"Evening's fortune to you, I'm Lemorel Milderellen," she said, summoning the enthusiasm to smile and putting her roll down.
The other smiled back but did not reply. Instead she held out a card.
MAY
THE PROMISE AND FORTUNE OF THE MORNING/AFTERNOON/EVENING BE WITH YOU.
I AM DA RIEN VIS BABESSA, DRAGON BLUE. I HAVE NO VOICE, FRELLE,
PLEASE
BEAR WITH ME. I AM TO TAKE YOU TO LIBRIS. IT IS TWO MILES AWAY. "Two miles," echoed Lemorel, who was having trouble even standing up. What would a genuine country girl do? Break down and cry or suffer in silence? She decided to suffer. With a deep breath she shouldered her roll. Darien gestured to the road and began walking. Once they were clear of the terminus she showed Lemorel another card.
TAKE THE NEXT TURN ON THE left. ENTER A COFFEEHOUSE NAMED THE
RAIL SIDE WELCOME.
"I'm right to keep walking," Lemorel replied, but the words were forced.
I MUST BRIEF YOU AOUT LIBRIS BEFORZ YOU AoaVE was on the back of the same card. Lemorel needed no more persuasion. The shop was of scrubbed redbrick with abandon stone slabs on the floor, and Northmoor tapestries glittering with gold thread on the walls. Incense, coffee, and half a dozen varieties of smoke weed smothered her senses as she entered. Her eyes were streaming as a waiter in a jezalakan saw them to a table by the window. It was not until she had half finished her mug of Rockhampton Ebony that she remembered her mute escort.
Darien was sitting patiently, fingering a fan of cards and watching the traffic passing outside the window.
"Do you know the Portington sign language?" Lemorel asked. Darien's head snapped around, her formerly placid eyes bulging with surprise. "Yes, yes," she gestured back at once. "How do you know it? It is taught only to the mute and deaf."
"The parents of a friend of mine were both deaf-mutes. I picked up enough to hold a conversation."
Darien sat rocking back and forth in her seat, her hands moving in little circles as she searched for words. "I have been in Libris for nine years," she signed, too overcome to think of anything else.
"I've been a librarian for two years," Lemorel replied. "In all of Libris there is none fluent in sign language but you and me." There was something approaching hunger in Darien's face. "I hope we can be friends, Frelle Lemorel. I would love to put these damn cards away sometimes." A friend. The prospect appealed to Lemorel more than she dared admit.
"I'm not on the Libris staff yet, Frelle. I came here to take the Dragon Red test. Where can I find a hostelry?"
"There is a spare pallet in my rooms in the Libris hostelry," Darien signed so quickly that Lemorel barely caught the meaning.
"I couldn't impose--"
"No, no, I insist. Please, agree to stay."
"Well... it would be a relief not to worry about finding lodgings before the examination. When will it be, do you know?"
"Tomorrow afternoon." '
Lemorel gripped the edge of the table as she felt herself sway backward. "As soon as that?" "There are problems with the internal workings of Libris, Frelle Lemorel. We need new staff urgently. The Highliber has a... a secret machine that most people know about but which none but the most trusted have seen. This machine is said to handle beam flash signaling with unheard-of efficiency, but it has been making errors recently."
"If they gave me a few days to rest and study I might have a better chance of passing the examination and joining the staff to help with the machine."
"Maybe so, Frelle, but the examiner is available only tomorrow. He has to work on the machine as well. Come now, I shall take you to my rooms, then show you the bathing chambers and the refectory, when you are washed, fed, and rested you may feel happier about the examination."
"No bath can replace study," said Lemorel as she stood up. Darien signed a paper beating the Libris crest that the waiter brought, and then she picked up
' Lemorel's pack roll She staggered a little under the unexpected weight as she swung it across her back; then they set off down the cobbled streets to Libris.
Outside the coffeehouse the shadows were lengthening as evening approached Nobody wore Call anchors, Lemorel noted, but then if a Call swept over the city the walls would prevent people from going very far. Still, it was like being the single clothed person amid a gathering of nudists--and even in the notorious nudist estate at Hansonville the patrons were reputed to still wear their body anchors. Here there were no body anchors, no tether rails, no mercy walls, nothing! The very thought was somehow wanton. Perhaps that was why people's morals seemed looser in Rochester.
An ebony Kooree carrying a nine-foot spear and wearing no more than a loincloth walked past talking animatedly with two merchants and a man wearing the uniform of a par aline guard. Robed, veiled Southmoor women strolled in groups; pack runners trotted past with impossibly balanced loads on their heads. Pushtricycles towed buggies laden with the gentry of the city, while armed escort runners warily surveyed the crowds for ambush. Lemorel noticed that she was not being jostled. She had expected to have to fight her way through the evening rush, yet the two librarians were given a clear path wherever they walked.
A Gentheist preacher wearing a ragged jezalakan shouted in a hoarse yet strident voice to a small crowd of idlers.
"... and woe unto ye who would shun the touch of the Call and let thy souls grow so soft that..." His voice was quickly lost in the background din of the cries of the vendors of fine cotton, fine silk, fine wool carpets, fine tomatoes, fine blood-beans, fine sandals, and fine gunpowder. Ahead through the crowd was another preacher, a backwoods Christian Foundationist by the look of his black gamberloid and buckle shield hat.
"God in his wisdom allows this place of perdition to exist so that honest folk might see what life can be like without the Call to guide them along His path. Now ye have seen, friends, so I say unto ye, leave this place of Satan's comfort, turn thy backs on..."
"Fine pastries, macaroons, pine seed cakes, roast macadamia nuts." "Strikers, new flint strikers."
Darien nudged Lemorel for attention, then gestured. "It is a wild part of the city, but it is the shortest way." Gangs of nav vies from the rail yards roamed in groups. Their legs were distorted with muscle from pedaling the shunting engines, and bulged against the trews of their blue uniforms. Harlots lounged at the upper windows, each flagged with a guild sign while pimps carrying the corresponding guild sign flags ran among the passing crowds. Hellfire preachers shouted doom and brimstone at the women, who responded with flashes of breast or backside. Someone tugged at Lemorel's ann.
"Southrnoor girl, handsome Fras, the escaped concubine of a Wimmeran and skilled in--" The pimp stopped with something between a gasp and a cough as Lemorel turned and he realized his mistake. He bowed, ducked, and backed away babbling, "Pardon Frelle. Mercy Frelle. Evening's Fortune unto you Frelle." Darien was laughing soundlessly.
"I can't look as bad as that," said Lemorel. Darien shook her head. "It is the Rutherglen uniform. In the half-light it resembles that of a shunting engine navvy."
In the center of the road five nav vies cheered some unseen companion in an upper-floor bedroom. Booming laughter and outraged squeals about dirty hands echoed down. From a neighboring window a buxom girl bared a pair of jiggling breasts painted like bull's-eyes at the nav vies then at Lemorel.
"Must buy a new uniform," muttered Lemorel, but Darien had sharp hearing and she caught the words.
I'll lend you one of mine," Darien's fingers replied. The offer of something as intensely personal as a uniform sent a curious, thrilling sensation shivering through Lemorel's exhausted body. A group of enormous Central Confederation nav vies approached them in a line, then suddenly split to let them pass, bowing exaggeratedly and calling, "Breil, breil Frelle hufchen," to Lemorel,
"They're calling you a pretty girl," signed Darien, trying to be helpful, but Lemorel knew enough of their language to realize that they had taken her for a female shunter.
Above the rooftop
s the huge beam flash tower of Libris beckoned, and before long they reached the wall of the library complex. Darien signed them both in and they went straight to her rooms. While Lemorel bathed, her new friend took measurements from her uniform. By the time the refectory bell rang Darien had tack-sewn a Libris uniform of her own to Lemorel's size. Feeling nervous and vulnerable in a borrowed bathrobe Lemorel took the gray clothing and dressed behind a paper frame screen painted with stylized Warialda flowers. Darien clapped as she emerged.
"I'm not on the staff yet," she said doubtfully. "Tomorrow some examiner will be trying hard to make me change back into my old uniform."
Darien held her fingers up to the lamp and began gesturing. "I know your examiner, Lem. Do not be afraid of him. He is a bit abrupt but very fair. Just remember, it is in our best interests to recruit you."
"I may not be good enough. I'm weak on heraldry."
"So hire a herald. I have three working for me. Heraldry can be waived if you are outstanding at mathematics."
"Really? It can?"
"It can. The Highliber is desperate for Dragon Librarians with skill at mathematics."
"But that will surely cause imbalances in the running of Libris."
"It already has, Frelle Lemorel. Shall we go to the refectory instead of cooking here?"
"Just one more question. You said that you have three heralds working for you?"
"Yes." "How many more staff do you supervise?" "Twenty-five."
"Yet you came to meet me, a base recruit at the par aline terminus? A senior Dragon Color like you?" "A newcomer's first impressions are the impressions that last most strongly. The Highliber's faction could not afford to let some inexperienced junior babble nonsense to you, any more than we could allow a minion from the Libris restorationists to pour lies into your ears. We value you, we want you to know that."
Highliber Zarvora had taken charge of Libris two years after the death of Mayor Jefton's father. She had gone to great trouble to gain the boy's attention and trust, amazing him by predicting lunar eclipses and delighting him by breaking the secret codes of the nobility. When she began to promise great wealth and real power, he was ready to listen. The Highliber was officially one of the monarch's private edutors, so nobody wondered at the long tutorial sessions in her office.
"We need a glorious war to restore the throne's dignity," he declared as Zarvora tried to explain a new scheme to snare tax evaders. "I grant you that it is comforting to see the treasury filling for a change, but that inspires no respect.
Look at this decoded dispatch: they call me Mayor Miser the Mouse!" "That was from Tandara's mayor. Very rude of him." "I want to be treated with respect."
"He is a dangerous man. Better to have him treat you with contempt and ignore you, than treat you with respect and send assassins."
Jefton caught his breath. Zarvora continued to tap at her keyboard. Her attitude was beginning to annoy Jefton.
"I am considering a campaign against the Southmoors," he announced in a loud but forced voice. "You have insufficient troops and kavelars," Zarvora patiently explained without showing any trace of surprise. "The Rochestrian nobles and kavelars would come to your aid if the Southmoors seemed likely to win, but if you had caused the fighting in the first place you would find yourself kneeling before a headsman's block while your own nobles and the Southmoor envoys watched to make sure the job wag done properly."
Jefton flicked the wing of a mechanical owl in frustration. The row of dotted gearwheels rattled into a new pattern in response. "Please do not fool about with the Calculor, Mayor, it is easily disturbed. One day it will provide you with an army that nobody can stop."
He petulantly flicked the wing again, but Zarvora had already typed a HALT MODE command into the keyboard, so nothing happened. It was symbolic of his reign: whatever he did would be countered.
"I apologize, Highliber," he said, walking to the window and staring out over the slate roofs to hide his shame. "I dream out loud when I talk of war. Dreams are the only place where I can break loose from my peers. Even if I had the money for a bigger army I could not raise one, for they would rip up the decree ordering its recruitment before the ink was dry."
"You may not need a bigger army," said Zarvora as she tapped out a new set of instructions. She let the words hang. After a moment Jefton turned.
"Is this an idle promise?" he demanded. "Have I ever made an idle promise?" she asked, still typing. "I could give you a demonstration, if you care to sit down before the champions board. The Calculor is a skilled player, and I shall demonstrate--"
Suddenly she stiffened, staring at the rack of marked gears. "Champions?" exclaimed Jefton with amazement. "It can predict eclipses, catch felons, break secret codes, and now you have taught it to play champions too? It's like having a tame god at my command."
"There seems to be a problem," muttered Zarvora, scowling at the rack of gears. "The god may be tame, but it is not entirely well just now."
Jefton thought for a moment. "You mean it's made an error? Perhaps it was distracted by all the book-organizing work that it does for Libris."
"The Calculor has no background tasks just now, Mayor. It is dedicated to the tasks that I have invoked from this office." Zarvora continued to type test calculations. From the way that her eyes widened and her fists clenched it was obvious that the Calculor made several more errors.
"Its reliability seems to be in question," ventured Jefton. "If it cannot per form simple calculations how can I trust it with questions of the defense of the realm?"
"It has already brought you more extra income by snaring dishonest clerks than a one-third tax increase would have," Zarvora explained with strained patience "What is more, it has brought popularity too. Your people have not been out of pocket, yet they have seen the unjust punished. It also lets you spy on your nobles by the very secret codes that they use to conceal matters from you."
"Perhaps the Calculor gets careless when it is tired. Rest it more often. That could solve the problem. My advisers often fall asleep when meetings drag on."
"You do not understand, Mayor. The Calculor does not get tired like we do, and cannot make a mistake. If the felons who perform the operations inside it grow tired it will work slower, but its accuracy should not change."
"Should not?" "Will not, once I find the problem. When it is fully functional it will be made up of three teams of components who will be swapped every eight hours. The Calculor will then be an adviser to you which will never sleep or die. Even better, it will have no personal opinions or interests to color its advice."
Although young, and born to his position, Jefton was as astute as many far more experienced rulers. He always thought through the consequences of ad vice offered to him with great care, but acted decisively once he was convinced The advantages of the expanded Calculor had not taken long to win his confidence.
"I must have the services of the Calculor available by the end of the month,"
he announced after a few moments of thought.
"But Mayor, the source of the errors--" "The errors do not concern me. If they tend to appear when the components are tired, the problem will disappear when the components are rotated before they actually become tired."
"But the weakness will still be in the system." "I know you, Highliber Zarvora. You are a perfectionist, and such people do more than is needed to accomplish a task. So the Calculor can play champions, eh? I have noticed that Fergen has been in a very bad mood lately, and my lackeys tell me that he has been visiting this office. I suspect that champions has been played in secret, and that the Calculor has thrashed him soundly."
"I had meant to tell you once the error had been--" "Excellent, excellent! If it can play champions so well than it can unravel political intrigues too. Remember, the end of the month, Highliber. If you cannot get it working I shall send in a committee of edutors from the University."
Zarvora was lost for words. A committee of edutors! The idea of anyone discovering what
the Calculor could really do made her shiver.
"I must return to the palace now, Highliber. What should I do about that insulting dispatch?" "Take heart from it, Mayor. It means that they acknowledge that you can manage your treasury and will not be running to them for loans. As long as you seem harmless and thrifty you will be left free to govern Rochester as you will."
Zarvora signaled for the Calculor hall to be cleared as soon as Jefton left; then she hurried down the seven flights of stairs from her office to inspect the place in person. System Controller Lewrick was waiting when she arrived.
"Everything must be checked," she announced. "Every gear, wire cable, register, transmission line, and decoding chart. Every bead on every abacus and every cog in every translator."
"Another error, Frelle Highliber?"
"Five errors, and while I was demonstrating it to the Mayor."
"Ah, I see. Is he losing faith in our machine?" "On the contrary. He was so impressed that he wants it fully operational by the end of the month. In his opinion, the errors will cease if the shifts are changed before the components tire." "A good idea, the Mayor is a bright lad."
Furious, Zarvora seized the little man by the tunic and lifted him until their faces were level. "I have been keeping very accurate records of the failures, Fras Lewrick, figures timed by the reciprocating clock in my office. The errors are turning up progressively earlier in the shifts. Do I make myself clear?"
He smiled nervously and nodded. She put him down.
"Well, well, the little monster seems to be growing lazy," he said as he straightened his clothing. "It is not alive! There is a defect, and it is getting worse. If the Calculor becomes operational before we find it, Jefton will get some very stupid advice-which he will follow blindly because he trusts the Calculor too well."
Souls in the Great Machine Page 5