"We must always defend our department," he said with a rush of pride,
"even though the methods of fighting change."
Peribridge slid her flintlock back into its holster. "Highlibers come and go, but Libris will always be here. Highlibers are meant to make Libris more secure, not change it beyond recognition. The Highliber is damaging Libris, she's failing in her duty. Libris should cut her off like a diseased toe, and we are Libris I"
Several times a year Zarvora reviewed the strategic implications of what she was doing. By the winter solstice holiday in June the Calculor was settling down after its fifth major expansion, so it was time to refine other facets of Libris. A large, green register with CATALOGUING stamped in gold lettering on the spine lay beside her keyboard as she typed in data. A warning flag dropped beside her paper tape punch and she reached over to wind the spring with a polished brass lever. The mechanical hens began to peck furiously. After examining the pattern of holes in the output tape she crossed the room to where a row of colored silk ropes hung from the ceiling. She tugged at the second from the left.
Tarrin was at the door several minutes later. "Now, about your cataloguers," Zarvora began, handing the tape to him. "Here I have a sample of forty-five books catalogued recently. Six are on the shelves. The rest have been withdrawn for 'special updating." "
"Updating is for books catalogued under archaic cataloguing rules," Tarrin said suspiciously. "I know. Such books have usually been in Libris for over two hundred years. That either means you have introduced major changes to the cataloguing rules since last April or cataloguing output is about a seventh of what it seems."
"So, they're back to their old ways," he sighed. "Well Highliber, if you have one Dragon Gold carrying two positions this sort of thing is bound to happen. There are others who could run Cataloguing."
"There is nobody else that I trust but you."
"Well, you'll have to learn to, Frelle Highliber. After all, did you trust me before Lewrick was killed?" "I miss him, Fras Tarrin," Zarvora said wistfully as she stared at the harpsichord keys. "In all the world nobody understood my design so well. Funny little man, he actually loved the Calculor like a doting father. To me it is just an engine."
Tarrin did not know what to say. "I'm dedicated to the work," he said uncertainly. "Is that good enough?" "Good enough? Fras Tarrin, that is actually better. Lewrick was emotional, but you are more like me. Yes, I know that many of Lewrick's solutions were truly inspired, but you actually think more as I do. That is an advantage of a different kind."
"Does that mean that I'll not be taken off the Calculor?" Zarvora looked up and nodded. "You will be relieved of your duties as Chief Cataloguer, if that is what you mean. You are to be the new, permanent System Controller."
"Thank you, Frelle Highliber," he said brightly, not making any attempt to hide his relief. "You seem to be standing straighter already." "The weight is gone from my shoulders, or some of it at least. Who will take charge of Cataloguing?"
"Oh I could not possibly decide that," she said impishly. "I am far too paranoid, you said so yourself. You decide. You have a month from today."
Tarrin thought for a moment.
"A difficult choice, Fras System Controller?" Zarvora asked. "I'm trying to think of someone I dislike sufficiently, Frelle Highliber." Music echoed in from the distant city streets, where the solstice celebrations were reaching a climax. Zarvora glanced at her clock, then went over to the Southmoor lead light door, unlocked it, and stepped out onto the roof. She beckoned for Tarrin to come with her. They followed a narrow walkway past two guards and emerged onto a flat area of sandstone beside the Libris observatory. The tip of the shadow from a wedge of rock was approaching the solstice point of an inlaid brass analemma at their feet. Not far away a noon sundial's shadow on the observatory wall was near the low summer mark. Zarvora stood with her hands on her hips.
"There we are, summer begins," she said. As if on her cue, bells, cheers, and gunshots sounded in the distance. "I have work to do on the Calculor, Fras, and you need not return to my office. Use the light well stairs. Is there anything else that I should know about?"
"Highliber, I could serve you better if I knew what the Calculor is meant to do--besides the schemes to uncover felons, decode secret messages, and administer Libris and the beamfiash traffic."
"It keeps track of the Cataloguing statistics."
"Highliber!"
"Well then, to predict the return of Greatwinter and unravel the secret of the
Call for the amusement of the Mayor and the greater glory of Rochester." Tarrin scratched so violently at his tousled hair that several strands came away in his fingers. He brushed his hands together and shrugged with resignation.
"If you wish to keep your secrets, Highliber, that's your business. All that
I ask is that you treat me exactly as you would Lewrick. I need to be well informed to do my work properly."
Zarvora looked out over the city. "It is no joke, Tarrin," she said quietly. Tarrin turned to face her. "I have done studies in some of the oldest of our archives, and I discovered clues of grand projects before Greatwinter. I cannot say more than that for now." Tarrin was silent for a moment. "Who else knows?" "Only you."
"Not even the Mayor?"
"No. He thinks that I designed the Calculor to control the beam flash network, but that I discovered some interesting extra uses that profit him as well. The truth is that the Calculor was built to forecast Greatwinter's return, or at least to forecast it to a thousand times the accuracy that I could manage myself. As I once explained to Lewrick, knowing the date of Greatwinter's return can bring great advantage."
To Tarrin it sounded like the ravings of a street-corner prophet, and he could hardly believe that it was the brilliant, rational Highliber speaking. He preserved an expression of polite attention and said nothing.
"Greatwinter was the end of the world for billions of people and its return could be the end of our world too," she continued, regarding him with the intense gaze of a bird of prey tutoring a chick. "Just think of it: if there is great cold then crops will fail and stock animals will die. Imagine crystals of frost as high as your knees that last all day to grow higher by the next morning. Animals could not graze, and the ground would be too hard to plough. What would happen if rain only fell as hail? Fruit would be pulverized on the trees before it could ripen, crops would be flattened instead of being watered. Wind patterns will be different, too: will the winds be too violent for the wind trains to run without being totally rebuilt? So many questions, and only one Calculor to assist me."
"Highliber, we might all die," replied Tarrin, now genuinely uneasy.
She stepped across the shadow cast by the stone sundial, as if taking charge of cosmic motions and matters. "I have begun to take measures. Stores are being put aside: Rochester is stockpiling grain, dried fruit, nuts, oils, and seeds for all manner of plants. Cloth and pelts, too."
"So... you think Greatwinter is as close as that? Will it be next year? Will it start with ice falling from the sky?" "Actually I am being dishonest with you, Fras Tardn. My figures indicate around five years, but the cooling will be over another five again. The stores are to help hold the nation together in the times of anarchy when the sign of the second Greatwinter appears in the sky, to help us through the transition as we learn farming methods for colder weather. Deputy Overliber Kenlee and two assistants have been sent to study farming in the Talangatta Mayorate in the border highlands. The weather is colder there, yet they still grow crops and raise animals." '
Tarrin again ran his fingers through his untidy hair. He looked at Zarvora in silence as he tried to tried to assemble his feelings into words of at least token diplomacy. He was not able to do it.
"Highliber, what you're doing is monstrous!" he forced himself to say in a voice that came out loud and flat
"People have been calling me a monster ever since I can remember." "But, but Highliber--" "There you have it Fras Tarrin
: Highliber. I am Highliber. Go out into the streets and you will find a dozen hairy, hysterical nobodies foretelling Greatwinter's return before you have even reached Buttermilk Terrace. What is the difference between me and them?"
"I... well, your great power--and scholarship." "No, Fras, just power. Some of the prophets of doom are also very well read and educated. When I realized that Greatwinter was returning I was fourteen. I joined the Libris Dragon Colors because apart from convents and advantageous marriages, it is the only place where women can advance themselves in our society. I worked my way up to where I am today and all the while I gave people great profit in return for letting me do things my way. Look at me now. I have Rochester and several other may orates partway prepared for Greatwinter without them knowing it. If I were to declare my true motives I would be branded a loonbrain by every one of my rivals and enemies, and within weeks I would be just another powerless street-corner prophet. People in power cheerfully prey on visionaries to gain more power, Fras Tarrin. I do not intend to be preyed upon."
Tarrin could not deny any of what she had said. He had spent too much time in the offices and corridors of power himself.
"So the deaths of millions are inevitable?" he said as he began to pace, clenching and unclenching his hands behind his back. "Perhaps I have been unfair to you, Fras. You are an administrator, not a mere ruler. You really care about the systems that you serve. Look at it this way. If Greatwinter returns and civilization collapses, millions will die. Should some may orates manage to maintain their farms, para lines abandon mines artisan guilds, and armies, millions fewer will die. One small life raft can hold two dozen above the surface of a river if they just hold on to the edge. I care about civilization too, Fras, but in a broader way than you."
Tarfin ceased his pacing and leaned against a sandstone wall. His legs wobbled like the mechanism of a reciprocation governor, yet he remained standing. Zarvora stood with her arms folded, as if she were a sergeant assessing the spirit of a musketeer recruit after a forced march. "Propped up by Libris, like everything else," he said, fingering the ears of a weatherworn gargoyle cut into the stone. "So what can I do to help? Conquer the Southmoors at the head of an Alliance army? Girdle the continent with beam flash towers? Devise a way to defy the Call itself?"
"Any or all of those things would help, Tarrin, but in all the world nothing is so important as keeping the Calculor in operation and expanding it with all possible speed. Nothing! Not the Mayor, not the Overbishop, not Rochester, not Libris, and especially not the cataloguers. Fras System Controller, with the aid of the Calculor I intend to fling thunderbolts into the sky and smash the ancient Greatwinter engine!"
Even as she spoke Zarvora realized that she had said too much. Without another word she returned to her study. Tarrin stood dazed by her astounding outburst of sheer hubris. Brilliant she might be, but sound of mind she was not.
Inevitably, Tarrin' schoice of an outsider to succeed him as Chief Cataloguer was not popular with the senior Cataloguing staff. Taking his lead from the Highliber, he decreed that dissension would be ignored, then set about preparing to hand over his office. A petition was circulated and an indignation meeting was called, to be attended by everyone in Cataloguing. Tarrin decided to attend as well. It would be a good place to bid the department farewell.
John Glasken was not alarmed to hear a surprised shout and cry of pain some where in the darkness ahead of him. Just drunks fighting, he thought, but he still shifted his grip on his swagger stick as he walked confidently down the alleyway. A gunshot shattered his complacency, and even as he stood frozen in midstride he was confronted by the outline of a jump slash The alley was narrow and Glasken saw the glint of a knife held for stabbing. His reflexes took over. He parried the blade up, using his swagger stick like a quarterstaff, then drove the stick's butt hard into the man's forehead. Even before the Southmoor had hit the cobblestones another figure dashed into the alley.
"Hold!" There was a flintlock backing up the command. Glasken let his swagger stick fall and raised his hands. Even in the darkened alley the cut of the figure's clothing showed her to be a Dragon Librarian.
"He attacked me, Frelle, I acted in defense." She glanced at the figure on the ground, then back at Glasken. "Your pardon, Fras," she said, then lowered her gun. "Will you be good enough to drag him out into the street?"
Around the corner another Southmoor lay dead in the slops gutter that ran down the center of the street. Over near a pile of empty barrels were two more Dragon Librarians. One lay unconscious on the cobblestones, the gold band on his torn sleeve distinct in the lamplight. Amid the background reek of wine slops, piss, and pony dung was the scent of blood.
"My name is Lemorel Mil--ah, I'm a Dragon Green, from Libris," the girl said as she examined the jump slash
"Glasken, Johnny Glasken, final-year student of chemistric at the University of Rochester, at your service." She seemed to ignore him as she examined his victim. "Another Southmoor, they're both Southmoors." Lemorel turned to her colleague. "How is Tarrin, Dar?"
Darien gestured in the dim streetlight with bloodstained fingers, then tore a strip of cloth from her cape to bandage Tarrin's arm.
"Can I have that jar of wine at your belt, Fras Glasken?" Glasken gave her the jar and she sprinkled a little on the Dragon Gold's face.
"Can you hear me, Fras Tarrin? You're safe, it's Lemorel and Darien." Tarrin groaned, but remained insensible. "He may have hit his head as he fell, I saw the live one trip him."
"Your shot will bring the Runners," warned Glasken, who was anxious to leave.
Lemorel looked across to the bodies of the Southmoors and stood up with his jar of wine. "Then let's learn what we can before the due processes of the law get in the way," she said as she emptied the wine over the surviving Southmoor's face. He groaned, and as he opened his eyes she pressed the twin barrels of her Morelac hard against his nostrils. "Who paid you?" she demanded.
"Poor man, poor man," he babbled. "Have to steal, feed family. Three wives, nine little ones--"
Lemorel pulled one trigger. There was a click and a shower of sparks but no blast. The Southmoor screamed.
"Mercy! Pretty Frelle, merciful Frelle."
"The other barrel is loaded," she warned.
"The Warren, Frelle. They beat me, threaten my family. Evil men, evil women. Told me kill Dragon Gold."
"Who spoke to you?"
"Woman in purdah, evil woman. No see face, no see face." A Constable's Runner arrived, attracted by the gunshot. He blew his whistle and another four soon appeared. The surviving Southmoor was taken off to the Watchhouse and his comrade was loaded onto the coroner's cart. Glasken carried the wounded Dragon Gold to the nearby University Infirmary, where the gashes on his arm were cleaned and stitched. The medic ian told them that he should rest there until morning.
Lemorel was still keyed up and alert as she stood on the Infirmary steps with Darien and Glasken. She regarded the student obliquely while searching for words. Most shadow boys and bullies who carded swagger sticks stood with them across their shoulders and their arms draped over the ends. Glasken stood with the stick held out to one side and the tip resting on his boot. It was the stance of a gentleman, a student from a good family. Lemorel wanted words, but none came. Glasken twisted his foot on its heel, as if about to go.
"This is Frelle Darien, she has no voice," Lemorel almost shouted as she grasped at the omitted introduction. Glasken smiled and bowed to the Dragon Blue.
"I am honored, Frelle, and charmed besides. I should invite you to my room at Villiers College for coffee, but it is not in a state for such senior Dragon Librarians to see."
"Oh no, Fras Glasken, it is we who are in your debt. Where is there a coffee house near here, Dar?" Darien gestured with her fingers and Lemorel beamed with pleasure. "The Golden Casket, just the place."
Glasken blinked in surprise, for the Golden Casket was beyond the means of the general run of students. Words came more easily to Lemorel as
they began to walk.
"That was fine stick work against the Southmoor, Fras Glasken. Have you done town-fencing at an academy?"
"Johnny to my friends, Frelle Lemorel, and no." "Ah, but you know.." ah, good stick work "Thank you."
Again the words petered out. They walked a few steps in silence before Glasken came to her rescue again.
"And are you a graduate, Frelle Lemorel?"
"Only of Rutherglen Unitech, Fras, ah, Johnny. But I'm studying for an edutorate in Rochester. Mathematics, vector modeling."
"Vector modeling? Ah, a lot of wearisome calculations, you must be a very patient person."
"Oh I have, ah, a lot of help, Fras Johnny." Darien tugged at Lemorel's sleeve, then flashed a series of gestures at her in the dim light. "He knows what a vector model is. Impressive." "So you understand sign language too?" asked Glasken. "Ah, yes. Darien asked if you are, er, studying full time."
"Alas, no, I study as I can, Frelle. I'm paying my own way, you see. I work in the taverns of the city, earning silver nobles by keeping order."
"Hence your skill with a swagger stick," Lemorel added, as if satisfying herself about something. In the Golden Casket they bought Glasken a dinner of roast emu cuts in orange sauce, and potatoes stuffed with cream cheese and crushed nuts on a bed of savory brown rice. Lemorel replaced his jar of wine with another worth some what more than the original. After that they sat drinking coffee and eating candied locusts and honey nut pastries until the University clock tower chimed 9 '.M. By now a winter rainstorm had set in and was lashing the deserted street outside.
"Frelle Darien cut up her cape for a bandage," Glasken said as he reached up to pin his cloak into place. "Please, take mine, good Frelles."
"But Fras Glasken, what about you?" replied Lemorel.
Souls in the Great Machine Page 10