The Miocene Arrow

by Sean McMullen

  “Hah, you could share my humble barge.”

  “Oh Sair Roric, I could not impose thus,” Rosenne said, clasping her hands and smiling broadly.

  “No imposition, Semme, none at all. I am returning home, and that’s near the Enclave of Dominions anyway. I would be glad of your company.”

  “But are you not to be at the feast also?”

  “Alas, I must attend to some tiresome household details that are normally in Laurelene’s care. She’s in Yarron, you know.”

  Rosenne did indeed know, and had known since Laurelene left two days earlier. She had not wanted to seem like an easy prize, but two days was a discreet period to wait.

  “Oh, how very lonely for you,” she responded. “In that case I must share your barge.”

  Rosenne and Theresla got into the little craft, which moved off smoothly.

  “You are indeed fortunate to have a personal barge on the Airlord’s own canal,” said Rosenne as she seated herself and clipped on her Call tether.

  “In his wisdom the Airlord recognizes that someone as busy as his Inspector General needs to move about freely and quickly. I have unlimited run of all canals.”

  He glanced for a moment to Theresla, who was watching two gunwings trailing colored smoke from their wingtips and weaving green and red spirals.

  “Is, ah, your servant learning the ways of Condelor’s markets and suchlike?” he asked.

  “Theresla?” laughed Rosenne. “No, she just attends clerical matters, now that I have three Bartolican servants who daily tend the garden and haggle at the market.”

  Roric smiled and nodded, and said that he was pleased that she had settled in so well.

  “What news is there of Semme Laurelene, your most forthright wife?” she asked, prompted by the sight of the gunwings flying over the palace. “I have heard that war threatens between Yarron and Dorak.”

  “Oh I have had no letters yet, but I have no fears,” he said without concern in his tone. “War is of no danger to any but wardens, and of no interest to those who are not of their estates or guilds.”

  “Do you mean that the merchants and other citizens do not care who rules them?”

  “Well, did anyone in Bartolica refuse to swear loyalty to our new Airlord just because they were loyal to his late father? Of course not. It is the same with our wars, they are merely duels between dominions, matters of honor for those who are honorable. The estates and farms pay taxes just the same, the steam trams, aqueduct engines, roads, and Call towers run as before.”

  “Put that way, it hardly sounds like war at all.”

  “Well, we have to be civilized here in Mounthaven. Our land is so poor that it is a long and difficult task to repair wanton destruction. Now then, perhaps you can widen my own knowledge,” said Roric genially. “What other places have boats such as these?”

  “Oh none. In all my travels I have only seen such powered boats in this very city.”

  “Hah! Thought so. As each day passes I have ever more reasons for never leaving Bartolica. My wife likes to travel: she gads off here and there, yet even she comes back and tells me how good it is to be home.”

  “Oh but surely she enjoys seeing what is different. I do, and I have traveled more than anyone in the known world.”

  “She has other reasons, I know it too well. As Chief Inspector I have many informants.”

  “And what do they inform you of?”

  “Semme Laurelene visits … friends. Friends of a male nature, if you catch my meaning.”

  Rosenne caught the meaning, and all the others that Roric Hannan had intended.

  “You are very tolerant, Sair Hannan, and that is refreshing. Why, my husband was so jealous that he had spies among my household servants. I not only had to lead a blameless life, I had to be seen to do it as well.”

  Slyly glancing to Theresla, Roric noted that she was writing notes from slates of shorthand script. He reached out and sympathetically patted Rosenne’s hand. If Theresla noticed, she gave no sign of it.

  “Ah, but the good man is dead now, and you are free to live as you will, Semme,” Roric pointed out.

  He let his hand rest lightly on hers. At first she jerked it back a fraction, as if to pull away, then stopped herself. She twisted it instead, twining her fingers about those of Roric.

  “True, and you are an alluring companion, Sair Roric.”

  Regional Inspector Vander Hannan treated royal feasts and other such occasions the same way as he did difficult assignments in the backwoods. There was information to be gathered and people were liable to part with it, either to bolster their own self-importance, or to trade, or merely because they were too drunk to mind their tongues. Partly out of concern for his mother, Vander had been probing for the truth behind the catastrophe in Yarron’s capital.

  “I notice that your father is not to be seen,” observed Colliconev, Chancellor of Wardens.

  Vander looked around, but assumed that the man’s statement was true all the while.

  “True, he is gone. Is that significant?”

  Colliconev shrugged and sipped at his claret. “He left in some haste, just after the lovely Semme Rosenne Rodriguez of Veraguay was seen to be walking down the path to the barge quay. His own barge is now missing, and would you believe that there is an order signed by his own hand that the envoys’ barge was not to leave until after the feast?”

  “What is your implication, Sair Colliconev?” Vander asked impatiently, knowing full well what his father probably had in mind.

  “Sair Hannan, the elder, has much in common with the Veraguay envoy. They are probably discussing the wonders of their respective Callhavens.”

  Within the comfort of the envoy’s bed, thought Vander with impotent disapproval. He had no illusions about his father’s behavior, he just wished that the man could be less public about it.

  “I am due to leave for the north next week,” Vander said idly.

  “Ah, that region is no easy task, it is not settled and orderly, like the south. I wonder that you do not look for a transfer here, now that you have proved yourself.”

  Colliconev sipped at his wine. He always sipped, he never drank. Vander suspected that no wine ever passed between his lips. He always reminded Vander of a small, sharp, poisoned blade.

  “If you imply that I am being groomed for some post, then nobody has told me about it,” Vander replied.

  “You have spent a lot of time in Condelor lately for someone with no ambitions here.”

  A group of singers performed an ode to the wardens of Bartolica. The text had reputedly been written by the Airlord himself, although the Master of Royal Music had set it for six voices. The work was boring, and it was with some relief that Vander felt a tug at his sleeve and looked around to see one of his father’s aides. As they left the hall Vander could not help but note the bloodless pallor of the man’s face.

  “A fire, Sair Hannan, a fire at the Enclave of Dominions,” said the aide breathlessly.

  “I see, that is very serious,” Vander replied, “but this is not my inspectorate. Have you informed my fa—the Inspector General?”

  “That is just it!” exclaimed the aide, clawing at the air in agitation. “The Inspector General is in the building that is burning.”

  Vander’s calm buckled, but held. He gasped an oath in shock, then seized the aide by the arm and marched him down the corridor.

  “How do you know he is in there?” he demanded. “And which house is he in, anyway?”

  “That of the Veraguay envoy. Her servants have vanished, and the city constables have been alerted to arrest them.”

  The aide had kept a steam barge waiting for them, and after a short trip they reached the Enclave of Dominions and hurried across to the blaze, flanked by Inspectorate guards. The city orderlies had the fire under control by the time he arrived and members of the Inspectorate were already among the ruins. The truth unfolded quickly: both the envoy from Veraguay and his own father had died in the blaze.


  Vander smothered his grief with action. The bodies found in the remains of the envoy’s double bed were identified by their rings and the blackened remains of Roric Hannan’s gun and coat buttons on the flagstone floor. They had apparently been overcome by the smoke in their sleep before being burned. The fire had been started with jars of sunflower oil. whose shards were strewn about in the charred downstairs rooms. Hannan had all five of the late envoy’s servants proclaimed as suspects in the double murder. The suspicions that Laurelene had confided to him about Theresla had finally been borne out.

  Of some interest were several pages of writing in a strange script that were found in the grounds of the burned-out house. The script was familiar yet oddly stylized, and while many of the words almost made sense, the concepts behind them did not. Hannan took custody of them and set about having them translated by the Inspectorate’s linguists. As it turned out, they made very slow progress.

  14 July 3960: East Bartolica

  The orders given to Rollins were clear enough: take the black tram to its maximum speed along the length of straight tramway, and do it at night. The night was overcast, shutting out Mirrorsun’s light, and the two forward lanterns of the black tram provided illumination for only a dozen feet ahead. Rollins opened the throttle, and the little steam engine gradually pushed the square-front tram up to near its maximum speed of 41 miles per hour, four times its normal cruising speed.

  Beside Rollins was Kalward, with the forward shutters of the tram wide open and a grapple pole in his hand. Two other officers were watching, one with a bucket of water. Without warning a flare burst overhead, lighting up the underside of a sailwing. The point of light dropped slowly, and Rollins realized that it was on a line being reeled out. When it was almost level with his eyes Kalward reached out with the grapple pole, swiped at it twice, then caught it the third time.

  The interior of the tram was filled with fumes and blinding light as the officer drew the flare inside, but it was immediately quenched in the bucket. With glowing spots before his eyes, Rollins saw that there was a dispatch cannister attached to the flare. While Kalward picked up a flare gun the other two officers detached the flare from the line and secured another cannister in its place. Kalward fired a flare from the gun ahead of the sailwing, and the second cannister was drawn up into the air as the sailwing pulled away.

  “We’re set!” exclaimed the youngest officer in Old Anglian. “The black trams can move every carbineer in Yarron like a chess piece now.”

  “Mind your tongue,” warned Kalward.

  “In front of the yoick? He doesn’t speak Old Anglian.”

  “Mind your tongue in front of any yoick,” Kalward insisted. “This one has a security clearance, the next one may not.”

  This gave Rollins a great deal to think about. He had a security clearance, which was a relief. Bartolican carbineers were to operate in Yarron, which was a worry. The black trams were to control them like chess pieces, which was a puzzle. Little of this made sense. The wardenate system forbade any more than a hundred armed carbineers to gather at any point in Mounthaven, and even this was only for the pursuit of outlaws. Carbineers certainly never crossed into another dominion except in the pursuit of outlaws or fugitives, yet the officer had talked as if hundreds, even thousands of carbineers would be in Yarron. This sounded like the primitive style of unchivalric wars that raged in Mexhaven and Alberhaven, yet this was impossible. Wardens of all dominions had rallied a dozen times in the past hundred years to bomb and strafe outlaw buildups, while on the ground town militias and merchant carbineers had rallied to shoot the survivors. The trams were impressive fighting units, but nothing could stand against gunwings and armored sailwings … unless the black trams commanded the air as well. He had seen with his own eyes that they had access to at least one sailwing.

  Rollins shivered. These were alarming times. A few renegade wardens might fly for the merchant carbineers in secret, but never openly. The wardens had more loyalty to the wardenate system than to any dominion or group. Yes, the waging of war was safely in the hands of the wardens, Rollins assured himself. Mounthaven was poor in resources, and could not afford the waste of unchivalric war. The system had stood for centuries, it could not now be flouted by a few hundred carbineers.

  15 July 3960: Opal

  The new warden of the Jannian estate was sixteen years old. While he had been well educated and had fifty hours logged in sailwing trainers and three in a gunwing, he was not by any means experienced enough to run the estate. Pressure from his peers quickly persuaded him to ignore the very reform that his father had won in death. Bronlar was barred from flight duties on the Jannian estate, in spite of her flyer’s license. Serjon, on the other hand, was a competent flyer, and was ordered to increase his flight hours at once. Within a week of Jannian’s death he had another fifteen hours logged in sailwings, and was finally allowed to ascend in the warden’s gunwing.

  The flight was not easy. The gunwing was heavy, powerful, and temperamental compared with sailwings. His ascent was far too shallow; then he had tried to climb too steeply and almost stalled. After several circles of the estate he flew against a target kite, and hit it on the first pass. When he tried to land, his approach was too fast and steep, and he had bounced heavily before running off the end of the flightstrip.

  The walk back to the guildhouses was a long and lonely one for Serjon. The gunwing was immobile, and Bronlar’s father and his guildsmen were working at the edge of the flightstrip, jacking the aircraft onto a trolley. Serjon’s mother and sisters were waiting to greet him after he had reported to the wingfield adjunct, and he was swamped by a bouncy swirl of curls and rustling skirts.

  “You’re alive, Serjon, you’re alive!” squealed Cassender, his youngest sister.

  “I landed hard, little sister, but yes, I’m alive,” he said as he stood with his arms around her. “It only gets easier now.”

  “We Feydamors build engines, flying is not for our guild,” his mother reminded him.

  “Every guildmaster must fly his own crew’s work, Mother. That’s the law of our calling.”

  “But you’re learning to fight, not take over from your father. One day you may go to war and never return.”

  “In many ways, I never returned from my first ascent.”

  Soon they left him and returned to their work. Bronlar had been watching from the steps of her father’s guildhall, and she waved as Serjon walked by.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “You managed to walk away from that landing.”

  He stopped and turned to look at her, then came over and sat down, two steps below her.

  “There must have been a thirteen in my life this morning,” he declared.

  “Thirteen grapes on your breakfast plate?”

  “No, I counted them, there were sixteen,” he said, looking out to where the gunwing was being hauled back along the flightstrip on the trolley.

  “Why do you fear thirteens so much? I know it’s traditionally a number of ill omen, but I’ve never known anyone to go on about it like you.”

  “I am my mother’s sixth child and my father’s seventh. Between mother and Warden Jannian I am thirteenth. All my life I have noticed thirteens present when ill fortune visited me, so I have learned to avoid them. I’m vulnerable to thirteens. It is my fate, just as it is yours to be a girl who wants to fly.”

  This subject was a sensitive one for Bronlar. She rested her chin on her knees, pressed her lips together, and stared out across the wingfield.

  “I’m sorry you were barred,” Serjon added presently.

  “Sorry? I thought it was what you wanted.”

  “I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about how I would feel if exiled to the ground forever, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone who loves flying. Your sex does pose some problems in chivalric procedures, but … you don’t deserve this.”

  Serjon and Bronlar walked to where the gunwing had been dragged for repairs to the landing gear. The bent s
truts and broken springs had saved the rest of the airframe from serious damage, but Serjon was still not popular with the airframe guildsmen. When they reached the hospitaler’s table Serjon retrieved his sling bag. He took out a book and handed it to Bronlar.

  “This may be of use to you,” he said.

  She stared at the title. “Chivalry and the Art of Dueling?”

  “With our airlord and wardens dead, and now the death of the Dorakian airlord … there could be war. If our warden becomes a mark on some Dorakian gunwing’s silk, well you should be prepared. Who knows, Jannian is my real father, after all. I may end up as warden, and then I’d let you fly.”

  Bronlar clasped her hands around the book and stared at the title on the binding.

  “You’re sweet. I’m sorry I slapped your face, that night in Forian.”

  “That’s forgiven. It made for good theatre.”

  “Theatre?”

  “I provoked that argument on chivalry deliberately. Better to have shouting and insults than pack rape.”

  Bronlar’s smile vanished.

  “Do you think that was planned? What about their chivalric principles?”

  “They are written to include all women, but in practice they apply only to the nobility. You are not a noble, Bronlar, and they were hoping to give you a sample of what to expect from enemy carbineers.”

  “But they could not get away with it. Warden Jannian was my patron.”

  “Warden Jannian would have been alone against the wardens and squires who were the fathers of that rabble. One or two flyers who were foolish enough to be involved may have been hung, but most would go free and you would have been ravished and humiliated. It was about power, and you threaten their power.”

  Bronlar put a hand to Serjon’s neck and kissed the cheek that she had slapped a week earlier. He closed his eyes and hung his head.

  “Better a kiss received than a kiss stolen,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Is that in this book?” teased Bronlar.