Eyes of the Calculor (30 page)

"Then what do you want?"

"I want all those in the Dragon Librarian Service to swear loyalty to the Word."

Dramoren did not react at once, for he had anticipated a demand along these lines.

"What you demand is not mine to give," he finally replied.

"So, you can enslave every numerate adult in the Commonwealth, yet you cannot order the Dragon Librarians to acknowledge what is upheld by every faith of any consequence?"

"I can tell them what to do, Frelle Prophet, not what to think. You are, of course, free to convince them yourself."

"Fras Highliber, my life is dedicated to convincing people of the Word."

"Then come to Rochester and preach to us. I have an invitation here from the Overmayor, and I have endorsed it personally."

Dramoren reached into his jacket and drew out a folded and sealed parchment. Immediately one of the guards raised his long-barreled flintlock and fired. The bullet clipped the invitation and

struck Dramoren just behind the right deltoid. He dropped the letter and fell. The guards rushed up, dragged Jemli back, and seized Dramoren. One managed to strike the Highliber's head three times with the butt of his flintlock before Jemli shrieked for the others to release her. Her words also caught the attention of the guards holding Dramoren.

"Let him go!" demanded Jemli.

"But, Frelle Prophet, he—"

"Obey me or be damned and cursed eternally, ye disobedient servants who are foul and polluted in the eyes of the Deity," began Jemli, in a voice that carried clearly to everyone within a hundred yards.

Finally convinced, the guards backed away from Dramoren but kept their guns trained in his general direction.

"I thought he was trying to kill you," said one of them in a high, trembling voice.

Jemli snatched the letter from the ground. "And how might this kill me?" she asked. "Medician! Tend Highliber Dramoren!"

Jemli broke the seal on the letter and began to read it aloud. It was indeed an invitation to visit the Rochestrian Commonwealth and preach. Dramoren sat up with the medician's aid. Nobody else dared to approach.

"The Highliber has a bullet in his shoulder and is cut and bruised about the head, but his life is not in danger," pronounced the medician.

Clutching his shoulder, Dramoren shook off the medician's hands and got to his feet.

"Take him into the palace, to my own suite," ordered Jemli. "He must have nothing but the finest—"

"I am returning to my wind train," said Dramoren, blood seeping through his fingers and trickling down his face.

"Fras, you are in no condition to travel!" exclaimed Jemli.

"My father marched sixty miles with worse wounds than this during the Milderellen Invasion. Besides, there is a medician on my wind train, and a squad of more reliable guards than yours. Farewell, Frelle Prophet."

"But the invitation!"

"You may do with it what you will."

"I wish to accept."

"Well, then, I shall convey this to my Overmayor. When I have recovered from the attentions of your guards I am sure that we can arrange a suitable date for your visit. By beamflash."

Dramoren began to walk away.

"At least let me fetch a carriage!" Jemli called after him.

"I have had sufficient hospitality for one trip," replied Dramoren without turning.

Jemli snapped her fingers.

"Overhand."

The overhand of the city militia stepped forward.

"Have a thousand guardsmen escort him back to his wind train. Kill anyone who blocks his path, gets in his way, or even so much as heckles him."

"A thousand—"

"Instantly! That man's death means automatic and total war with the Commonwealth."

The overhand saluted, then ran, shouting orders.

"Medician."

"Frelle Prophet?"

"Escort him until he is in the care of his own medician. If he dies, do not bother coming back."

"Hospitaller!"

"Frelle Prophet?"

"Take twenty courtiers, pick up a fully laden feasting table, and follow the Highliber to the paraline terminus. Give him anything he wants. Have thirty priestesses walk beside him with feather parasols to shade him from the sun. Go!"

The captain of Jemli's personal guard was summoned next.

"Those five guardsmen who attacked the Highliber were possessed by the Polluted One," she decreed.

"Your word is the Word, Frelle Prophet."

"They are to be purified. See to it."

Dramoren walked the two miles back to the terminus with con-

siderable difficulty. The guardsmen at the palace gate made the mistake of trying to demand an explanation for his condition before letting him pass. They were shot down by the overhand's men without so much as a single word in reply. Terrified crowds cheered Dramoren every step of the way, priests and courtiers staggered behind him with a feasting table, priestesses shaded him with feather sunshades on poles, several carriages had their occupants ejected and were following in case Dramoren decided he needed a ride, and guardsmen blanketed the area three hundred yards of him. Nevertheless, with blood soaking into his jacket and almost blinded by the blood trickling down into his eyes, Dramoren did not inspire confidence in the hospitality of the Gentheists' Prophet.

There was a light but steady wind blowing, and the rotors of Dramoren's wind train were spinning steadily as he came within sight of the terminus. Guardsmen had already informed the crew that he was returning, and with sudden inspiration, the city overhand ordered the Rochestrian medician and guardsmen to be brought out at gunpoint to meet and assist their master. Two hundred yards from the terminus Dramoren was met by his medician, and he stopped for a minute to have his wounds examined. Priests swarmed about offering the finest food and drink that the palace kitchens could produce to anyone who looked Rochestrian. Priestesses shaded and fanned them, crowds of onlookers cheered at gunpoint, members of the clergy offered prayers to the gods of a dozen major and minor faiths for Dramoren's speedy recovery, and a band came jogging up from the palace, playing as they went.

Dramoren refused to be carried, even by his own people, but before long he reached his wind train. The paraline had already been cleared all the way to the border, and Dramoren's train was bracketed by armed galley engines before and aft, and by a hundred lancers to either side of it. The captain engaged the gears and the wind engine and its single coach glided forward.

Jemli watched the Rochestrian wind train leaving from a tower of her palace. The captain of her guard stood beside her, watching a twinkling light at the terminus.

"The Highliber appeared to be strong as he boarded the train,"

he reported as he read the code in the flickering light. "An officer overheard the Rochestrian medician tell the Highliber that he was a lucky man as he treated him in the street. The priestesses shaded and fanned him every step of the way, of course."

"But he took no refreshments."

"No."

Jemli pounded the limestone railing with both fists. "Rochestri-ans can truthfully say that their Highliber was given no refreshments, was shot, and walked unaided and bleeding all the way from the palace back to the terminus."

"But he chose to walk, he was offered refreshments."

"You are a fool, Captain, and possibly under the influence of the Polluted One as well. See your confessor, have yourself cleansed. What of the guards who attacked Dramoren?"

"Four have been exorcised of the influence of the Polluted One by being buried alive," replied the thoroughly alarmed captain. "The fifth has gone into hiding."

"Offer ten thousand gold barters for his head on a platter."

"Consider it done."

The Rochestrian Commonwealth

I he wind train reached the border of the Rochestrian Commonwealth the following day, and the lead Woomeran galley engine was shunted aside to let it continue onto home soil. A Rochestrian galley train was waiting to take over as escort, and as they continued into Rochestrian territory, Dramoren and a Dragon Librarian wearing no designator of rank stood looking back at the border post and two Woomeran galley engines.

"Well, Fras Cavor, we appear to have had a very successful mission," said Dramoren.

"It appears to be so, Highliber."

"That was a very good shot. I particularly liked the way you hit the letter of invitation as well."

"That was a fortuitous accident, Highliber."

Dramoren began to laugh, then winced at a twinge from his shoulder. "Do you have any observations, Fras Cavor?"

"It was a very, very dangerous act, Highliber. You could easily have died."

"So could you. The medician has removed the bullet, and he says that the injury is not severe—as such injuries go."

"Highliber, any such wound will make its presence felt for the rest of your life."

"I was wounded in the service of Rochester."

"Again."

"And probably not for the last time."

Dramoren left Cavor and walked through the carriage, crossing the walkway to the wind engine. Passing through the gearbox gallery he continued to the captain's cabin. The captain was in his fifties, but was weatherbeaten and looked older.

"I shall transfer to the galley engine once we are out of sight of the border," Dramoren announced. "I need to reach Rochester with more speed than the wind allows."

"Our place to serve, Highliber."

"While I have the chance, I would like to thank you again for all your help at Peterborough."

"That was the second time the Great Western Paraline has gotten a Highliber out of that place. 'Tis my honor to serve."

Dramoren stood watching the dials showing ground speed, wind speed, wind direction, rail inclination, absolute drag, and forward thrust. Every so often the captain would adjust a wheel, dial, or lever.

"We are tethering," explained the captain, noticing that Dramoren was taking an interest in operations.

"Tethering?" echoed Dramoren.

"Stealing a small forward vector from the slipstream of the galley engine in front."

"Ah, clever. Is it an old technique?"

"Goes back a ways centuries."

"Your Great Western people are sharp on ways to boost efficiency."

" 'Twas as Brunei taught."

"Ah yes, the pre-Greatwinter engineer that you worship."

"Not worship, Highliber. He was just the greatest of engineers, and we follow his way."

"I read that he built steam trains and steam ships."

"The world was different then."

"The Gentheists of Prophet Jemli have declared him an abomination."

"That they did."

"How did you react?"

"I moved from Kalgoorlie to Rochester and converted to Christianity."

That gave Dramoren pause for thought. The captain checked the rearview mirror, then began working the semaphore lever to signal the galley engine in front.

"We'll be docking in a few minutes," he announced. "You can cross to the galley engine through the forward hatch."

"Thank you. Tell me, how is the Prophet regarded on the paraline network?"

"We seniors say she treats us like a privy. She has to use us, but we're given no honor."

"So she is not in favor on the paralines?"

"She's in high favor by those toadies she's promoted, but all experienced and dedicated Great Western workers have been driven out. Most moved to the Commonwealth, like me. I'm lucky, I have a train. There's former captains who are tending gearboxes, or even pushing pedals in the galleys. Steady yourself now, we're about to dock."

There was a lurch and heavy boom as the engines coupled.

"Tell me, is the captain of the galley engine ahead also Great Western?" asked Dramoren.

"Oh, aye, and a fine, steady woman."

"A woman? As captain of a galley engine?"

"Aye, there's three of them, the first in history. The Great Western Paraline Authority is very progressive."

Dramoren was thoughtful as he transferred to the galley engine,

followed by his medician, staff, and guards. A minute later the engines decoupled and the low, streamlined galley engine pulled away from the wind train, driven by the powerful legs of its team of human pedalers.

Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Uramoren surprised the galley engine captain by ordering a stop at the maintenance yards in the artisan area of Rochester. It was evening, but the dismissal bell had not yet rung. There were both wind and galley engines under repair, and others being built. Windmills drove the lathes and forge hammers in the workshops, while smoke from wood-fired forges poured into the coloring sky. Dramoren made for the administration building, but word of his arrival had rushed ahead of him and the yard foreman met him at the base of the signal tower.

"Highliber, we had no warning of your visit—"

"I thought to make this visit only moments ago, Fras Foreman," said Dramoren, waving him silent with his good arm.

"Is there anything you'd like to see in particular? The drafting house library, the archive, the school for apprentices?"

"The yards and workshops themselves, Fras, and I want to meet as many Great Western refugees as can be mustered."

The dismissal bell rang, but everyone was too curious and excited to leave. Dramoren was no engineer or artisan, but he was certainly an experienced scholar. Many times he had managed to pass examinations on the strength of a day's study done after a term of stolen wine, drunken singing in the monastery walnut groves, nocturnal card sessions betting for raisins, and an incident with a female wine buyer that earned him twenty strokes of the abbot's cane and a month of cold baths. Thus the Highliber was skilled at becoming an instant expert. After broaching the subject of the Gen-theists and the Great Western Paraline Authority with Captain Tarv-eran, he had been subjected to seventeen hours of her opinions on

Gentheist persecution, Great Western standards, Brunei, battles involving the Authority, and the evils of any paraline gauge other than seven feet and a quarter of an inch. In the Great Western circles there were two classes of people: the initiates and everyone else. Dramoren now knew enough to impress the initiates, and that effectively made him one also.