The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  “Let us now pray for the blessing of a prosperous and glorious reign under our new ruler, Airlord Leovor the Seventh of Greater Bartolica.”

  The bishop led the chant, and all but Leovor himself joined in the responses. As he sat presiding over his first grand ceremony it seemed to the new Airlord of Bartolica that the wingfield disaster of the previous day had been such a terrible misfortune that it had sponged up all the bad luck that could possibly befall the coronation ceremony. Heaven itself had obviously—and publicly—blessed his coronation.

  Nevertheless, his first official duty of appointing a new governor for the East Region was still to come. His protocol advisers had been frantically coaching him for the Governor’s investiture in every spare moment since the very hour that the gunwing crashed, however, and Leovor actually felt relaxed and confident about the words and procedures. The preliminary report from the Inspector General had been presented, and it mentioned that nothing suspicious had been found in the wreckage. Warden Darris, who had also died in the disaster, had been named as the dead governor’s recommended successor. In the opinion of the Office of Character and Heraldry, Warden Desondrian of Lemihara was the next in line for the position.

  Within the crowd that packed the throne room the envoy from Veraguay and her guard were following the ceremony as best they could. They could understand only Old Anglian, the common scholarly language, but all the coronation’s speeches and declarations were in Bartolican.

  Glasken felt a tug at his sleeve, and he turned to see a maid from the Hannan household. Although not a short woman by any means, she had to go up on her toes to whisper in Glasken’s ear. Never one to miss any opportunity, he bent down to listen and slipped an arm about her waist.

  “Oh! Sair, ah, the Inspector General wishes the Veraguay envoy to come to a soiree in five days,” she whispered rapidly.

  “Why not tell her yourself?” Glasken whispered back, his lips brushing her ear.

  “Sair Glasken, the, ah, Inspector General does not want unseemly rumors …”

  Her voice trailed off. Glasken nodded knowingly.

  “So, he has the message delivered as if you and I have a tryst instead. Lucky me.”

  “Oh Sair, I would never presume such a thing.”

  “Ah, unlucky me,” Glasken sighed.

  Her face suddenly displayed a grin, and she gave him a little nudge with her hip.

  “Well, we should act the part out I suppose,” she said coyly.

  “Join me when we go into the gardens later. I shall have a reply from the envoy and … we may speak more easily.”

  “Sair Glasken, ask her only to hold the evening free. A formal invitation will only be delivered with an hour’s notice. The wife of the Inspector General is not at all understanding where the Veraguay envoy is concerned.”

  “I understand,” said Glasken, allowing his hand to slide from her waist to caress her rump.

  The maid had no more to say, but she lingered for another minute before melting into the close-packed crowd. When she had gone the envoy took Glasken by the arm and whispered to him.

  “So you are making friends already, Sair Glasken?”

  “Only exploring diplomatic channels, Semme Envoy. Oh, and by the way, I believe that a certain Bartolican wishes to explore your own diplomatic channel.”

  “Would he be an Inspector General?”

  “He would, and he wishes to invite you to an evening of refined pleasures on May the eleventh. You are advised to keep the evening free and expect a late summoning.”

  “I am disposed to accept such advice. He is a dear, well-meaning, and vulnerable man. Why can’t you be like that, Sair Glasken?”

  “Because lecherous, shiftless wretches have a better time of it. I shall pass your disposition on to his maid.”

  “You must come along and protect me when I attend. His wife is a dragon.”

  Just then the Bishop ended the prayers. The court herald . called for attention, then announced that Airlord Leovor would speak. Fighting an automatic impulse to stand, Leovor declared from the throne his intention to appoint a new governor as his first act of office. The crown had been on his head for only minutes, and it was a great display of statecraft and maturity. His father had merely declared a week of festivities at his own coronation two decades earlier. Leovor enunciated the prescribed words clearly, missing none, and managed quite a commanding tone. When he had finished, the court herald stepped forward and the Airlord relaxed everything but the muscles of his face and his bearing. His part was over, and he was practically melting into the throne with relief. Nothing could go wrong now.

  “Warden Alexes Desondrian, come forward in the name of the Airlord!” commanded the court herald, and the noble stepped before the throne and went down on one knee. “In the name of the Airlord I ask if you are willing to accept the honor of this appointment?”

  The question was indirect, so as to avoid the chance of a slight to the Airlord in the event of a refusal. In this case there was no such danger.

  “I accept,” answered Desondrian.

  “If any peer of the Convocation of Bartolican Wardens sees fit to warn the Airlord of an impediment to this appointment, let him speak now,” declared the court herald, grandly and gravely.

  “I do!” cried Warden Stanbury, stepping forward.

  The court herald froze with surprise. He had never heard a challenge in a dozen such appointments, and he had to think frantically to remember the form of reply. The Airlord had even less experience in such matters, but knew enough of the ceremony to realize that it was beneath the dignity of a monarch to be directly involved. He remained discreetly impassive and above it all.

  “Declare your name and wardenate,” ordered the court herald.

  “I am Warden Mikal Stanbury of the Wardenate Stanbury.”

  “Warden Mikal Stanbury, state your grounds or hold your peace.”

  “The late Governor Movael Merrotin, Semme Merrotin, and Warden Darris were well known to me, and I am sure that they would never have taken such a foolish risk as led to their deaths. I petition for a criminal inquisition before Governor Movael Merrotin’s successor ascends to that office. I register my dismay at the unseemly haste with which Sair Alexes Desondrian has accepted the appointment, without the scrutiny chamber’s results having cleared Warden Darris’ judgment as contributing to his own death.”

  Desondrian had not in fact wished to ascend to the office so quickly after his friend’s death, but the new airlord’s courtiers had been anxious to embellish the coronation ceremonies with an appointment. Faced with blaming his airlord for undue haste or defending the insult himself and thereby acting as champion of the Airlord, Desondrian chose the path of honor and sacrifice. He rose to his feet and walked forward, removing the black glove from his right hand. Standing before Stanbury, he held out the glove, then dropped it before the challenger’s fingers could close on it. Rather than bend before Desondrian to accept the glove, Stanbury put his hands on his hips and spat, hitting the glove squarely. Desondrian reddened and his lips pressed together. After an exchange of murderous glares both turned and bowed to Leovor.

  “The Airlord has deemed that this same day the position of governor is to be filled,” the court herald concluded, “so in duty to the Airlord you will fight this very hour. The victor will ascend to the office in dispute. Go to your guildsmen and make ready to duel.”

  Envoy Alveris Sartov, governor in absentia of North-Yarron, was not the preferred choice of company for most Bartolican nobles, but Regional Inspector Vander Hannan valued his fair and forthright opinions. The man was like a mirror, and if what was reflected therein was not to the taste of the original, then blaming the mirror was hardly sensible. As usual, Sartov was on the way to being drunk by the time that the duel was scheduled to start, but he was still steady on his feet.

  “There’s nobody else here?” asked Sartov as they climbed the stairs of the observation tower.

  “No, there’s no Bartolicans
for you to insult.”

  “There’s you.”

  “Ah, but I am not easily insulted.”

  They stood together on the balcony of the tower at the east corner of the Hannan mansion, which commanded a good view of the southwest of the palace and the wingfield. There the preparations were under way for the duel, the sword that would slash apart the threads of knotted diplomacy. The courtiers and guests had dispersed to their homes and hostelries to watch from the comfort of their own towers. This duel involved the judgment of the Airlord and thus symbolically had to be held above the city and above his grounds. Such duels were rare, and it was unusual for more than half a dozen to be held in a decade.

  There was no wind at all, and sound carried very well over the holiday-hushed city. A fanfare of massed trumpets sounded in the distance, and was followed by the cheering of thousands of spectators who were gathered in the vicinity of the palace—and who were mostly ignorant of the dispute at the heart of the duel. The sound of compression engines cut through as the cheering subsided. A servant appeared with pairs of field glasses for both the Regional Inspector and his guest, and mounted them on chase frames. Both aircraft were plainly visible on the wingfield, painted in the heraldic colors of the two Bartolican wardens.

  “So, the Conciliator has failed,” Sartov observed.

  “Sometimes a result is more important than justice,” replied Vander. “Settlement by combat does at least produce a result.”

  Down amid the turmoil on the wingfield Stanbury spread his arms wide and addressed a group of noble onlookers.

  “I came here with no intent of dueling, so I wear the colors of no lady on my arm,” he pleaded. “Will any lady honor me with the warmth of her colors, or must I face the sky with my heart cold and my luck eclipsed?”

  Most of the noblewomen present hesitated, but Samondel skipped forward at once, sweeping a bunch of embroidered ribbons from the clip on her sleeve.

  “Wear the colors of Samondel of Leovor, Warden Stanbury,” she declared, and he accepted them with a bow.

  “Wardens may fight for the honor of airlords and ladies, Semme Samondel, but on this day a lady did indeed come to the rescue of a warden’s honor,” he said with gallant flair.

  Away in the serenity of the Inspector General’s residence, Sartov strained for sounds of action from the wingfield. The compression engines of the distant aircraft revved briskly, as if impatient to be aloft.

  “I heard that they are both using Daimzer engines and Miscafi guns,” Sartov said, as if to show that he took this very seriously.

  “That is correct. Stanbury is Desondrian’s cousin, so he has the right to use the work of their family guilds. I believe that the Daimzer Guildmaster of Engineers has cursed Stanbury for the affront and commanded all those of his house to render no assistance to him. Gremander had to do all the enhancing and tuning.”

  The crowd at the distant wingfield cheered as a fanfare sounded again. The guildsmen dispersed from around the two gunwings, and the aircraft were left standing together at a white line across the flightstrip. The city’s marshal strode out before the gunwings: from the Hannans’ tower he was a bright, tiny figure in scarlet robes. He walked first to Stanbury’s gunwing, then to Desondrian’s before taking a black flag from his aide and walking down the entire length of the flightstrip.

  Vander was still focusing his field glasses as the Marshal began waving the black flag and the Daimzer engines of the two gunwings roared. To Hannan they looked like distant white Vs painted on the wingfield’s flightstrip. They climbed into the air, then banked away in opposite directions, each turning for their respective tourney towers. Tournament rules applied to duels, and they had to circle their own tower at less than its height before engaging the opponent. They were evenly matched, and Hannan followed Desondrian as he flew for the tower, his gunwing only a few feet from the ground. At the tower he pulled up steeply, clawing for altitude and circling for the sun. Stanbury sped outward, but in a shallower climb.

  Within two minutes Desondrian had the advantage of altitude while Stanbury was better placed to use the sun’s glare. Both climbed in tight spirals, but Desondrian was edging closer to his opponent. Desondrian broke and dived, yet Stanbury continued to climb as he approached. Desondrian was trying for a tail pass, but Stanbury rolled his aircraft and turned into an even steeper, straight climb.

  “If he stalls, he’s dead!” exclaimed Sartov, but Stanbury had judged his speed well. The gunwings swept through a head-on pass, reaction guns chattering, then broke into a chasing circle and again fought for height as they pursued each other.

  The Mounthaven epics described how wardens used to duel with unpowered sailwings pushed over cliffs. The object then was to descend more slowly than one’s opponent. There was grace and style in such a tournament, but this had no such style and finesse. It was all brute power and speed.

  Just then, Stanbury broke out of his circle and arced outward as Desondrian turned to pursue him. Again as the gunwings converged Desondrian found himself facing an almost stalled opponent who was nevertheless facing him and firing. On the other hand, Stanbury presented a far better target, and fragments of fabric scattered into the air as the two aircraft passed. Yet again they ended up in a chasing circle, clawing for height. For a third time Stanbury broke and turned to intercept Desondrian’s pursuit, and again the gunwings slashed at each other in a head-on pass before dropping back into a chasing circle five thousand feet lower.

  “Stanbury took hits again,” said Sartov. “He must have a reason for offering himself as a target like that.”

  “Inexperience,” replied Vander.

  Stanbury broke again, but this time instead of diving Desondrian came around in a wide arc, intending to catch Stanbury’s gunwing after it had lost altitude in its near-stall. It never happened. Stanbury banked to climb in a counterclockwise circle, gaining precious height.

  “Good Lord, he’s won!” exclaimed Sartov. Vander nodded gravely in agreement.

  Stanbury rolled into a dive, and Desondrian tried to emulate his opponent’s ploy of firing from a near-stall. Stanbury had the benefit of practice, however, and confidently raked his cousin’s gunwing with his twin Miscafis. Desondrian broke into another chasing circle, but there was a thin streamer of dark smoke trailing from the engine of his gunwing. Stanbury closed with the advantage of full power, and within another minute had climbed above Desondrian and cut across the chasing circle. Now only one pair of Miscafis chattered as Desondrian’s gunwing bucked and swerved within a deadly hail of shots. He dived, rolled, did a spin-turn, then dived again, but Stanbury merely dropped back and closed again each time.

  “He has height and power, damn him,” said Vander. “Desondrian can do nothing but fly the silk.”

  At that moment Desondrian’s gunwing belched a plume of black smoke and rolled on its back before dropping into a steep dive. Stanbury followed without attacking, dropping back and plainly taking a chivalrous aspect. Desondrian’s gunwing recovered at rooftop level, gained height, then leveled out, all the while trailing black smoke. Suddenly his port wing snapped, its structure burned out by the flames trailing from the engine. The gunwing seemed to give up like a vanquished warrior. Desondrian leaped from the gunwing, his parachute streaming behind him. The canopy opened almost horizontally; then both gunwing and warden crashed into a stand of ancient, ornamental fir trees. Stanbury turned for the wingfield, giving a single roll. There were cheers and fanfares in the distance. Red and white pennants were displayed at the poles over the palace gates.

  “Had Stanbury but kept doing those head-on passes Desondrian would have shredded him like a target kite,” said Sartov as he turned away to go back inside. Vander followed.

  “Desondrian tried to ride his tail, to humiliate him,” said the Regional Inspector. “Those head-on exchanges made Stanbury look brave and tenacious. Desondrian’s family wanted the enemy discredited, not just beaten. Politics, Sair Sartov, but politics count for nothing in a duel. P
erhaps Stanbury was counting on Desondrian having a political agenda behind his tactics.”

  A rocket trailing black smoke rose from where Desondrian had come down. Vander watched it through the open doorway of the gallery.

  “So he is dead,” Vander declared, although there was not a soul in the city above the age of four who did not know the meaning of a rocket trailing black smoke.

  They turned their backs on the scene of the duel and settled into a pair of chairs. A footman waited with a tray of glasses and a jug of wine chilled by ice flown in by some warden for Leovor VII’s table, but which had been somehow divided and distributed elsewhere. Vander took a distorted lead ball and rolled it between his fingers. Sartov sat down and pressed the tips of his index fingers against his lips as the footman poured his wine.

  “Desondrian died beneath his parachute,” said Sartov. “In the public eye he died in the act of surrender—and while Stanbury was chivalrously standing off. Stanbury has won more than a duel for his family, he has won honor and influence as well.”

  “The tone of your voice is dark,” Vander observed as he toyed with the musket ball.

  “Dark, yes. Stanbury is a fine warrior and warden, but he and his family are ambitious and unpredictable. Although Bartolica’s nobles have no love for them, they symbolize glory and honor triumphant for all those who have ever been overlooked or neglected in the interests of good politics.”

  “You talk in obvious truths, Envoy Sartov, but what could Stanbury and his people do?”

  “Shake the peace of the Mounthaven dominions, Regional Inspector Hannan.”