island.
"There are a lot of people crowded in there," warned the navigator.
"All the better, the message will be found quickly and taken to their, er, king. The smoke flare is harmless, it has guard mesh enclosing it."
"We have thirty minutes of compression spirit left for circling. Those headwinds over the salt water robbed us of a lot of margin."
"Indeed, but we are here and nothing else matters. Unseal that prepared message and attach it to the flare. I shall come low over that palace, just above stall speed."
The Swallow banked lazily to port, then flew out over the lake while slowly losing height. They passed over the island's ancient walls and the mansions, flying directly above a wide, straight avenue filled with people. They approached the palace.
Jemli had arrived in a train pulled by a galley engine, and under escort by two other military trains. Although her following was not particularly large or committed in the Rochestrian Commonwealth, a number of people lined the paraline trackway to see her pass. As she entered Rochester itself the numbers grew considerably, and an advance squad of organizers had distributed thousands of Reformed Gentheist pennons and flags for children to wave.
Jemli's train rumbled out onto the paraline bridge across the lake, and entered the inner city. Both the Overmayor of the Commonwealth and Highliber Dramoren were at the terminus to greet Jemli as she stepped down onto the platform. Trumpeters played a fanfare, and bombards thundered a response on the distant palace walls.
"Welcome to Rochester, Frelle Enlightened One," said the Over-mayor, although she did not bow.
"I am always pleased to be among the faithful," Jemli replied.
"I believe that you have met Highliber Franzas Dramoren, head of the Dragon Librarian Service?" said the Overmayor with a gesture to Dramoren.
Dramoren bowed, and Jemli nodded in his direction and granted him the hint of a smile.
"Have you been to Rochester before?" asked the Overmayor as they began walking to the carriage that was waiting.
"Over two decades ago I worked here as a clockmaker, Over-mayor. Hard work raised me above that, but the Deity raised me even further."
Forty of Jemli's own guard were with her, along with another nine dozen of her servants and priests. Many of these had already been in Rochester for weeks, making preparations. The carriage was driven through streets cleared of beggars, vendors, harlots, and refuse, then lined with cheering crowds. The square before the palace was already filled with crowds waiting to hear the Prophet's single, scheduled public oration. Once in the grounds of the palace she stepped down onto the pebblestone courtyard.
She stopped with a loud cry. Dramoren ha
d just walked across to a line of ten Tiger Dragon Librarians who were standing with their long-barreled flintlock pistols held parade ready. Jemli strode over to the line of Dramoren's personal guard and stopped before one of the women.
"Your face, it is very familiar," said Jemli.
"We have never met, Enlightened One," replied Velesti.
"What is your name, where are you from?"
"Velesti Disore, Dragon Librarian Service, Dragon Blue."
"But where were you born?"
"Griffith:'
Something about this answer and Velesti's lack of any recognition or familiarity seemed to satisfy the religious leader of several million souls in the middle and west of the continent.
"There is something about you, the Deity has been close to you recently."
By now Dramoren had joined them.
"Frelle Disore lay as dead from last July to September, Enlightened One," he explained. "Then for no apparent reason, she revived, only far more vital and hale than before."
"Ah, I was right," said the quite relieved Prophet. "And it was on the day that the electrical machines burned."
"It was eight days later, Enlightened One," said Velesti.
"It was on the Burning Day!" insisted Jemli, her eyes now wild and her demeanor unsettling. "The healing process began then. When you revived is not important." She raised her hands, her palms focused on Velesti's head. "Yes, and the healing process is still going on. The Deity has not released your full potential yet, it will take one calendar year."
Most who witnessed the exchange marveled at Jemli's sense of perception, others concluded that her agents had done their research well and prepared her skilfully. Jemli now swept away to the Balcony of the People, a point above the palace wall where Rochestrian mon-archs had addressed their subjects since the palace had been built three centuries earlier. Jemli's handmaids were with her, changing her outer robes as she climbed the steps. The crowd fell silent as she walked to the marble railing and raised her arms.
"People of Rochester, however you worship the Deity, all of you worship the Deity. Through me the Deity speaks to all of you, because His message to you is the same. Smash the metal abominations whose hearts beat in mockery of our own hearts. Strike down the fleshly abominations who walk our lands in mockery of our own bodies. Fight those who would conspire against true and faithful servants of the Deity."
Eyes of the Calculor Page 28