Eyes of the Calculor (56 page)

"We shared the same room in childhood, we even shared the insufferably obnoxious John Glasken when we grew older," Jemli said to the portrait. "So why are songs sung about you, why do bards recite thousand-verse epics in the taverns about your loves, duels, and victories, yet they call me the Prophet who shall never die because the Deity could not stand having me in paradise? How I hate bards! Burn one and half an hour later you need to burn a dozen more."

Jemli was being very unfair to herself, and her melancholy was in part explainable by the nine tumblers of gin and bitters that she had consumed over the previous hour. Her Reformed Gentheist movement now covered the overmayorates of Kalgoorlie, Woomera, and Alspring, so that she actually had a greater population paying

her homage—and taxes—than Lemorel had conquered at the height of her military expansion.

''Why am I a failure?" she demanded of the portrait.

She drained the last of her gin and bitters, then flung the crystal tumbler at Lemorel's portrait. She missed by over a yard, and the tumbler shattered against the limestone wall. Lemorel's affairs had been wildly romantic, Jemli had merely experienced seductions and managed to marry two men with excellent prospects.

"The bards sing that when you got into bed with a man the trees burst into flower, even in the depths of winter, and the birds perched on the roofs and serenaded you and your lover to sleep in sixteen-part harmony. With me it was all grubby fumble, slap, and tickle."

She flung the empty jar of Hawker gin at the portrait, missing by such a wide margin that she hit the portrait of herself in mayoral robes. The portrait fell to the floor along with the fragments of jar. Jemli snatched up the little phial of bitters and threw it too at her sister's image. It smashed through the window, and she was rewarded with a shriek from somewhere out in the darkness. She certainly lacked Lemorel's coordination and skill at targetry.

"Well, at three feet even I can hit a wastrel husband and his giggling hopsicle!" shouted Jemli.

She lurched to her feet, reeled over to a wall, and pressed a panel. There was a clack. She slid the panel aside, took out the Morelac that had once belonged to her sister, and drew back both strikers. Making her way across to Lemorel's portrait, she discharged both barrels into the face at a range of six inches. Moments later two of her personal guards burst in.

"Get out!" she shrieked, flinging the Morelac at them but hitting the reciprocating clock instead.

The guards left hurriedly. Jemli snatched the gun from the wreckage of the clock and returned it to its recess. Slamming the panel back, she leaned against the wall with her arms folded.

"What is it about you?" she asked the ruined face of Lemorel's portrait. "Oh, you were brave, charismatic, and clever, but I am too! I'm cleverer. I conquered quicker, and more souls—and they're alive! Mostly. You killed hundreds of thousands, you put entire cities

to the torch, you murdered whole mayorates. I just burned a few heretics . . . and bards. You betrayed your patron Zarvora Cybeline, you smashed her beamflash system, and murdered her librarians. I don't murder. I charm. I'm cleverer than you."

Cleverer. What would a clever person do? Lemorel was clever, and everyone knew what she had done. Jemli returned to her table and picked up the decoded message that her beamflash crew had delivered some hours before.

/1 AM IN A POSITION OF TRUST IN ROCHESTER /1 LOVE THE DEITY /1 HATE ALL ABOMINATIONS / ALL POWER TO THE WORD / DEATH TO ENEMIES OF THE WORD /

The attached report linked it with the Highliber's office. Obviously a trick, but worth investigation. Perhaps he or she could be used. How? She picked up another report.

/ CHRISTIAN GAIA CRUSADERS OF WARRAGUL PROPOSE ALLIANCE /

Her priests were reporting that the Christian Gaia Crusaders were doing most of their recruiting from her own followers. As Jemli subverted, so was she subverted.

"I get more out of one assassination than you got from ten thousand battle deaths," Jemli snarled at the portrait. "You conquered cities, I conquer citizens' hearts and souls, I—"

Jemli froze, her own words ringing in her ears. No, not her words, the Word. Was she not the lips that spoke for the Deity? The beamflash network. The Dragon Librarian Service. Conquer mercifully. The beamflash network was powered by humans and sunlight! It was blessed, it was meant to be her tool. The human-powered calculors of the Commonwealth had confirmed her prophecy about Mirrorsun not harming the world and being cast away into the darkness. Rochester was made for her to conquer, no other overmayorate was better poised to fall to the Word, Rochester was begging for salvation—and that was it!

Abruptly a mighty vision solidified before her. Jemli shrieked, but this time her guards decided to remain outside. She slammed the door open, lost her balance and fell, but made it seem as if she was dropping to her knees to praise the Deity.

"The Word says that we conquer through salvation and mercy!" cried Jemli to her very nervous guards. "No war, only salvation; no conquest, only mercy! Sing praise to the Deity! Fetch my priests. Fetch my advisors and mayors!"

The guards immediately began to sing the first verse of "Nearer to Thee, Glorious Deity," then four of them hurried away before the others realized that they had missed a perfectly good excuse to put distance between themselves and the notoriously unstable Prophet. By the next day the beamflash network had spread the news far and wide that Jemli the Prophet had been blessed with a new vision. There would be no wars in the Deity's name, the Deity's love and mercy would vanquish all abominations and enemies of the Word.

Rochester, the Rochestrian Commonwealth

Jamondel noticed that Velesti was walking differently, still with her swaggering stride, but with more urgency. After twelve days at the monastery, Samondel's Austaric had become not so much fluent as more precise.

"What we must do now is integrate the contacts Serjon has made," said Velesti. "I have not spoken directly with the Highliber again, but his deputy says he is anxious to make diplomatic links with Mounthaven. He has been asking about the volumes of alcohol and vegetable oils that your wings need for compression spirit. Our artisans could even help with some of the simpler spare parts for engines."

"Serjon said his present contacts are not official. They are even a little beyond the law. Dealing with them has been difficult. For him."

"They sound like aviads; they could supply compression spirit as well as horses."

"I cannot see Serjon dealing with aviads."

"I may be wrong. Whatever the truth, an official contact with Rochester would be of benefit to everyone."

"Here is the inn," said Samondel, pushing the door open.

"So, let us see whether Serjon is willing to tell us just who are his associates."

As they climbed the stairs Samondel fumbled in her pockets for the key.

"Serjon is still in the same room," Velesti said. "I saw it on the chalkboard."

"I cannot find my key, and he may already be out for the day."

"I'll get us in."

"Velesti! Don't you dare break down his door. Again."

"I swear on my life that I shall not."

"And if he's in bed—"

"I shall leave very hurriedly," Velesti assured her, "and you may take up the option to stay with your dear lover."

They stopped at Serjon's door, but before Samondel could knock, Velesti slipped the airlord's stolen key into the lock and flung the door open. Samondel was assailed with a multitude of tumbling, chaotic impressions in the dim, dawn light filtering through the closed shutters. A woman with masses of brown, curly hair and particularly large breasts sitting up in bed and screaming. Serjon scrambling for a pistol under the pillow. Velesti's boot flicking the weapon from his hand. Velesti's boot on Serjon's neck and the barrel of her flintlock in his ear. The remains of a meal and several wine jars. A strident perfume. Clothing and underclothes strewn about on the floor and furniture.

Samondel stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. The woman stopped screaming. Serjon stopped struggling.

"Surprise!" said Velesti in a bright and cheerful tone.

Velesti picked up Serjon's flintlock, then stood back and let him get up.

"You," said Samondel in Austaric, glaring at Serjon's bedmate. "Get dressed. Get out."

The girl slipped from the bed, gathered her clothing, and dressed hurriedly. Not a word was spoken. She began to edge toward the door. Samondel moved aside for her. Velesti held up a frilly garter.

"I presume this is not his," she said with a glance to Serjon.

"Ah, no, Frelle Tiger Dragon," said the girl. "It's mine."

"I know you from somewhere. Your name is Nereli, is it not?"

"Aye, Frelle Tiger Dragon."

Velesti strode across and slapped the garter into her hand, then closed her fingers over it.

"Now go, put it on outside."

"Aye, Frelle, at once," babbled the terrified Nereli, just as she caught the merest flicker of a wink from Velesti.

It was only when she was out in the street that Nereli opened her hand and found five gold royals sharing her palm with the garter. So this is the life of a spy, she thought. An easy seduction, then merely rolling about in bed with a very pleasant young man who barely spoke Austaric let alone divulged any secrets. One moment of intense fright, danger, and humiliation, then a wink for thanks and five gold royals. Thanks and royals for what? "I was once a spy," she would say wearily to some patron in Marelle Glasken's tavern that night, "but no girl can live that way for long. You never knew who you were working for, what you were doing, or if it was for good or evil. The gold, luxury, and excitement just do not make up for the uncertainty." She would, of course, have to cultivate an air of mystery and more languorous speech, but that would not be hard.

Back in Serjon's room, it was as if Greatwinter had suddenly returned. Velesti stood beside the door as Samondel picked up a second garter between her thumb and forefinger. Serjon remained seated on the floor, hugging his knees.

"Who was she?" asked Samondel with a voice as cold as frost under bare feet.

"I, ah, met her."

"Obviously," said Velesti, also in Old Anglian.

"Quite by chance."

"Frelle Nereli Torisen, jarmaid, Marelle's Tavern," said Velesti.

"Quite by chance, in a tavern?" asked Samondel.

"It is known to be the best assignation place in Rochester—" said Velesti.

"Nothing but the best for Serjon Feydamor," snapped Samondel.

"—and center for espionage exchange," added Velesti.

"What?" cried Samondel and Serjon together.

"The Espionage Constables and their agents all drink there, only lower-class spies go to the Filthy Swine. I trust you said nothing of importance to Frelle Nereli?"

Velesti could hear Samondel's teeth grinding. Serjon suddenly realized that Velesti was speaking fluent Old Anglian.

"You seek me out, you shatter my friendship with a man so sweet that he could charm the very birds out of the air, chance alone saved me from the renewed attentions of your penis, then as soon as I am gone you go straight down to the nearest tavern and, and, and—what is the local euphemism?"

"Get a leg over," said Velesti, now opening a sealed square of poorpaper that she had taken from her jacket.

"Get your leg over the first jarmaid to hand—who is probably a spy for heaven knows who? Reformed Gentheists? The Dragon Librarian Service? Why did you bother trying to seduce me again? Was it the feeling of power, bedding an airlord? How many others have really been making up for Bronlar's difficulties in bed with you, and for how long?"

"At least five in Rochester," said Velesti, tapping the report that she held.

"No! Not so!" shouted Serjon.

"This is a report from certain . . . associates of mine, left to watch over your welfare," said Velesti, hunching her head forward and putting her hand above her eyes. "I was worried that the Reformed Gentheists might attack you."

"Five?" cried Samondel, parts of her face blazing a deeper shade of red than her hair.

"Jilmer, Metel, Darien, Zoltine, and of course, Nereli."

"Lies!" insisted Serjon.

"Well, yes, I am lying," said Velesti. "I only had you trailed for six days and five nights, so there could have been . . . hmmm, one new girl per night, five nights, another seven nights at the rate of one girl per night is twelve girls in your bed—oh, plus Samondel is thirteen. Very unlucky number, that. I do understand,

though. All that unrequited desire building up, after all. Of course were I a man I would have thought masturbation a chivalrous path to take, but—"

"You stay out of this!" shouted Samondel. "Twelve others! And how many more since we became lovers last July?"

"Assuming one per day for eight months, take off a half dozen days to fly the ocean, two hundred thirty-four—ooh, eighteen times thirteen, very unlucky number."

"My love and dearest, she's lying—" began the increasingly frantic Serjon.

"I might never have known about all this had not Velesti mistranslated 'dozen days' as 'fortnight', which led to us catching you here. I was actually anxious to see you. I was wondering how to get rid of Velesti so I could tumble into bed with you, and open that 6 ME package again."

"This one," said Velesti, drawing from her pocket the roughly rewrapped packet.

Samondel glared at Velesti for a moment, then decided that Serjon was still a far more worthy target of her hatred.

"Get dressed," said Samondel firmly.

"Not in front of that\" snapped Serjon hugging his knees more tightly to his chest and scowling at Velesti.

"I am certainly not going to let it be said that I was alone with you while you were dressing," retorted Samondel haughtily.

Velesti tossed Serjon his clothing, and Samondel flung Nereli's second garter to him as well. Serjon kicked the garter away and began to dress.

"I was going to apologize for going away, plead for your understanding, your sympathy. Bah! Even Velesti has more sympathy that you."