Eyes of the Calculor (6 page)

"Airlords can overfly any frontier, but it is those on the ground who control it. We could put in tracks for our steam trams and trains, but Mexhaven militias can tear up the tracks faster than we can lay them. Besides, according to my royal statistician, there is not enough spare iron in Mounthaven for such a venture. Squads of Mounthaven carbineers riding horses would be exceedingly fast and mobile, and could shatter the ranks of many times their number in enemy infantry. I propose that the entire wardenry of Mounthaven be sworn to both mapping the new frontiers from the air, and to procuring horses and other large animals from Australica. Thank you."

"Warden Drell of Montrass," called the herald as she sat down to a buzz of surprised comments and whispering.

"Saireme Airlord Samondel, I too have a royal statistician here," declared the young man, who was only months older than Samondel. "According to ancient maps, the overland route to Australica is over eleven thousand miles of ice, desert, forest, swamp, and jungle. It also involves crossing at least seven short stretches of salt water, and as we have been told by the Australican envoy, the sea intelligences have ended the scourge of the Call—but only as long as the seas are left to them. There can be no sea travel."

Samondel waved her interjection pennant.

"Darien said that on Australican shores, beached whale animals are rescued where possible, and in return they permit crashed flyers to swim ashore," she countered. "Semme Darien has assured us of this. It can apply to us too."

"Nevertheless, they are quite clear that no boats will ever be permitted," Drell countered. "Wingfields will have to be built to cross the stretches of seawater, transport wings the size of Yarronese super-regals will be needed to ferry humans and horses through the air, and fuel for the giant wings will have to be transported up to eleven thousand miles. My statistician estimates that the endeavor would take fifteen years and consume twenty-five times the money and resources that the war has cost Mounthaven. If hostile tribes are found anywhere along the way, it will add to the cost and take even longer. Besides, Darien also says that there are religious prohibitions against engines in Australica."

"Warden Samondel of Highland Bartolica," called the herald.

"My statistician concurs with yours," she announced, then paused for emphasis. The airlords glanced to each other, then looked back at Samondel expectantly. "I have, however, learned through my intelligence advisors of the capacities of the Yarronese super-regals. Airlord Sartov, do I have your permission to speak about the range of your aircraft, your marvels of Yarronese artisanry?"

Sartov glowered, but nodded.

"At a cruising speed of one hundred miles per hour, a super-regal can stay in the air for twenty-five hours. With all weapons and

fittings removed to make way for extra tanks and five hundred pounds of load, a super-regal could fly for thirty hours. Using midair refueling from a second super-regal flying only part of the way, this could be extended to forty-three hours."

"True, but according to the ancient maps the largest gap over seawater is only three hundred miles," said Sartov, waving his interjection pennant.

"On Warden Drell's route, yes. Examine an ancient map of the Pacific Ocean, however, and you will see that wingfields could be established on three of the larger islands that are no more than two thousand miles apart. The route would be a mere seven thousand miles, and once the three wingfields are built we would need no more than a large volume of compression spirit for the engines."

"Seven thousand miles over water?" exclaimed Airlord Drell, holding his interjection pennant high in the air. "Madness!"

"Four leaps of two thousand miles or less."

"But each super-regal takes as much compression spirit as eight gunwings! Add the spirit burned to transport spirit to the island wingfields and each flight would take more compression spirit than Montrose, Senner, and Highland Bartolica normally use in a year."

"Yes, but with all of Mounthaven's compression spirit farms and distilleries working together, I calculate that we could establish three wingfields and reach Australica within four months. The cost would be five hundred times less than using the land route, and a hundred times quicker."

"But what about the Australican religious prohibition against fueled engines?"

"Semme Darien said steam engines. Our wings are powered by compression engines."

There is only one thing worse than an impossibly expensive scheme, and that is a realistically expensive scheme. The debate raged for another forty minutes. The airlords worked figures out on slates, waved interjection pennants, and shouted proposals and counterproposals. Sartov was curiously quiet for the entire time, although he did exchange a few words with the Cosdoran airlord. Suddenly he interjected.

"My current super-regals could carry only two horses each, based on their estimated weight. Even then they would have to be lying down."

"One might select only young horses," suggested Samondel.

Sartov thought for a moment then nodded.

"Very well, then. If the larger domains were to donate twenty gunwing compression engines, and a very large quantity of fabric, wire, and flight-standard wood, my artisans could build two super-regals that could remain in the air for fifty hours and carry six young horses," Sartov declared.

"While each gulps down as much spirit as ten gunwings for those fifty hours," scoffed the Montrassen. "Even that does not include the spirit needed to transport spirit to the island wingfields."

"But it could be done," said Samondel.

To the surprise of most present, Airlord Sartov agreed with her once more.

"Include a few bags of barley and sunflower seeds on each flight, and we could be growing enough compression spirit locally to halve the cost within a year," he suggested. "With a flight every week, we could have three hundred horses within a year."

"Airlord Samondel was saying that one horse carbineer is worth ten infantry carbineers," said the Cosdoran.

"Indeed!" exclaimed South Bartolica's airlord. "We had best introduce the death penalty for horse stealing."

"Or selling them to Mexhaven," added Sartov.

He gazed across at Samondel, stroking his beard, then leaned over to South Bartolica's airlord.

"How did a girl of nineteen with barely any flight experience until only months ago manage to think of this?" he whispered. "Where does she get such drive?"

"We grew up surrounded by engineers and artisans, Saireme Sartov. She also studied history and ancient languages—oh, and mathematics."

"Fine and suitable subjects for a well-bred girl, yet now they are the very skills that the rest of us do not have. I hear that Warden Feydamor plucked her royal flower."

so sean Mcmullen

"In exchange for his, yes. But last night he slept with Bronlar, and they intend to marry."

"On further thought, sense begins to emerge. Samondel loses a legendary hero to Bronlar, another legendary hero, leaving her as the airlord of a defeated, third-rate domain."

"True, and Bronlar has eight times more clear air victories than Samondel."

"But Samondel's were in a single day. This would be Samondel's chance to become a legend without having to wait for another war or fight thirty-five duels."

"Why? To get Serjon Feydamor back?" the South Bartolican laughed softly.

"No possibility. The marriage of Serjon and Bronlar has been announced for next month. Even the greatest of royal weddings in history will not rival it for sheer size and splendor. The Condelor palace will be the setting, with all airlords present. No, I think that Samondel's pride is at stake here. As Airlord Samondel Leover, who established a path over the greatest ocean in the world, her name will become immortal. In a hundred years people will say, 'By the way, did you know that Samondel treated a hero of the Great War to a couple of nights in her bed when he was feeling depressed? What was his name again?' "

"Point taken. How much would you say that she weighs?"

"When stripped for action with Serjon Feydamor? One hundred ten pounds at most."

"That's twenty more than Bronlar, but less than any male warden or airlord. I hear she asked the Australican agent, Semme Darien, to provide her with a common Australican language's basic grammar and vocabulary this morning. Austaric, is its name."

"Ah, so she definitely hopes to lead this venture to Australica."

"I think she may be the only one qualified to do so."

"How will you vote?"

"Affirmative, I should think."

All the time that they had been whispering, the debate on Samondel's proposal had raged on. When the division was called, the

vote was nine for Samondel's proposal and nine against, but as presiding airlord Sartov did not have a vote. Convention was that any motion was lost on a tied council vote, but there was a single option still left open.

"Is there any dispute against the count that declares this motion lost?" called the herald.

Samondel waved her interjection pennant.

"Saireme Airlord Samondel of the house of Leover, you may state your dispute with any vote."

Samondel rose from her cockpit-seat chair and strode across a stretch of uncarpeted floor, her boots echoing like gunshots with every step. She stopped in front of Airlord Drell, slowly removed the glove from her left hand, then backhanded it viciously across his face. Three of the gemstones on the jeweled and gilt-embroidered glove tore scratches across his right cheek. Samondel offered the glove to Drell.

"I say that you led the vote against my motion out of revenge against me for the invasion of your domain," said Samondel clearly and slowly. "You do not have the interests of either this council, Mounthaven, or even you own domain, at heart. I challenge your vote as an airlord."

Drell felt his cheek, regarded the blood on his fingertips for a moment, then snatched the glove from her.

"I accept your challenge."

"What stake do you call?" asked the somewhat rattled herald, who had not been expecting anything remotely like this at the victory meeting.

"I demand that Highland Bartolica become a province of my domain in the event of Airlord Samondel of Leover's defeat."

"Airlord Drell Darontien of Montras accepts a clear air duel challenge," the herald pronounced.

IMews of the duel caused an instant sensation throughout Forian. There was no word about the cause of the dispute, but within two

hours of the meeting breaking up, the compression engines of the gunwings Starflower and Dirkfang were chugging evenly as they warmed for ascent. The airlords' reception to honor the newly engaged Serjon and Bronlar was scheduled to last all afternoon, and through matters of precedent and protocol it could not be canceled. After the official announcement, however, Samondel appeared before the honored couple. Her knee-length red hair was bound up tightly, and her violet eyes were alarmingly wide.

"Airlord Drell Darontien and I wish to take leave of your celebration," said Samondel tersely. "We may be back in a half hour."

"Granted," said Serjon and Bronlar together.

Drell and Samondel walked away across the wingfield and past the royal guards. In the distance artisans swarmed over their shuddering gunwings.

"Drell wears Princess Varelfi's colors on his arm, but Samondel wears none," said Bronlar, staring after them.

"Very unlucky," responded Serjon.

"You have colors," said Bronlar pointedly.

"You wear them," said Serjon.

"But I am not dueling today."

"You have already returned my colors to me once. That was one time too many."

The Conciliator spoke with both airlords, but neither was interested in a retraction. He stepped back from them, and the wingfield adjunct cleared his throat.

"Saireme Airlords, do you swear to fight with chivalry and dignity, in honor of the ladies whose colors you wear?"

The words were a formula, but the formula had never before been applied to a woman fighting a clear air duel.

"I do," replied Drell with a smirk.

"I wear no colors because I fight for the honor of all Mount-haven," replied Samondel.

The airlords and wardens looking on applauded, and Drell cast a sneer at Samondel before they turned away and walked for their gunwings. Moments later the two gunwings were in the air, speeding

away for towers at opposite ends of the city. Both circled the towers correctly, at summit height, then climbed sharply as they closed again. Samondel climbed more steeply in the Yarronese tri-wing, but Drell climbed faster. Both were inexperienced, fighting with energy and ferocity rather than savvy.

After a head-on pass with reaction guns blazing, they got into a climbing chase, circling each other as they clawed for height. Drell's gunwing was faster, but Samondel was able to turn sharply enough to get several bursts of reaction gunfire his way. The adjunct noted several hits to Drell's wings, then abruptly Star flower seemed to lose power, stalled, and dropped into a dive. Caught by surprise, Drell broke out of his climbing circle and hurtled after her. Samondel dropped into a steeper dive, but Drell was not anxious to lose the chance to catch Starflower from behind. The Yarronese gunwing had already walked shots across his wings, and he was behind on points. As Starflower roared down at the wingfield, crews and spectators began to scatter. Samondel began to pull out, as if attempting a highspeed touch with her wheels. This would grant Drell a forfeit, but he wanted a clear air victory and nothing less. At extreme range he opened fire, the throttle of his compression engine wide open. Some thirty feet above the ground Starflower^ three wings provided just sufficient lift to break out of the dive. For several seconds of intense terror Drell realized that Dirkfang had too much speed and not enough lift.

Dirkfang ploughed into the Forian palace wingfield at over two hundred miles per hour, marking its own end with a mighty, mushroom-shaped plume of smoke, flames, and dust. Starflower made a single circuit of the wingfield, then descended to the ascent strip and taxied up to the pennant pole. There was blood trickling from Samondel's nose as her crew helped her from the cockpit. By then it had been confirmed that Airlord Drell was most definitely dead. Samondel gave her report to the wingfield's adjunct.