Souls in the Great Machine

by Sean McMullen

  In Wirrinya the conspirators began knifing each other just after the 7 A.M. changeover to day shift. As Lemorel sat gathering her thoughts in the honeysuckle-and jasmine-scented gardens of the University, a vertical shootout developed between the conspirators and the Wirrinya tower marshal and his guards--who had come to investigate the commotion. Two conspirators survived, and after moderate torture confessed to being in the pay of members of a Southmoor religious faction that objected to the Darlington beam flash link traveling over Southmoor territory.

  The modified data had been meant to make Deniliquin's mayor think that the Emir of Cowra was massing troops for a secret attack. Had it not been for the efforts of Siva at Darlington, the Mayor would have reacted with a preemptive strike, provoking a war that would have seen the Darlington tower razed as one of the first actions. Diplomatic messages flew thickly, and the Emir's executioner spent several busy days at the public block. Meantime, far away to the south, John Glasken was sentenced to a fortnight's humiliation in the public stocks.

  Highliber Zarvora had to interrupt her journey west and return to Rochester. Lemorel was called in by the Higltliber to determine if the Calculor could be operated over the beam flash network by someone using the master password, and she assured the Dragon Black that it was indeed possible. Zarvora muttered some thing obscene about ducks in ancient Anglaic. A day later Lemorel was promoted to Dragon Silver and put in charge of a project to tighten Calculor security. She was the youngest librarian to hold the rank of Dragon Silver for the entire century.

  Newly released from the stocks, Glasken was subdued as he returned to his col lege. Even though he had washed his face and hair in a public fountain, he still reeked so badly that people raised handkerchiefs to their noses as he passed them in the street. Upon reaching Villiers College he went straight to the laundaric annex.

  "Linen to wash, Fras Glasken?" inquired the ancient clerk at the desk. "A bath, if you please," he replied quietly. "But ye've had one this month."

  "So, I'm having another!" Glasken snapped.

  The clerk suddenly wrinkled his nose and peered over his spectacles at the abrasions on Glasken's neck. He smiled toothlessly. "Ah, there's nothing so bad as a spell in the stocks, eh Fras? Locked into the wooden frame and a target for rotten fruit and slops by day, then chained up and not able to scrape off the muck by night. Did a spell in 'em me self back in '47 for, ah..."

  "Is there hot water?" "Aye, ye can have five buckets of hot and nine of cold... That's it! I'd dressed up in the Rectifier's clothing, such as he'd left at my laundaric."

  "I have no coin to hand, charge it to my college expenses."

  "Treated me self to ale and cakes at nine taverns before the real Rectifier chanced upon me."

  "Bath salts and a towel, if you please."

  "Why'd they lock yer own neck in the stocks, young Fras?"

  Glasken straightened and thrust his chest out. "I confessed to a crime to save a lady's honor," he replied wistfully.

  The clerk scratched his head. "Ach, doesn't sound like your sort of lady, Fras Glasken." Forty minutes of soaking and scrubbing cheered Glasken considerably, and he resolved to bathe at least once a fortnight henceforth. Wrapping himself in a threadbare college towel he left his clothing with the clerk for washing and padded upstairs to his room, carrying his boots. The key was oddly stiff in the lock, and as soon as he pushed the door open he sensed that something was wrong. Things had been rearranged in subtle ways. However dissolute Glasken might have been, he was neat and orderly in his domestic routines.

  Dropping his boots he pulled a drawer open. His money, border pass, loaded dice, and marked cards were gone! He jerked the cupboard door wide: no riding gear, swagger stick, flintlock, saber and clothes, nothing. The pictures were missing from the mantelpiece, even his newly awarded degree had been taken. As he looked around in dismay, he was uneasy as well as angry. Ordinary thieves would have left the place in a shambles, and would have taken only what could have been sold in the night market. This was methodical, malicious, even vindictive. His sheep gut condoms were still neatly laid out along the windowsill, but their tips had been cut off. That gave him a fearful pang.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and resolved to lie down and think through what had happened. If he reported this to the magistrate, the thief might be caught. How then would Glasken explain marked cards, loaded dice, and a pistol that he was not licensed to own and that had been stolen in the first place? What to do? It required calm thought. He pulled back the covers and was about to let his head fall to the pillow for a much-needed rest when he caught sight of something like a smear of fresh blood.

  At the center of his pillow was the Mark of Libris! Glasken's world stopped, his entire consciousness focused on the red stamp of a book closed over a dagger. The Mark was well known but rarely used, it was the stuff of cheap adventure novels.." yet there it was, the legendary warning of impending doom. They were going to kill him unless he heeded the warning and made amends for--what? He had stolen wine, brawled, and fornicated, but neither he nor his crimes were important enough to deserve the Mark. A mistake, perhaps, surely that was it. He had been mistaken for someone else. What he needed was a senior Dragon Librarian to speak on his behalf.

  Suddenly a chasm opened up inside him. He felt light and hollow, as if a breeze could blow him away. Lemorel! She had dealings with the Highliber. He tried to think back to their last words with each other. She had been about to tell the Highliber about some problem with the beam flash towers. What had the Highliber told her in turn?

  That had to be it. Lemorel had normally testified in his favor whenever he had been hauled before the magistrate, but she had ignored his notes this time. Glasken shuddered. That was the trouble with having a powerful mistress. Her patronage had been wonderful, yet her revenge was this thunderbolt.

  "Who did she hear about?" he asked the row of decapitated condoms on the windowsill. "Was it Joan Jiglessar, Carole Mhoreg, that wench from the refectory, or perhaps even some girl from last week?"

  Glasken reached under his bed, fumbled for a moment, and drew out a short length of stiff wire. "Hah, they missed my greatest treasure of all," he chuckled, kissing the wire with a flourish.

  Still wearing only the towel, he methodically checked his room for anything else of value. Everything that might help him to travel was gone; someone clearly meant him to stay in Rochester. They would expect him to be in a helpless panic--or perhaps a towering rage. He stamped out of his room and returned to the laundaric.

  "I say there, Palfors, my room's been burgled," he declared loudly as he entered.

  "The devil ye say!" exclaimed the clerk. "Lose much?"

  "Clothes, money, and papers. Some petty vandalism, red ink splattered over my bed, that sort of thing."

  "Sounds more like students than shadow boys from outside. Ye'd best see the Rector." '

  "Not in a towel I can't. How long before you can have my clothes clean and dry?"

  "They're soakin' just now, Fras, but I could put 'em through the pedal agitator then dry 'em in front of the furnace. Two hours, at most." "Two hours, then. I'll wait in my room. Did you happen to see anyone unusual lurking about the college over the past fortnight, Fras Palfors?" "Ah... only some Dragon Red Librarians." "Late at night?"

  "Aye."

  "Well, we all know what may be done with stolen laundry, don't we then?" The man nodded, eyes suddenly wide and mouth open; then he shuffled away to work on Glasken's clothing. Glasken leaned over the counter and read the tags on several bundles.

  "Matheran, Chan-ye, MacLal, Orondego, Lorgi---ah yes, Fras Lorgi, a man of just my excellent stature." Glasken walked from the laundafic in Lorgi's clothing, his face muffled against the un seasonally cold October evening by a knitted scarf. He had decided on instant flight, a dash into oblivion so fast that even Libris with all its resources could not begin to trace him until he was long gone. He felt a lot more confident now that he was clothed again, but money was the key to ev
erything else--and money was there for the bold to take. Snapwire in hand, he made his way down to the College Purser's office. The dinner bell was ringing as he knocked smartly to make sure that nobody was within. It took Glasken only moments to get past the simple two-tumbler lock. Leaving the door slightly ajar behind him, he crept across the darkened room to the strongbox.

  Its lock was more difficult, but presently the tumblers yielded and he lifted a bag from the box and hefted it. About fifty coins, more than enough to get him.." where? With this sort of money he could hire an unwitting decoy to journey south while he took a wind train west into lands beyond the reach of Libris. Suddenly the door was pushed open and light flooded into the room.

  "I say, Stoneford, are you there? Hey, who--?" behind him he dashed out into the corridor and crashed blindly into the evening procession of cloaked edutors bound for the refectory high table. The bag slipped from his hand, sending gold and silver coins spilling before him in a jingling cascade.

  By the tenth hour Glasken was sitting in a cell in the Constable's Watchhouse. The edutors of Villiers College had turned him over to the University Warden, accusing him of breaking into the Purser's office, stealing fifty-one silver nobles and six gold royals, and striking the Rector unconscious. He was then handed over to the Constable's Runners, who took him before a magistrate and had him charged formally. Due to his obvious skill with locks he was shackled to a ball and chain by a heavy rivet after being stripped naked and clothed in striped trews and a blanket.

  Some days later he awoke to the door being unlocked, and he looked up to see Lemorel being shown in. He stood up at once and began to put out his arms to her. She was not smiling. That was bad sign. He turned the offer of an embrace into an imploring gesture.

  "Ah, Lem, dearest, I have been unjustly--" "They say that virtue is its own reward," she interjected. "I see that the rewards of vice are more appropriate." Contempt dripped from her words like poisoned honey.

  "What do you mean?" Glasken asked nervously. "I have been promoted to Dragon Silver Librarian, Glasken, and I don't want rumors of our liaison hanging over my career. I am not without influence and there is much that I can do to make your life unpleasant. I can even arrange that the last four seconds of it are spent falling down the center of a beam flash tower. The idea of having been your dupe revolts me, the thought that a sketch of my nude body was pinned above your bed while you were in it with Joan Jiglessar makes me want to retch."

  Glasken contemplated this. He had bedded Joan in many places, and many other girls in his college bed, but never that particular girl in that bed. Whatever Lemorel's source of information, it was fallible, he concluded with some relief.

  "Lem, please, I need your good testimony just once more. I'm charged with violence to a gentleman. Do you know what the magistrate will say to that? Death, either by hanging or musket fire, according to his mood. If it's been a bad week for assaults, I might also get a spell of public torture first."

  This time Glasken was quite sincere. He could practically feel the straps on his wrists and hear the ratchets clicking. Lemorel's eyes narrowed and she smiled.

  "Tell anyone that we were ever more than vague acquaintances and I'll kill you myself. Keep silent, and I'll see that you're not killed or tortured--for these offenses, at least."

  "That's all?" "That' san."

  Glasken gave an indiscreetly loud sigh of relief and agreed. The following morning Glasken was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death. The magistrate let the words hang, and Glasken stood trembling in the dock, sweat trickling from his armpits and running down his ribs. The magistrate cleared his throat and adjusted his wig.

  "John Glasken, when I sentenced you to the stocks not three weeks ago I felt I was the happiest man in all of Rochester," he said as he looked out over the courtroom. "It was small satisfaction after the way you soiled the honor of my granddaughter--"

  "That's not true, Your Honor," interjected Glasken. "She was nineteen years old, and I'd met her in the Toad and Tankard--" "Order!" Glasken was silent at once. "So, as I was saying, imagine my delight at being able to prescribe death for yet another of your crimes so very soon. Unfortunately, however, you will not get a chance to sow dead man's seed below the gallows. Clemency has been granted to you by reason of the Mayor's birthday."

  Glasken drew breath for a mighty cheer, then thought the better of it. The Constable and his two attendant runners grinned, but then they were not facing the magistrate. The clerk of the court stopped with his goose quill poised to scribble out the new sentence.

  "Fras John Glasken, by the power invested in me by the Mayor of Rochester I hereby commute your sentence of death to one year in the blazing deserts of the west..." Glasken was incredulous, he barely stopped himself cheering. "... for every coin in the bag with which you struck the Rector." Glasken reeled, and would have collapsed had he not seized the railing of the dock. The magistrate grinned openly as he continued. "It should come to fifty-seven years. Am I correct?"

  "Yes, Your Honor," the clerk of the court replied.

  "Have you anything to say, Fras Glasken?" "I'd like to wish Mayor Jefton a happy birthday and thank him for his present," Glasken said in a tone colored more with sarcasm than defiance. The magistrate's face went dark red with fury, but Glasken was quite familiar with courtroom procedures. Sentence had been passed, and now could not be varied. Congratulating the Mayor on his birthday was not contempt of court, even if it had been done specifically to antagonize the magistrate.

  "May you live another fifty-seven years, Glasken," the magistrate said as he handed his silver mace to the Constable to dismiss the court. Glasken was marched from the courthouse by two runners and chained inside an armored wagon. The trip to the par aline terminus took nearly an hour, and Inspector of Customs. The official signed for him, and Glasken was held under guard until he was to be handed over to the train's warden.

  He sat in silence, limp and apprehensive. Although he had narrowly avoided death, life was about to become decidedly unpleasant. A man that he took to be from the train entered, a scroll in his hand. He sent the guards out of the office, and two armed, uniformed men replaced them.

  "Prisoner Glasken, I have a few details to check," he said genially. "You have a degree, I see here."

  "I'll be the best-educated prisoner on the chain gang," Glasken sighed.

  "Perhaps not. You have a technical degree, including articles in arithmetic with a good pass."

  "Yes, but chemistric is--" "Splendid," he said, smiling more broadly and rolling the scroll up. He turned to the guards. "Gag and bind him, then back the wagon up to the door."

  Even as she was gloating over the freshly signed order to induct Glasken as a component in the Calculor, a summons arrived for Lemorel to sit on a special panel of experts. The matter was so urgent that two armed Dragon Reds had been sent to fetch her. A youth of about Lemorel's age was sitting in shackles in one of the seminar rooms, and the subject of the inquiry was so sensitive that no guards were present. His gaze was intense and penetrating, yet it was more an expression of ravening curiosity than aggression. Zarvora paced restlessly as she addressed her four advisers and the prisoner.

  "A few days ago this relay, Nikalan Vittasner, slipped away from the Darlington relay tower in disguise and rode to the border at Deniliquin. Using false papers he crossed the border and took a pedal train south to Rochester. This morning he demanded an audience with me."

  With her face blank, Lemorel frantically grappled with her surprise and terror. "He claims to have helped expose the Wirrinya conspirators, and has provided me with documents to show what he did. He also claims to have had help from someone in Libris named Geldiva, who processed a difficult encryption for him."

  The Highliber paused. She wanted an opinion. "Recent investigations show that he could have used the Libris Calculor," Lemorel ventured in a flat voice. "Evidence exists that there is a separate, smaller calculor in Darlington, so he would have had the experience to learn you
r Calculor's command structure."

  Zarvora nodded. "The evidence supported that idea until a few hours ago, but not now. My tests show that Nikalan here has the most extraordinary powers of mental calculation that I have ever encountered. They are a significant fraction of the Libris Calculor itself. He denies all knowledge of any Calculor."

  "If you please!" Nikalan interruoted. He stood up. He was as tail as Glasken, yet very lean and fit, with no comfortable bulges from ale and indolence ... and very, very bright. He's like Glasken with all the warts removed, Lemorel decided approvingly in spite of herself.

  "You seem confused about me, Highliber. With your permission, could we talk openly?"

  Zarvora nodded. Lemorel shivered. "Two years ago a tower outpost called Ballerie Vale was attacked and burned by Northmoor freebooters. It was less than a node but more than a relay, just important enough to have a master code book. The relays and tower staff were slaughtered."

  "I read the report," said Zarvora. "The relays got off a number of messages about being under attack before smoke bolts were fired into the tower gallery from crossbows. The response was quick, and the Marshal of Walgett arrived with two hundred lancers while the fires were still burning but the freebooters were gone. It was a cruel, pointless raid."

  Nikalan shuddered, then pressed his lips together and frowned. When he regained control his tone was softer, more neutral. "Not so. I searched and searched for one particular body, a body with an inscribed copper bangle on the left wrist. The bodies of those killed in the open were dead only a few hours, Highliber, but the charred bodies inside the burn tout buildings had been dead at least a week. I sewed Mikki's remains into the shroud myself. Her flesh was full of charred maggots, she had been dead many days. Two dozen more were just like her."