Eyes of the Calculor (48 page)

"Please, feel free to play what your fancy takes!" exclaimed Manuel.

Martyne took the waiter very firmly by the arm and whispered in his ear.

"The princess is under my protection, and her presence in Rochester must not be revealed."

"Princess?" breathed Manuel.

"If anyone asks after her, get their name and report it to me. Here is my card."

Manuel read the card, nearly swooned, and was guided to a chair by Martyne as Samondel played a few experimental chords and runs. Manuel read the card again. " 'Dragon Silver Martyne Camberine. Libris. Unattached.' "

"Manuel Ruavez, so much as even think of calling her Your Highness, and you will not live to see the dawn, nor will your body ever be found."

"I understand, great and powerful Fras. This place is sacred to lovers, no safer place on earth to be in love than here."

Samondel stopped playing chords and runs, having gained a feel for the instrument.

"This is 'Towers of Condelor,' to play. Two centuries past, Prince Marbeyer courting lady, ah, disguised? Yes, disguised as commoner. Flew sailw—ah, magically enchanted machine amid towers of Condelor, at night. Beautiful towers, beautiful city. Very romantic."

Samondel began to play. For Manuel the cafe was suddenly floated on a cloud of Stardust and was lifted up into the darkening sky. It was a delicate, rolling, almost mathematical piece, like the beating of a huge bird's wings as it carried the two lovers amid the towers of some fairy-tale city. Samondel closed her eyes, and long, red eyelashes shadowed her cheeks. There were tears on Manuel's face as he took them to their table.

"Little sister, I know that piece," said Martyne.

"Know it? How being?"

"Samondel, it is not two hundred years old, it is two thousand three hundred years old. My sister's friend used to play it. It is by Scarlatti, I know it as the Pastorale Sonata."

Samondel's violet eyes shone with wonder. "You take most romantic music known, then write it with stars in sky."

She reached out and squeezed his hand. The face before him briefly had brown eyes and black shoulder-length hair. Elsile was alive again, she had been given a second chance at life. He blinked. Again the hair was red and the eyes violet. A divine vision, thought Martyne. This time he would not fail her.

"This place, very strange," said Samondel. "Like . . . not real."

"It is known widely as a lucky place for lovers, little sister. Many come here while courting, some come here after quarrels, or a long time apart."

"Has . . . magic."

"Years before I was born, Overmayor and Highliber Zarvora brought her lover Denkar here, to try to make up after a quarrel. The story is complicated. Very complicated."

"Please tell."

"Ah, well, to simplify it, she had kept him in prison for nine years. She asked for forgiveness, but he would not forgive her. He said someone must suffer for each of his years in the Calculor— well, in prison, that is. She called in her guards and had one of them punch her in the face. She fell back over that table to your left. Then she got up and had him strike her again. She staggered back and brought down that rack of plates, on the back wall there. They are the same plates, although they have ah been patched together again."

"Why is doing?" asked Samondel, frowning.

"Denkar asked her just that. She said that she was suffering one blow for every year that he had been imprisoned. He only let her take those two blows before he stopped the guard. He and Zarvora were married the next day."

"Not believable."

"Unbelievable is the way of saying it. That painting over there,

of two lovers staring at each other across a table. That is them. Look carefully at the furnishings and seats."

"Is ... ah, partitions, little doors, in painting. Not here now."

"What else?"

"This table! Zarvora and Denkar, are sitting."

"Correct. Manuel must like you indeed if we have been placed here."

It was close to midnight by the time they returned to Villiers College.

"Martyne, a most wonderful day, I have had," said Samondel as they paused before the doors to the Villiers College foyer.

"I am always pleased to be with you, Eyes of Amethyst. While in my care you will be safe and happy."

"Are sure you are betrothed?"

"Yes. There is a big dinner tomorrow night, in the Libris hostelry chambers. Velesti is organizing it, and I am to swear the vows of commitment with my fiancee."

"You love her?"

Martyne hesitated, then shook his head.

"For me, there is other man," Samondel admitted.

Martyne shuddered slightly. "He is the most lucky man in all the world," he said reluctantly, and under his breath.

"Is married man. Am mistress."

"Frelle Samondel!"

"I owe him much. Am thinking, perhaps, I love him too. To tell, is hard."

Another pang sliced through Martyne. "Then be discreet, wives tend not to be understanding about that sort of thing," he said, feeling giddy.

"Is arriving tomorrow, my lover. Are jealous?"

"I am grateful for what I get, lovely Frelle."

"Trusting you."

She trusted him! Martyne felt that he was going to burst with pride. He seemed to watch in slow motion as Samondel wrapped her

arms around him and pressed her lips against his cheek. His arms enfolded her. She giggled.

"Cannot offer more," said Samondel. "Am not like other girls."

"I cannot accept more," replied Martyne.

They laughed as they embraced each other again, then Samondel looked into his eyes in Mirrorsun's light.

"Is wrong, what I said. Before. Can offer more, seeing this?" She held up a small bunch of ribbons sewn onto a slipknot cord. "Traditional, giving of colors to esteemed friend or beloved, wear as warrior. On right arm. Can be wearing, Martyne?"

"Why yes, thank you."

"Is ceremony for lady and her champion. If alive you are being, after fight, I say, 'Wings of my Colors, welcome to the ground you have defended.' You kiss my colors, and say, 'Colors of my Wings, in your name, many victories have I won.' "

"The words are very pretty."

"Very old, also."

"I would be honored to be your champion. Will you be mine?"

"What? I—I only learn Baleshanto, one month."

"As I said, will you be my champion?"

Samondel took a moment to decide that Serjon should be thankful that he was soon to be sharing her bed again, and that he did not have a monopoly on certain other things.

"Yes," she replied.

Martyne untied the small black band from his neck and handed it to Samondel. It had a red stripe at either end, and "Brother Cam-derine" embroidered into the fabric.

"Never wear this around your neck, that is only for your real ranking in Baleshanto."

"Understand. And Colors of Wings only for right forearm."

They both tied the colors to their arms, then stood facing each other in the light of Mirrorsun. Samondel took his hand and squeezed it.

"Soon, am leaving," she said, looking down at her feet. "Forever."

"Good for both of us, perhaps," replied Martyne.

"Not good. Just best."

Samondel put her free hand behind Martyne's head and pressed a lingering kiss as soft as rose petals against his lips.

"Good-bye," she said, then turned and hurried up the steps and through the door of the college without once turning back.

"1 ighliber Dramoren was exceedingly ill at ease as he waited on the street corner, alone, wearing a Dragon Librarian uniform and cloak without his black color of rank, coat, or skullcap, but with a mask. The wearing of masks was not unknown in Rochestrian society, but was generally done when assignations involving adultery, unsympathetic parents, or similar factors were involved. A dozen disguised guards were within a direct line of sight, but still he was uneasy. Another figure appeared in the distance, walking confidently but with a slightly mincing gait. She was wearing a Dragon Librarian uniform as well, and was also masked.

"Overmayor, this is very dangerous!" hissed Dramoren as she stopped before him.

"Highliber, there is no more secure place to have a proper meeting than an unexpected place, and what I want to say is in great need of security. Come, give me your arm."

Dramoren led her to the door of Cafe Marellia, pushed it open, and escorted her in. The waiter hurried up to them.

"I am sorry, there are no spare tables," Manuel began.

"We have a booking," said Dramoren. "Two. The name is Franzas."

"Ah yes, Franzas," exclaimed Manuel. "Come this—"

Dramoren caught him by the arm.

"Keep your voice down and be very, very discreet," whispered Dramoren. "I am Highliber Dramoren, this lady is Overmayor Len-gina, and the couples at tables two, seven, nine, twelve, and fourteen are members of the palace guard and the Libris Tiger Dragons. Breathe a word of this meeting and you will not live to see the dawn and your body will never be found."

Manuel closed his eyes and swayed slightly.

"Great and powerful Fras, this place is sacred to lovers. There is no safer place on earth to be in love than here."

Dramoren winced at the word "love."

"Just take us to our table and shut up."

The meeting was for coffee and chocolates rather than a meal. Manuel noticed now that the couples at tables two, seven, nine, twelve, and fourteen were watching everyone else except each other, were not smiling, and had not touched their coffee, cakes, or chocolates. To his surprise the master of the Commonwealth's infrastructure and the Commonwealth's monarch drank their coffee quickly, then ordered another each.

"Frelle, what could be so important that you could insist on meeting me here?"

"Palaces are full of devices for people to listen and watch, they have been perfected over many centuries. Courtiers want to know things. They are seldom spies, but they like to be part of the great and momentous decisions."

"Libraries are little different."

"Which is why I had us meet here," she said emphatically, grasping his hand. "Try to show some romance, people will get suspicious."

"Suspicious, Frelle Overmayor?" hissed Dramoren. "You are currently defining new extremes in the application of that word. This is about as suspicious as a monk on a nunnery wall at midnight with a bottle of sacramental wine in one hand and a condom in the other. What possibly—"

"I want to provoke a war with the Woomeran Confederation."

Dramoren nearly choked. He gulped down the remains of his coffee and Lengina offered him her mug. He drank half of this as well.

"May I ask why?" he eventually managed.

"I want the Commonwealth unified against Jemli the Prophet and her—what is the new name? Reborn Gentheists?"

"Reformed Gentheists. But the Southmoors—"

"Are hostile to her. They are traditional Islamics. The Central Confederation is mostly Christian and similarly hostile."

"And at war with the Southmoors."

"Secret peace talks have been commenced, or have you not been spying on my diplomatic dispatches lately?"

"Frelle Over—that is, Len—I mean, Frelle, I only—"

"I expect you to spy on me, Highliber, so never mind and don't apologize. The only other major group is the Northmoors. They are rural, Islamic, and like to be left alone; they do not even have a strict ruling on fueled engines. We have the chance to show the Reformed Gentheists a solid wall of opposition in the East. At present there is no hostility, so their people come and go from the Commonwealth as they please."

"But why bother? Jemli's Reformed Gentheists are gaining little support. Since Ilyire of Glenellen began preaching tolerance throughout the Commonwealth they have been thwarted further still, and when you had him cut your hair it actually became high fashion to get a haircut and oppose Jemli."

"I want a solid wall, Fras Franzas. If I can manage it I do not even want fighting, just hostility. Out of all the overmayorates, only Rochestrian Commonwealth has been able to maintain its structure and economy since Black Thirteenth and the loss of electrical machines. Without our Dragon Librarian Service and paraline engineers Jemli does not have the ability to raise, move, or use an army of any size from Woomera or Kalgoorlie. Even the Alspring Ghan lancers have been softened by two decades of imported luxuries, more liberal lifestyles, and paraline transport."

"I have heard that they now allow women to become lancers," said Dramoren, looking uneasily around at the other genuine couples in the cafe for signs of suspicious interest.

"Yes, because their men are all busy building paraline tracks and running merchant houses. I only want an incident to close the border, Franzas. Not bloody battles, not victories, just a wall between us and the religious riff-raff."

"I shall work upon it, Frelle—ah, Lengina. A war."

"With no fighting."

Dramoren ran his fingers through his hair. He wondered if a rather hunted look was obvious on his masked face.

"Very well, and while I am at it what about a nice alliance be-

tween the Commonwealth, Southmoors, and Central Confederation, and a declaration of neutality from the Northmoors?"

"Well, yes, if you think you can do it."

The wretched woman can't recognize a joke, thought Dramoren as he drained the last of her coffee.

"Is there anything else, Frelle Lengina?"

"We . . . look tense."

"Is this meant to come as a shock?"

"We look as if we are having a lovers' quarrel."

"That's unlikely, we are not lovers."

"My guards will be sad, they care for me."

"What?" Dramoren laughed. "Who cares what guards think? My Tiger Dragons do as they are told, think when they are ordered to do so, and don't even screw unless it's in the service of Libris."

Lengina put her hands beneath Dramoren's jaw, leaned over the table, and pressed her lips against his. After a moment of astonished panic, Dramoren took her arms in his hands. Her tongue flickered teasingly across the surface of his lips.

"I—I take it that our quarrel has been resolved?" ventured Dramoren.