MIOCENE ARROW

1
CORONATION
5 May 3960: Condelor
It was said that no dominion in Mounthaven did coronations and funerals so well as Greater Bartolica. In area it was the biggest of the dominions and Condelor, its beautiful and ancient capital, was the most elegant of the known world's cities. The buildings that lined its streets were built proof against age as well as earthquakes, built with curving walls that tapered gracefully upward, as if striving to rise into the air. The windows were within heavy arches, but there were so many windows in each building that their interiors were never dark or oppressive. The apartment terraces, shops, and storehouses were all encrusted with multicolored stone and glazed tiles. Even the tiles on the roofs were glazed and colored, for it was important that Condelor also be pleasing to the wardens who saw it from the air. Raised aqueducts of sawn black basalt, orange sandstone, and red brick carried water in from the nearby mountains, where it passed down terracotta pipes to power machines before emptying into the canal waterways that interwove the roads and tramways of the city.
As one neared the center of Condelor the parks became bigger, the mansions were more splendid, and the streets and avenues grew wider until the royal palace came into view above the trees. It was built in parkland interlaced with canals, and to the south was the spacious palace wingfield that could accommodate the gunwings of hundreds of visiting wardens and airlords. Even the gunwing halls ofthe wingfield had stained glass in their arched windows, while the adjunct's tower was surrounded by flying buttresses and encrusted with winged gargoyles.
The coronation of Greater Bartolica's new airlord had attracted wardens and squires with over three hundred sailwings and gunwings, and the field guildsmen and their tents supporting the vast flock of wings had spilled out of the wingfield area and into the surrounding parks. Ground crews could be seen pushing aircraft of every airworthy shape imaginable along the avenues to reach the guild tents where they were to be serviced, tuned, and cleaned. Freelance engineers advertised and displayed their valves, cylinders, rings, bearings, and atomizers at stalls on the mosaic sidewalks. Compression spirit of many caloric blends was available from carts laden with barrels, while other carts carried little steam engines to spin compression engines into life. Freelance gunsmiths did a particularly good trade. The best reaction guns were sold in pairs and were built light--like everything else that had to fly.
Quite apart from its most obvious objective, the coronation was a celebration of travel and class distinction. In fact speed of travel defined Mounthaven society, and one's social status defined whether one had taken months or hours to reach Condelor. At the lowest levels, itinerant workers, poor scholars, outlaws, trappers, and bounty hunters traveled the trails by foot. Such travel was slow and dangerous, but free. At the next level, the farmhands, birdherders, and townsfolk never traveled more than ten miles from where they were born, but they were generally secure and happy, and never attended coronations. The merchants, artisans, and other respectable folk traveled on the steam trams, whose mesh of trackwork linked all the important cities, towns, and estates. The trams were regular and well guarded, but crowded and expensive, and averaged barely three times the pace of a brisk walk. Fuel, raw materials, and equipment were also moved by tram, which meant that everything was expensive unless produced locally. Mostestates were self-sufficient, and few cities were bigger than a half-day journey with a farm handcart.
The nobility flew. Airlords, wardens, squires, and a few select guildsmen flew the sailwings, regals, and gunwings that defined the aristocracy. No part of Mounthaven was more than a few hours away from any warden's estate, but even a flock of three or four wings required an estate of two hundred to support, maintain, and fuel them. A new aircraft cost what a prosperous commoner could earn in two decades. Wardens patrolled the land during Calls, fought duels and highly stylized wars, attacked renegade militia strongholds, and monopolized fast communication and travel. The wardens were visible to all, and in turn saw, taxed, and controlled everyone beneath. them. They were also free of the Call while in the air. While in many ways less than perfect as political systems went, it had endured since the reinvention of diesel compression engines over a thousand years earlier.
Serjon Feydamor was the lowest of the flying elite, an apprentice guildsman and trainee flyer. The Yarronese youth wore a plain green flight jacket as he explored the multitude of stalls of what might easily have been mistaken for an artisans' festival. On the right and left of his collar he also wore silver flyer blazons signifying that he was qualified to fly armed sailwings in the service of his airlord. He had the crest of his engineers' guild on his cap, but his cap was folded up and hidden in his pocket. Occasionally he was hailed as a squire by the vendors, and each time his heart flushed warm with pride.
Serjon was in a very curious position. After having sired several daughters but no sons, the guildmaster Jeb Feydamor had petitioned his wife and his warden under the tradition of assisted succession. Under this custom, Warden Jannian visited Jeb's wife for several weeks until she became pregnant by him. Were the child another girl, the warden's youngest son would become the nominal heir of the Feydamor guild family. As it happened, Serjon wasborn of the union, yet he was born with his true father's love of flying and was proving a poor apprentice engineer. In theory, if Warden Jannian and all his other sons were to die, then Serjon could lay claim to the wardenate. Even though he never wished such a disaster to happen, Serjon nevertheless considered himself to be a flyer. The thin, angular, and intense youth of nineteen wore his engineer's crest with reluctance and shame, and only when forced to.
The great gathering of aircraft was not open to the citizens of Condelor, who had to content themselves with merely watching the wings fly in from all points of the compass. Sailwings and gunwings of the Mounthaven wardens soared lazily through the sky while Serjon wandered the streets. They were elegant and stylish aircraft, whose form had often remained unchanged over centuries because their estate guildsmen had decreed that they had achieved perfection already.
There were more ceremonies than just the coronation, which was the actual focus for the gathering. The guildmasters of the engineers, airframists, fuelers, gunsmiths, and instrumenteers had meetings to refine standards, while wingfield adjuncts met to discuss wingfield administration, dueling and war protocols. Members of the guild of meteorologists discussed weather theory and precedent, squires met to arrange marriages for their children, weavers debated the virtues of the new crosswoven airframe silk that promised double strength, and the wardens themselves discussed flying. The competitions were already over, but pinned to Serjon's collar at his throat was a little gold starpoint kite that marked him as the winner of the sailwing division in target kite shooting. Every so often he would caress it, as if reassuring himself that he was born to fly.
Within the palace grounds the Inner Guard and ancillary carbineers all wore parade uniforms, bright, smart, and well tailored for the coronation. The instruments of the bands shone in the sunlight as they marched along theavenues playing bright, precise marches for the parades and processions, but by night string orchestras took over as the nobles and their wives, sons, and daughters danced in the brightly painted and tapestry-laden halls of the palace. An airlord from Senner had once said, "We go to Condelor to fall in love, and to remember how to live." To Serjon, however, the Condelor gathering was an excuse to hide his cap in his pocket and mingle among strangers as a flyer.
Serjon's wanderings had taken him to the palace wingfield when a Calltower bell began ringing. He immediately went to a public rail and clipped his tether to it, then waited to watch the duty warden ascend for his Call patrol.


The duty warden of the palace wingfield heard the ringing of the Calltower bell as he was breakfasting in the adjunct's chambers. Even as he looked up, the guildsmen of his ground crew began shouting to each other. Moments later the compression engine of his sailwing spluttered into life as his engineers spun it with a steam engine on a cart. The warden stood up, buttoned his jacket, then took a steamed towel from his aide and wiped his face and hands. His flight jacket was a blaze of gold thread embroidery on blue and yellow silk quilting, with gilt epaulettes of dirkfang cat skulls and red gemstones inset within each button. Standing in front of a full-length mirror, he pulled on his leather and felt cap with raised domes of giltwork over the ears, laced it tight, then picked up his tassel-fringed gloves. Finally his aide brought a gold cloak with his estate's crest embroidered on the back, and Warden Brantic strode from the room out onto the wingfield.
Along with Serjon there were hundreds of foreign dignitaries outside waiting to watch the warden ascend, ranging from senior wardens to mere merchants. Serjon should have felt pride burning through his body, knowing that even the wealthy merchants alongside him were below a flyer in peerage status, yet something was nagging at hismind. Warden Brantic's flight designator was 13. Serjon stared at the number as if it were a large and dangerous predator, fearful for the warden yet relieved that someone else was about to step into its cage.
Most of the onlookers were in national parade dress, guild uniforms, or their own splendid flight jackets. There were so many dozens of wardens, squires, flyers, guildmasters, and envoys that Warden Brantic found the spectacle overwhelming as he emerged. What was usually a routine part of a warden's duties had become a major ceremony. One hundred and thirty wardens and nine airlords were in the city for the Bartolican Airlord's coronation, and Bartolican prestige and honor rode with every action of every official in even the most mundane of duties. The adjunct and the wingfield's herald were waiting beside the warden's sleek, white sailwing, and the onlookers included guildmasters from Dorak, Senner, and Colandoro, as well as several wardens from Yarron. All wore Call anchors or Call tethers but Brantic: for this day, he alone was to be godlike and above the Call.
"The layabouts are of higher rank than usual today, Sair Jiminay," said the warden quietly as the wingfield herald opened the silver clasps of the Book of Orders.
"A Call now means no Call for three days or more," murmured the herald. "Tomorrow morning's coronation will be free of interruption, so the new airlord can rightly claim divine favor."
"Who knows, perhaps he really does have divine favor," the warden replied.
The herald rang his handbell for attention.
"Hear now, citizens of Greater Bartolica and honored guests, that Warden Hindanal Brantic has been charged by the Airlord Designate of Greater Bartolica to oversee his palace, capital, and all its approaches during the Call that now approaches us. Warden Brantic, you are charged with the responsibility of flying high above Condelor, watching over its people's safety, guarding its approaches, and warningother wardens and flyers of the peril of the Call. Do you accept this charge?"
"I do accept this charge and all its responsibilities," replied Brantic.
The warden pinned the Airlord Designate's pennon of arms to his jacket beside those of his wife, then strode over to his sailwing and eased himself into the seat. Like all wardens of means, he had a gunwing for dueling and a sailwing for Call patrols. The guildsmen of his ground crew removed the chocks from the wheels and aligned the aircraft on the wingstrip; then the warden was flagged clear to ascend. He tried all the flaps and control surfaces, opened the throttle, and rolled off along the rammed gravel surface. The sailwing lacked the power of a gunwing, but was lighter and more delicately built so that it could stay in the air for over four hours. The warden's sailwing ascended smoothly, and then he cranked in his wheels and banked to the north. The ordeal was over, he was up. He had not made a fool of himself in front of the assembled nobles of Mounthaven.
The Call was approaching from the east, luring every mammal larger than a terrier to wander mindlessly west. The warden flew over the city walls and out over the irrigated farmlands, aqueducts, canals, and trackways. Sure enough, the birdherders were milling about against the west fences of their fields, yet their rheas, emus, and ostriches were grazing normally. The Call did not affect birds of any size; neither did it affect people if they flew free in the air. Nine miles through the Call's depth he flew over fields where its effect had passed. There were no outlaw packs hurrying along in this Call's wake to raid the capital. The warden turned back.
The Call had still not reached Condelor as he flew back over its walls, but the people were prepared. The streets were almost deserted, smoke was less thick from the myriad chimneys, and only the canal barges and gravity trams were still running. The warden noted several buildings thathad not run up their flags: the owners would be fined in due course. He pressed the lever that released the sailwing's siren, then methodically patterned the city so that none but the deaf could have missed its blare.
The front of the Call finally arrived, and presently Brantic was the only human awake in a strip nine miles deep and thirty miles wide. The truth was that the capital did not need the sailwings to patrol its skies during a Call. There was an adequate network of signal towers, warning stations, and Call bulwarks, so that people were seldom lost through accidents or lack of warning. The patrols were symbolic; they were to be seen rather than to protect. The sailwing was a plain statement that the nobility were above the Call in every sense of the word, as it had been for many centuries.
The movement that caught Brantic's eye was within the palace grounds. A figure was walking briskly, diagonal to the Call's direction and allure. One of the ornamental birds, the warden told himself as it vanished behind a bush; then the figure was in sight again. Through his field glasses he could see arms swinging, and the bright blue of a merchant carbineer uniform. A man! The figure vanished into a doorway.
The warden lowered his field glasses and rubbed his eyes. An illusion, he told himself. A shadow, a machine, a trick of the light. He hesitated, then made a note in his log. "Figure walking across direction of Call/ palace administrative wing/ ornamental rhea bird may be loose there."
He was circling for another look when he noticed a gunwing over the city, approaching the palace wingfield with its wheels cranked out. Brantic pushed his sailwing's throt-de forward to full power and stood the aircraft on its wingtip as he came around to warn it off. The red double wedge grew until he could see that it was painted with the East Region's colors. He flew right across its path, but its warden ignored him.
"Idiot, can't you see the flags?" exclaimed Brantic aloud as he released his siren and came around again.
The red gunwing trainer was dropping fast as he caught up, and although the airscrew was spinning, he suspected that it had been feathered. Brantic dipped his wings and pointed east of the city to where the Call had already passed. The other warden stared grimly ahead at the palace wingfield. Now Brantic noticed two other heads through the glass of the narrow cockpit. All that weight, no wonder he's in trouble, the warden thought. He must have ascended with a bare minimum of compression spirit to get off the ground at all.
At fifty feet the Call's effect cut in, even though the aircraft was flying free. The warden had done the alignment well, he was on course to land smoothly and roll to a stop on the flightstrip, even if insensible with the Call. The Bartolican heralds would declare another triumph of Bartolican wardens' skill at flying.
The gust of wind that caught the gunwing trainer would have been nothing to a warden free of the Call, but the red aircraft was gliding deadstick. It tipped, then righted, but it was now parallel to the flightstrip as it continued its descent. It flew over the tents, gunwings, and stores of the assembled wardens, and a wheel passed only inches above the insensible Serjon Feydamor's head as he mindlessly strove against his Call tether to wander west. Finally the gunwing slammed into the compression spirit barrels of the Pangaver wardens. The resulting explosion was all billowing black smoke and arcing fragments, yet nobody on the ground reacted.
Brantic climbed, his head spinning with shock and dismay. A Bartolican warden had crashed during his Call patrol. There would be hell to pay, the Airlord Designate himself would be shouting for blood, and the wardens would all be clamoring for an inquisition when he landed.
"Fool!" Brantic shouted at the column of smoke that was slanting up into the sky; then he turned his sailwing tosweep the airspace over the city for other gunwings. There was none. For the briefest of moments Brantic contemplated a vertical dive at full power into the distant waters of Saltlake, but his training and sense of honor would not allow it. He circled until the Call was past, and although the two remaining hours dragged, they were not slow enough for Brantic. Call flags were being lowered throughout the capital as he began his descent to the palace wingfield.
The Governor of East Region, his wife, and Warden Darris of Pocatello had crammed themselves aboard the red gunwing, intent on making a grand entrance at the coronation. Even with the extra three hundred pounds of passengers and their luggage there should have been fuel to spare, yet there had apparently been headwinds that ate away the margin for safety during the brief ninety-mile flight. Perhaps pride had dictated that they try to land at the capital, rather than coming down on some cart track where the Call had passed already. Whatever the reason, all aboard had died. Fortunately nobody on the ground had been killed, and apart from the fuel dump there had been no other damage. Pangaver was a small and unimportant Dominion, and merely being the center of attention was a matter of satisfaction to its nobles. To Brantic's surprise, nobody had realized exactly what had happened until he had landed. Serjon had helped to fight the last of the flames once the Call had passed and freed him, yet the Yarronese flyer had thought he was attending the crash site of Warden Brantic's gunwing--doomed by the 13 of its designator.
The duty warden was suspended from all further Call patrol flights pending a full inquisition, but preparations for the coronation went on without interruption. The investiture of a new governor for East Region was scheduled as the new airlord's first official duty, however.


Some miles to the south a steam tram chuffed across the pastures and farmlands that were still under the Call. Thedriver was in the grip of the Call and had released his deadhand brake and firebox quench, yet another man was gripping the deadhand lever with his left hand while holding a small telescope to his eye with his right. While not totally oblivious of the allure of the Call, he was still in full control of both his mind and body.
Juan Glasken was far less in awe of the distant outline of Condelor than the vast majority of the Bartolican capital's visitors, but unlike that vast majority he had traveled far, far further. Sometimes the big, middle-aged man had been in search of fortune and sometimes city constables had been hot on his heels. On one occasion he had even been in command of the squad of musketeers whose flintlocks were all that stood between the Southern Alliance Mayorates and an overwhelming army of Southmoors.
But there were no musketeers in the four American Callhavens, and not a single army or militia still used flintlocks. Neither were there any Southmoors, and the American nations were called dominions rather than mayorates. Glasken was good at learning new languages, was used to travel, and could handle himself well in a fight. This made him a good choice for a long and dangerous mission to the other side of the world from which there could be no return, but there was something else which made him a truly ideal choice: he was under a sentence of death in his very distant homeland. A friend had once described Glasken as not completely human in some ways, yet far more human than any human had a right to be.
Glasken released the deadhand lever, and automatic mechanisms began to slow the tram. He walked back to the passenger compartment where a woman sat reading while two others strained mindlessly against their Call tethers to follow the allure west into a nearby salt lake.
"The tram is slowing, Fras Glasken," said the middle-aged but still strikingly beautiful woman, looking up from her book.
"There is a Call upon us and we are approaching Condelor, Frelle Theresla," he replied.
"So?"
"So these people have wardens who fly above the Call's influence. I can see a wing-machine patrolling above the city with my telescope, and if he saw this tram moving he would be suspicious about why the deadhand lever had not been released."
Theresla closed her book and looked out over the flat pastures where rheas and emus grazed, as oblivious of the Call as she.
"It is such a bore to have humans who can defy the Call," she said as the tram shuddered to a halt. Steam began hissing through a valve in the boiler.
"The driver will be surprised to be within sight of Condelor and with a hot boiler too--but then we know nothing of that, do we?"
"Of course not, Fras Glasken. As always, I am pleased to have you in charge of such details. Speaking of details, they say that the current Bartolican fashion is for the women to display a great deal of breast."
Glasken twirled the points of his waxed mustache and wiggled his fingers.
"Perhaps I was unduly hasty in releasing the deadhand," he replied, but he sat down and clipped on his Call tether nevertheless. "So, do you still think we will find the aviad radicals in Condelor?"
"Fras Glasken, this coronation is one of the biggest gatherings of Mounthaven leaders that is possible. If they wish to buy allies and hatch plots they will do it here."
"There may be hundreds of them, and they will not be pleased to see us."
"So they may reveal themselves by trying to kill us," Theresla concluded with an open flourish of her arms.
"Frelle Theresla, I have ideas about dying asleep, in bed, as a very old man, and in the company of someone else's wife," Glasken grumbled.
"You will probably die soon, in great pain, and with your body riddled with bullet holes, Fras Glasken, just like the rest of us. In the meantime, are you ready to play the part of a suave lecher with no more moral restraint than a pig in a cakeshop?"
"Oink, oink," replied Glasken. "And will you be spying, stealing, lying, and killing people?"
"Oh yes. Ah, the driver is stirring. Best to speak only Old Anglian from now on."


Serjon Feydamor stood with his father, watching the Inspector General's staff sifting through the still smoking wreckage of the Bartolican gunwing and Pangaver fuel barrels. Serjon was now wearing his cap and guild crest, the gold radial compression engine of the engineers' guild. His crest was dull and grimy, yet every few minutes he took a handkerchief to polish the silver wings on his collar that marked him as a registered flyer.
"Of course this is only to be expected," Serjon pronounced solemnly, wiping at the silver wings yet again.
"What do you mean?" asked guildmaster Jeb Feydamor, wondering what his stepson had seen that everyone else had missed.
"This is thirteen weeks and thirteen years since Warden Darris made his first solo flight, I checked in the adjunct's register. Now he should have--"
"Serjon, give it a rest! We're guildsmen, not astrologers."
With that Feydamor turned away in exasperation, and began to slowly circle around the crash site. Serjon glanced across to Brantic's distant sailwing then went after his father.
"Warden Brantic's sailwing has 13 in its flock designator code," Serjon continued as they paced together. "I tried to warn him yesterday but he called me an ignorant Yarronese peon."
"You are an ignorant Yarronese peon," replied Feydamortestily. "You give the rest of us a bad name with your superstitions--and that badge!"
Jeb snatched the cap from Serjon, rubbed the gold radial engine crest on his sleeve until it shone out against the dark cloth, then jammed the cap back on his son's head. They passed an officer of the Bartolican merchant carbineers who was standing with his arms folded, also watching the investigation. Once the guildmaster and his stepson had their backs to him he smiled and nodded imperceptibly.
Warden-heir Alion Damaric of Yarron also stood at the crash site, paying his respects to the dead nobles. Thoughts and associations passed through his mind as he searched for a reason for the tragedy. Gunwings were kept in the air by fuel barrels and guildsmen's tents, yet how inglorious it was for a warden to end his life by smashing into a pile of barrels. He became aware of a girl nearby, a Bartolican noble with a loose plait of red hair that reached down to her knees. She had her mouth covered with her hands, and there were tears streaming from her eyes. The tiny pennons sewn onto the shoulders of her sleeves declared that she was of the royal house of the Airlord Designate. Alion walked across to her.
"A tragedy of the very worst kind," he said in Bartolican. "Did you know them?"
"Hardly at all," she replied, staring unfocused into the litter of black char. "I weep for the tragedy, but I weep with joy that they died honorably, in a gunwing. Others say they were fools, dying for the sake of a better view in the coronation, but ..."
"They died honoring their new airlord, Semme. What better way could they have died? In bed? In a training flight?"
"Oh sair, you do understand--"
She turned, then caught sight of the gold Yarronese lacework on Alion's flight jacket. She backed away a step.
"Warden-heir Alion Damaric, at your service, Semme,"he said, bowing from the waist. "I may be Yarronese, but I am not evil."
The girl recovered her composure, stepped forward again, and took his hand, bowing in turn.
"Please, your pardon, sair. I am Samondel of the Leovor estate. You, you startled me, I do apologize, again. Just now some ignorant Yarronese guildsman was saying that they died because of thirteen in a flock designator or some such rubbish."
"They died through chance, but chance also let them die honorably," Alion said solemnly. "There is nothing more to say."
They wandered away together. Alion gave the Bartolican princess a tour of the gunwings of his father's estate before escorting her back to the palace. As they passed the tents and wings of the Jannian estate a guildsman tapped Serjon's shoulder as he worked with his head beneath an engine cowling, hoping to get grease on his engineer's badge again.
"Always happens," said Pel Jemarial, guildmaster of Jannian's airframe guild. "Whenever there's a gathering of the flocks some young fools from the wrong side of a feud decide to fall in love."
Serjon looked out from the open cowling of the sailwing and glanced at the couple.
"Lucky fools," was all that he had to say to his warden's airframe guildmaster.


In spite of the hundreds of towns and cities that Rosenne Rodriguez had traveled to, she was still astounded by the magnificence of the capital of Greater Bartolica. The interdominion tramway led through the most imposing parts of the city: across wide canals, over boulevards teeming with people, under mighty arches, through tunnels, and finally over a huge stone bridge looking down along the processional avenue to the airlord's palace. The angular Sky Tower of the palace reached up above its other spires,as if standing guard over the ancient throne room's red-tile and stone arch roof, and parklands encircled the palace like a ruff of green lace.
Across the steam tram's cabin the envoy's three servants were observing the city as well. Theresla and Darien were the same age as the envoy, and all three women had their 'hair bound tightly and wrapped in scarves. Glasken wore a scarlet hat on which an ostrich feather bobbed.
"This is wonderful!" exclaimed Rosenne, clapping her hands as they passed within the flying buttresses of an ornate bridge whose extensions met above the trackway. "Unbelievable, fantastic, enchanting!"
"Wonderful," Theresla replied mechanically, attentive but less enthusiastic than her mistress.
Glasken was attentive too, but in the way that a bodyguard is attentive. The tramways had been laid to a plan, and that was to impress visitors arriving from other dominions. Two thousand years and six dozen generations of masons had made the city what it was, and nothing had been lost for a long time. Mounthaven's wars were not the type that laid cities waste.
The steam tram slowed as it approached the waystation and was switched into the Airlord's platform. The chuffing of the steam engine faded to hissing as the tram stopped amid acrid exhaust fumes and the sweet aroma of alcohol and seed oil. Wood-fired steam trams were banned from Condelor, as their exhausts soiled the stonework. Glasken opened the door and stepped out, then nodded to the envoy that it was safe. Inspector General Roric Hannan was waiting for the envoy, resplendent in the boulevard coat and gold chains that he was wearing for the viewing of the flypast later that day.
"The Airlord Designate's welcome to you, Semme Envoy Rosenne Rodriguez of Veraguay," he said in Old Anglian, with a manner that managed a mix of grace, dignity, deference, and superiority. "I am Inspector General Roric Hannan."
Rosenne bowed slightly, then looked Roric directly in the eyes.
"In all my travels from Veraguay, I have never seen such a beautiful city," she declared.
Hannan bowed again, the trace of a smile on his lips. She had said beautiful rather than magnificent, but she was nonetheless in awe of the capital. Greater Bartolica was indeed magnificent, beautiful, and more. Theresla and Darien stepped onto the stone platform and an official beside Hannan snapped his fingers. Two guards and a liaison clerk came forward.
"Your servants will be sent to prepare your new residence," Hannan told the envoy.
"I advise against it, Ladyship," Glasken rumbled warily. "My place is with you."
"Oh Juan, there is no danger," Rosenne replied. "I have all these Bartolican guards, but Theresla and Darien have only you."
"I was not hired to protect servants," Glasken replied firmly.
Hannan noted that Glasken had preserved his fitness against the years and wondered about the studded leather collar that encircled his neck. He was clean-shaven except for a heavily waxed and dyed mustache that sat like a spindle on his upper lip, and a pointed goatee beard. Theresla was obviously Rosenne's chief servant: she held her head up proudly and had authority in her every gesture. Darien stayed back and kept her eyes down, not saying a word.
Hannan took a deep breath. "Aureate, make sure that the servants of Envoy Rodriguez are taken to their quarters in the Enclave of Dominions. Give them whatever help they need to settle Semme Rodriguez and make her feel at home."
He gestured to a promenade barge that was tied up in the canal that flowed beside the tram station platform. The gilt-painted barge was about twenty-five feet long, and thesoft, whispery chuffing of a four-cycle compression engine was coming from somewhere beneath the decking. It was open on the sides, but the sun was held off by a red canopy fringed with green and gold tassels. There was no sign of any crew as the party stepped aboard and clipped their Call tethers to the retaining ring in the middle. One of the guards cast off the ropes and Hannan said simply, "The palace wingfield."
The note of the barge's engine rose a little in pitch as they pulled away from the quay and out into the canal.
"We Bartolicans like to keep the mechanics out of sight," said the guard captain as Glasken looked about in astonishment.
"And why is that, Sair Captain?" he asked in confident Old Anglian.
"So that they will not get ideas about being part of the vista, so that they will remember their places as mere cogs in a greater machine. There are men beneath the decking, although there is little more than a foot of clearance. They crawl about on their bellies, tending the compression engine and peeping through slits in the bow to steer."
"This is an impressive welcome."
"A stranger made welcome is a friend to be. You are just in time for the flypast of wardens and allocation of standing ranks for the coronation tomorrow. We Bartolicans take it very seriously, in fact three nobles died this morning in their efforts to get here in time for those ceremonies."
They glided amid gardens of flowering vines hanging down from the stone sides of the canal and trailing in the water. All the bridges were drawn back, even though the low barge could have cleared them easily. The captain explained to Glasken that they were in one of the fleet of royal barges, and nobody was permitted to be above any barge of the Airlord of Bartolica.
"That's the official story, at any rate. The truth is that a blind beggar named Rinol Harz pissed on Airlord Jumerilthe Fourth in 3791. The poor wretch was seized and shot before he'd even had time to lace up, then Jumeril had every bridge in the city put on hinges. The Yarronese later erected a statute honoring Sair Harz in Forian, their capital."
"So the Bartolicans and Yarronese are not on the best of terms?"
"Not for more centuries than the number of my lovers, no. We of Bartolica strive for the glories of the Age of Cybers. We seek to emulate the machines of that glorious time, using servants instead of cybers, all the while striving to rebuild the cyber technology itself. The Yarronese wallow in grease and rivets without remembering what those rivets and that grease are leading toward. What is your level of technical achievement in Veraguay, Fras Glasken?"
Ah, the thin edge of civility that precedes the wedge of espionage, Glasken thought.
"I am only from Mexhaven, but the envoy often speaks of home. The land is mountainous, far more so than yours. They have walled roads, cable-cage railcars, terraced farmlands, and rangepens of cobarci."
"Cobarci?" asked the captain.
"They are like little, fluffy pigs, and are not affected by the Call. The villages are small, and there are only five towns with more than ten thousand souls. The cathedrals and universities are in those towns."
"But where do your artisans work?"
"They go where demand leads them."
"That seems unworkable. What about the governments and armies of their dominions?"
"The roads are built into the sides of mountains and are easily defended by the town militias. The Conciliar members have no specific capital or palace, they travel from town to town. They are artisans of organization, just like blacksmiths or tailors."
They passed the Enclave of Dominions, where the foreigndiplomats were housed. Rosenne said that it reminded her of a university: all parkland with ivy-shrouded buildings blending in with the trees. One tower nearby reached high above the trees, a conical structure with a circular gallery near the top. Hannan proudly announced that this was part of his mansion. Presently they passed through a gate in the wall of the outer grounds of the palace, and Hannan noticed a lone figure at one of the stone landings.
"Odd, that's Warden Stanbury," he remarked. "I wonder why he's not over at the wingfield for the flypast."


Warden Stanbury paced restlessly beside the palace canal, hardly believing that his governor was dead. Carabas had promised, and Carabas never broke a promise. "Your way will be clear for honors," he had said. Stanbury had thought the man had the ear of the Airlord Designate, and had not expected the disaster that had followed.
He plucked a sky-blue rose from a bush beside the stone barge quay and began methodically breaking the thorns off the stem and flicking them into the water. Carabas finally appeared in an oargig with another man rowing, and both of them wore the uniform of the merchant carbineers. He beckoned Stanbury to join them. The well-mannered Carabas was in his late forties, and although he walked with a slight limp he was as lean, strong, and fit as any warden in his prime.
"It is chronicled that roses were never blue before the engineers of the twenty-first century took a hand to them," said Carabas with a neat, circular gesture to the bloom in Stanbury's hand.
"What of him?" Stanbury asked, looking to the lean but muscular rower.
"He knows all that I do, Warden Stanbury. You may speak safely in front of him."
Stanbury stepped into the oargig and they pulled out into the center of the canal. There were other boats on the water, all full of noisy excursionists and bedecked with flowers.The rower began to pace a barge in which a brass band was playing.
"Well, how did you do it?" hissed Stanbury, his heart pounding.
"I do a great deal, Sair Stanbury," replied Carabas. "To what do you refer?"
"The gunwing crash that killed the Governor of the East Region!"
"The Inspector General's inquisitors have been over the wreckage but found nothing."
"That's just the field inspection. The guild scrutiny will not be so easy to escape."
"There is nothing obvious to find, a mere pinprick in the bottom of the atomizer's floatwell, nothing more. A stick of wax sealed it shut initially, but the bypass pipe on which the stick rested became hot and caused the wax to melt within a half hour. After that the engine began to burn an unreasonable amount of compression spirit. The fire burned all traces of wax from the engine, and who would notice one tiny hole extra amid all the other damage?"
"So your people did do it. That's bad, the hole will be found when the pieces are scrutinized in the guild chamber."
"Good, it is meant to be found."
Stanbury flopped back in his seat and flung the blue rose into the water. The enigmatic carbineer clearly had agendas that he could not even guess at.
"Flight guildsmen guard their wardens' gunwings better than they guard their own balls. How did your people do it, are they Callwalkers?"
"If you learned the truth, Sair Stanbury, your hands would be too unsteady to take your gunwing up for a duel."
Carabas leaned back, waving one hand in time with the music from the barge up ahead. Stanbury folded his arms and shuddered.
"Did you have to kill him?" Stanbury asked in a voice that was barely audible above the music.
Carabas shook his head as if chiding a foolish child. "The Governor killed himself, good sair. The sweep of the Call is only nine miles deep, he could easily have glided to a field, road, or pond beyond the sweep and made a forced landing once the compression engine died."
"That would have delayed his governor's arrival until after the coronation seating had been declared."
"Ah yes, but what is a life against an event? Alas, he was determined to land at the palace in time to secure a place that befitted his rank in the coronation ceremony. He paid the price of hubris and ambition."
Stanbury had the look of a dirkfang cat cornered by a gang of birdherders, even though the day was warm, sunny, and tranquil, and Condelor resembled nothing more threatening than one huge carnival.
"The Governor was not a bad man," said Stanbury miserably. "He presented me with my warden bars ... I even flirted with his wife. I saw her body being carried away. Gah, her hair was burned off and her skin was charred black and oozing blood."
"One way or another, Sair Stanbury, you would have had to destroy him--in reputation if not in body. Your only problem now is that Warden Desondrian is his named successor and will be appointed tomorrow unless you declare him to be unfit."
Stanbury sat forward and hunched his shoulders as a gunwing droned overhead trailing streamers of colored smoke.
"Desondrian is sure to hand the black glove to me if I do that. How will you help me to fight him? We are evenly matched for any duel."
"I do not help, Sair Warden Stanbury, I provide opportunities. You have your opportunity, and now you must cultivate it if you want to seize a magnificent destiny. Remember that chances like this come only once in a lifetime.Declare an objection to Desondrian's appointment, sair, then fight for what is yours to take."
They were approaching another quay by now, and Warden Stanbury was as anxious to be done with the meeting as he had been to commence it.
"I have been doing some research in the registers," he said, looking up at a gunwing practicing aerobatics. "Your birth, studies, and career are all recorded, but up until four years ago people have trouble recalling you."
Carabas smiled easily, as if he had anticipated the question long before Stanbury had thought to ask it.
"The Marquis de Carabas was a character in a very old fairy tale. He was a man of importance from very far away who did not quite exist. I am all of those things, Warden Stanbury, so I am called Carabas."


Juan Glasken and the captain of Hannan's escort had by now discovered that they shared a strong interest in women. While Hannan pointed out the glories of the ancient palace to the Veraguay envoy, across the barge a rather less tasteful conversation was taking place between the captain and Glasken.
"Your Bartolican women, do they, ah, jiggy jump?" asked Glasken.
The captain blinked at the man's boldness, then smiled knowingly and leaned closer.
"They have strong motherly instincts, Sair Glasken. First make them feel sorry for you. Then--and only then--pay them compliments. Bartolican women tend to be generous of figure, and cleavages in particular are a matter of high fashion just now."
"Cleavages and I are old friends from decades past."
"Mind out, Sair Glasken, that you engage their sympathy first. Otherwise you may find yourself with a slap on the face."
"My face is no stranger to slaps, Captain. Love and war cannot be engaged in without casualties."
"Of course, Glasken, I understand. Seduction is part of my stock-in-trade in the diplomatic service. Public lies are shouted in councils and courts, but secret truths are whispered in beds." The captain gripped Glasken's arm suddenly and inclined his head toward the stone quay that the barge was approaching. "That rather formidable battle tram on the quay is Semme Laurelene Hannan, the Inspector General's wife. Don't waste your time looking for her sympathy."
Glasken looked in the direction he had indicated to see a woman in her mid-forties who was a little above average height and considerably above average weight. She was surveying the canal imperiously. Her hair was bound back tightly to hang in a plait festooned with gold and red tassels, while her blue, ankle-length skirt was cascading with flounces. Obviously meant to disguise her figure yet they expand it all the more, he decided. As was the current Bartolican fashion, she displayed an expanse of cleavage that was to Glasken more awesome than alluring.
The barge docked and Glasken was first to step onto the quay. Laurelene swept grandly along the flagstones, with a little page boy running beside her holding a long-handled parasol high to keep the sun from the flawless white skin of her face and cleavage. She stopped before Glasken.
"Sair Envoy, I am Semme Laurelene Hannan," she declared. "I thought I should meet you at least, but I cannot stay. The Airlord Designate's wife has asked me to--"
By now Glasken had bowed so low over the white expanse of her breasts that the waxed point of his beard had dipped into her cleavage. She let out a squawk of surprise but otherwise retained her composure.
"I regret that I am but the envoy's guard," Glasken explained as he straightened. "The envoy is safe in the company of your good husband."
Hannan was helping Rosenne from the barge. Laurelene stood speechless while the quite beautiful Veraguay envoyswept along the stone quay, escorted by the Inspector General.
"Semme Hannan, my thanks for troubling yourself to meet me here," she said without waiting for her escort's introduction.
A minor diplomatic incident was averted by the arrival of an official of the Airlord Designate, who came clattering down the stone stairs and whispered something to Laurelene.
"I regret that I must leave my husband to look after you," said Laurelene to the envoy in a voice as cold as the north wind. "The wife of my new ruler has need of me."
She cast Hannan a glare that said he would soon suffer for this, then turned and ascended the steps with her parasol boy trotting beside her. Rosenne, Hannan, and Glasken climbed the steps together, then stood watching Laurelene sweeping away down the path.
"An ... extraordinary woman," said Glasken in a language that neither of his companions could understand as they set off along the path to the wingfield.
"Uh, your pardon, Sair Glasken?" said Hannan.
"Ah, she is a gracious woman, mistaking me for an envoy," Glasken replied in Old Anglian.
"Gracious?" snorted Hannan. "I would not even wish her married to my worst enemy. Well, maybe my worst enemy, but nobody else."
The envoy took Hannan's hand and squeezed it, smiling warmly at him. Hannan was so startled by the gesture that he stared blankly at her as they walked.
"Poor Inspector General, there is little mercy in your life, is there?" she said gently.
"Why, I--I don't know what you mean."
"I see it in your eyes, in the lines on your face, I hear it in the stiffness of your voice. You were not prepared for this meeting, were you, Sair Hannan?"
"You have a sharp eye, Semme," he admitted wearily.
"Then tell me, dear Sair Hannan, why did you come towelcome me while the rest of the nobles are making merry at the palace?"
Hannan gave a sigh that almost turned into a sob. Somehow talking to Rosenne was like collapsing into a soft, welcoming bed after a very bad day. One simply wanted to trust her and depend on her.
"My wife, Laurelene, was supposed to meet you. She said she had better things to do than trade grunts with some barbarian yokel, so I came in her stead."
Rosenne put a hand on Hannan's shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. "You grunt most charmingly, Sair Hannan. Seeing that your wife is so busy, would you do me the honor of being my escort on this day?"
The woman admired him. That single fact stood out like a gunwing in a clear sky. Hannan paused to bow low to her, sweeping off his hat to reveal a prematurely grey and seriously balding head.
"Gracious lady, of course, how could I refuse when your charm all but reduces me to tears?"
Some paces ahead, Glasken and the captain were oblivious of the rapidly flowering romance.
"We are about to see wings and meet wardens," the captain explained. "Wardens are our warrior nobility. Each of their families maintains hereditary engineers, airframe builders, and other such guildsmen to keep their gunwings and sailwings maintained and flying."
"So being a warden is an expensive business?" asked Glasken.
"If you need to ask the cost, you are too poor to qualify. Look, there's another flock of gunwings arriving for the coronation week."
To the north a wedge of dots was moving across the sky. There were three of the little aircraft, and Glasken soon saw that they were awkward, triwing shapes painted with heraldic symbols and codes. Their compression engines were loud and insistent as they passed overhead.
"Only Yarronese gunwings," the captain said with asneer. "Now then, among our dominions the wardens settle the more intractable disputes in duels with their gunwings. They are armed with reaction guns mounted in the nose."
"Ah, what are reaction guns?"
"They are guns that use the reaction of each shot to reload. They can fire hundreds of times in a single minute."
"But should a Call come past while they are flying they would be as good as dead!" Glasken exclaimed innocently.
"Oh no, a gunwing flying above treetop height is not affected by the Call, Sair Glasken. Proximity with the ground or contact with the ground is required, by either rope, building, tree, or whatever. Even should they land during a Call, they would not blank out until they were within about fifty feet of the ground. I--"
He had turned, to see Rosenne with her arm on Hannan's. They were laughing and smiling, oblivious of the crowd and splendor around them.
"Sair Glasken, remember when you most bravely dipped your beard into Semme Laurelene's cleavage just now?" the captain asked, turning away quickly.
"It was something of an accident."
"Well my master is currently doing something far braver."


Flown as the preferred weapon of wardens, the gunwings of Mounthaven's dominions were what the warhorse had been to the European knights of three millennia earlier. While hard to tune, expensive to build and maintain, underpowered, difficult to master, and dangerous to fly, they were nearly invincible to all but another gunwing, as well as being the very soul of wardenly status.
Only the wardens and a few of their support guildsmen flew, looking down on the countryside like gods and traveling between dominions within mere hours.
Serjon Feydamor's family had been in the engineers' guild for centuries, and they worked for the estate of Jannian, one of the principal wardens of Yarron. Warden Jannianhad sent his airframe guild, engineers' guild, fuelers, and armorers in advance by steam trams, along with spare parts and tools. Serjon had flown there in a spare sailwing, but Jannian was to arrive in his gunwing. Jannian was well known for making spectacular entrances, however, and he had sworn to fly not from his estate on the border, but all the way from the Yarronese capital.
Jeb Feydamor stood looking up at the sky with Serjon and fueler guildsman Bellaroy on the part of the wingfield assigned to the Yarronese.
"A stupid and dangerous gesture," Bellaroy said yet again. "Flying from Median to here would have been enough in itself, but Warden Jannian just had to fly directly from Forian. After what happened this morning, too."
"It's more than a gesture," said Feydamor with resigned understanding. "It declares superiority. This says that his wealth is such that he can rail in his own complete crews and not depend on Bartolicans, while his gunwings have such a range that no Bartolican gunwing can touch."
The droning of compression engines became distinct above the background bustle of the wingfield tents and stalls, and through his field glasses Feydamor resolved three triwings approaching from the south. The gunwing and two T-class sailwings circled the palace once, then landed in quick succession. Warden Jannian's gunwing taxied to the maintenance tents between its two less powerful companions. The Bartolican officials who had come to greet him gathered around the gunwing as the canopy was raised. The flyer within removed a flight cap, but the head that emerged was that of a girl, no more than eighteen years of age. Her thin, alert face was framed by dark brown, shoulder-length hair, and wary brown eyes regarded them through the twin oval marks left on her face by her goggles.
"Warden Jannian is in the starboard T-class," she said as they stared at her speechlessly.
She hurriedly ducked down out of sight within the cockpit.The outraged officials strode off to Jannian's T-class sailwing just as Serjon arrived to collect the logbooks. He stopped in astonishment when the head of Jemarial's daughter Bronlar reappeared.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"I'm pleased to see you too, Serjon."
"But you're in the warden's gunwing!"
"Sair Serjon, I weigh ninety-one pounds, the warden weighs twice that. An extra tank was rigged just behind my head with a twelve extra gallons of compression spirit for the journey. I landed with nearly a gallon to spare."
"You flew this thing all the way from Forian?" he exclaimed.
"Shush, the warden will hear."
The warden did not hear. There was a loud exchange going on between him and the Bartolican officials as they walked back past the gunwing.
"It is the greatest possible insult to the Airlord of Bartolica to let a mere child, and a girl, fly the very symbol of wardenly authority and chivalry," the wingfield adjunct was insisting loudly.
"Bronlar is the daughter of my airframe guildmaster and is an accredited flyer," retorted Jannian. "She is permitted to have flyer status in order to test gunwings after maintenance or alterations."
"That rule applies to apprentices!" cried the current duty warden.
"The letter of the rule says 'child': age and sex are not mentioned," Warden Jannian countered.
The adjunct's composure weakened. "That cannot be true," he spluttered.
"It is true," said the wingfield herald reluctantly. "The word is 'child' rather than 'son', so that adopted sons and stepsons can be included for guildsmen without sons."
"Why were girls not specifically excluded?" demanded the duty warden.
"'Son, adopted son, stepson, or any other male deemedto be the son by law and in line of succession of a guildsman' is twenty-three words, 'child' is but a single word," the herald explained while counting out words on his fingers. "When the Guild Charter was simplified last century such abbreviations became common."
"But nobody dreamed that the intent of the reformers would be abused like this!" interjected the adjunct.
"Meaning that Bronlar is permitted by law to make any initial test flight," added Jannian.
"A three-hundred-mile test flight?" scoffed the wingfield adjunct.
"It was the first flight after the addition of the extra tank," Jannian assured him.
Bronlar's status as a flyer was know in courtly circles as a matter of debate rather than fact. Occasionally women would ascend to the throne as airlords of dominions, and one could not be an airlord without being able to fly. When this happened the airlord designate was given sufficient flight training to ascend solo and fire a practice volley at a target kite. This done, they would be accredited as a warden but never ascend again, except as a passenger. A governor's wife had learned to fly with the issue of female accreditation still unresolved among Yarronese wardenry, but she had died in a training accident. The rank of flyer had been conferred upon her as a gesture of sympathy to the very popular Governor Sartov--and because she was safely dead.
On the other hand Bronlar was female, alive, young, from the artisan class, and superior to most youths with comparable flight experience. Governor Sartov himself had pointed out to Jannian the loophole in the inter-dominion regulations that had allowed Bronlar's accreditation to be passed, but now debate was raging on whether the loophole should be closed or whether the talented Bronlar should be allowed to progress to the squires' lists. The Bartolicans had thought that the girl had been lucky enough to survive one or two solo flights in a sailwing,and was just a pawn in some Yarronese political dispute. Now she had arrived in a gunwing, having set a record for gunwing endurance that would probably have to be entered in the inter-dominion Annals of Honor.
The wingfield adjunct looked back to the Yarronese gunwing in time to see the diminutive Yarronese girl climb out of the cockpit. She stood on a wing, hurriedly combing her hair in the chase mirror, then brushed strands from the glittering embroidery of her flight jacket. That slight touch of feminine grooming was too much for the adjunct. His face flushed with anger again, and he threw up his hands in frustration. This was a clear abuse of the intent of the Guild Charter, even though no specific breach had taken place. He strode away in the direction of his tower while Jannian and the duty warden walked off toward the pennant pole, still arguing.
Bronlar jumped to the ground, then gazed after them as their voices faded in the distance. Serjon began an assessment check on the gunwing that she had been flying. He was a year older than she, also lightly built but taller--in fact at an inch below six feet tall, he was a giant among flyers. Wavy black hair covered his ears and collar, while his protuberant green eyes gave him a somewhat manic aspect. His attitude did little to dispel this impression. As Bronlar sat on the grass writing her flight report, Serjon withdrew his head from the access hatch and glared at her, his fists on his hips.
"There's no spare gallon in these tanks, Bronlar," he said firmly. "Your indicator float was ill calibrated. You landed with only the fuel in the feedlines. Thirteen perits of compression spirit, to be exact."
"Yet here I am, alive and--"
"By the grace of fortune alone!" he snapped. "Only this morning some Bartolican idiot managed to kill himself and his two passengers while trying to do less than you just did. Thirteen perits! That's very unlucky."
"Then where is my bad luck?"
Serjon glared at her, then held up the measuring glass.
"Bad luck is bad luck. Today you collected some, tomorrow it will poison you."
"Warden Jannian's judgment was good," said Bronlar. "I do whatever he says. He's always right."
"The warden's luck was good, not his judgment," insisted Serjon through clenched teeth. "Had he been flying this gunwing it would have come down before he'd even crossed the Bartolican border. Besides, I'm the neophyte flyer on the estate. I should have flown this gunwing here."
"I know," replied Bronlar. "But you weigh more than me and would have run out of compression spirit over the mountains."
Serjon was annoyed to catch himself practically admitting his jealousy, but a fight was a fight whether the cause was just or not.
"You are just a symbol for Jannian's reforms," said Serjon, gesturing up to the gunwing. Bronlar slapped his hand down.
"You and everyone assume that I'm allowed to do what I do because I am a girl and a symbol. Well I'm a skilled flyer too! I'm good at nursing a wing along and traveling great distances. I can hang just above stall speed--"
"I'm better at shooting target kites--"
"Aye, but this was about distance."
"You flew here without colors," Serjon now declared. "That's very bad luck, ascending in service or anger without colors."
"Luck is what you make of opportunities, Serjon. Besides, I do have colors, see here."
Serjon peered at the bunch of ribbons fastened to a tag on the right arm of Bronlar's red and green leaf pattern flight jacket. One had the embroidered crest of the Jannian estate, another was for the engineers guild, another for an unmarried girl, a three was embroidered on the next for the girl was a third daughter, and on the next was a very familiar family crest. Ramsdel, of the flight fabric divisionof the airframe guild, sauntered up while Serjon was making his examination.
"Kallien!" exclaimed Serjon as he put the embroidered codes together. "My own sister!"
"She helped me make my jacket. I wear her colors out of thanks."
"Nice needlework on the jacket," said Ramsdel approvingly, "but there should be more and smaller leaves--and in gilt thread. Gilt is definitely you."
"But I should wear Kallien's colors," cried Serjon.
"You have another four sisters, you wear their colors in rotation," retorted Bronlar.
"But, but I'm her brother, she should care for me first."
"Would you want me to have ascended in service with no colors, Sair Serjon? That's bad luck, you know."
At a total loss for words, Serjon scanned both Bronlar and the gunwing for thirteen of anything, but to no avail. His shoulders sagged and he scuffed the grass at his feet.
"Perhaps I'd better prepare colors for myself," he said at last, suddenly gloomy with resignation.
"It should be the same as Kallien's," said Ramsdel, missing the sarcasm intended, "except that the maroon ribbon with three will have to be one and ... what color? No man has ever prepared colors before, there is no precedent in heraldry--not officially at any rate."
"The airlord flies over his estate burning a violet flare on the night a son is born, and maroon for a daughter," suggested Bronlar.
"Oh, congratulations, it's a boy," said Serjon.
"I'll do you a set of colors for another half hour of flight time in the trainer sailwing," offered Ramsdel.
Serjon rolled his eyes. "Why not? If more girls keep ascending it may be the only way I'll get one to notice me."
They were interrupted by the appearance of Bronlar's father, Pel Jemarial, who was striding over and smilingbroadly. Serjon thrust his head back into the engine's access hatch.
"Bronlar, darling, what a girl you are!" he cried, hugging her and whirling her around. "Three hundred miles."
"The weather helped, Papa, it was calm nearly all the way."
"Pah, even a raging mountain storm would not have stopped you. Come along now, your mother has your trunk. A flying jacket is hardly suitable for your first coronation."
Serjon withdrew his head from the engine and stared after them as they walked away toward the accommodation tents. Ramsdel was tracing out the current Bartolican ladies' fashion for high, wide cleavages on his own chest, a fashion for which Bronlar was not particularly well endowed. Ramsdel had no invitation to the coronation, but had somehow secured work as a standard-bearer so that he could note the fashions and tailoring at the great ceremony. His small, wiry frame, curly black hair, and olive skin allowed him to pass as someone much younger, although he was actually older than Serjon.
Serjon had no invitation to the coronation; he was just a flyer of the lowest rank. He began pumping compression spirit into the reserve tanks to recalibrate the indicator float of the gunwing, all the while holding his mind in a painless blank.
6 May 3960: Condelor
The coronation of Leovor VII of Greater Bartolica was as successful as a court herald's wildest dreams might conjure. The day had begun overcast. The Airlord Designate arrived in a compression-engine barge and did a circuit of the six-mile canal moat that surrounded the inner gardens of the palace. Children on the banks flung rose petals into the water before him, and chosen Bartolican wardens circledoverhead in their gunwings trailing smoke in the Leovor colors. By the end of Leovor's circuit, the overcast had broken to show patches of blue, but the weather still seemed unwilling to provide its blessing. The barge stopped at the outer bank near the Grand Bridge of Ascension, and the young heir went ashore, called his name to the sentries, and demanded that the bridge be lowered.
Fifty thousand citizens watched as the huge ashwood bridge rumbled down to rest gently on the stone bank of the canal. Midway across the bridge the Airlord Designate was challenged by the court herald, who barred his path with a gilt-handled silk whip. The heir proved his lineage by a genealogical scroll that he was carrying. The herald then gave his whip to Leovor, stripped his own court finery and regalia to the waist, and knelt for nine ceremonial strokes of the silk whip.
The citizens cheered their approval while the Airlord Designate symbolically asserted his authority over his own court with each stroke. Leovor noted with satisfaction that by a slight flick on the downward stroke he could leave impressive red marks on the herald's skin without seeming to be brutal. The ceremonial flogging over, an adjunct stepped forward with an inlaid, lacquered box, into which Leovor placed the whip and closed the lid. With an odd little pang he realized that the next time the lid was raised he would be dead and his own heir would be about to whip a herald.
The Airlord Designate walked the rest of the way across the bridge, through the gates to the palace gardens and along the promenade between the stone watersteps to the open doors of the reception plaza. Not once did the sun break through to shine upon him. He crossed the mosaic of ninety-five thousand separate stone squares in a full-color rendering of the gunwing flown four hundred years earlier by Delvrian II at the Battle of Green River. Antiphonal choirs sang a hymn to Leovor's authority and justice, and at last he emerged through the ironbound oakdoors of the throne room. Not one stumble, Leovor thought with relief.
The assembled nobles of Bartolica and the foreign dignitaries and officials all bowed, prostrated, saluted, curtsied, or covered their faces with their hands with a sound as if a strong wind were rushing through the throne room. Leovor then walked to the throne, seated himself, and waited for the Bishop of Greater Bartolica to approach with the crown. A choir of sons and daughters of Bartolican wardens began to sing to his health and wished him an improbably long reign while the Bishop approached. Just then the sun broke through the clouds and shone through the glass facets and tinted mirrors in the roof and southern walls, concentrating its rays so that Leovor gleamed with multicolored lights as he sat on the throne. The courtiers gasped at the sudden spectacle. The choir stopped in mid-bar with shock, then quickly resumed. Even the bishop took a step back and nearly let the crown drop. Seconds later trumpets blared and choirs all through the palace sang the anthem of Greater Bartolica as Leovor was crowned in a blaze of light that the auspiciously lucky break in the clouds had bestowed.
The Bishop ascended a stone dias bound with strips of gold. He cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty, nobles of Bartolica, worthy guests from other dominions, look about you at the splendor of this palace, and of the mighty yet beautiful city of Condelor. Stop and consider for a moment how such a magnificent capital can be maintained in the face of the three scourges.
"The Call sweeps across our land every few days and seeks to lure us away in a mindless reverie, yet we are still here when the Call has passed, three hours later. Why are we here in the face of the mighty, the irresistible Call? The streets are built to gently guide folk allured by the Call into curved haven walls, the Call towers ring out a warning of at least ten minutes as the invisible allure stalks over from the east, and there are many public tethers and tetherrails. Those in trams or barges are safely tethered, and deadhand brakes and anchors stop them safely. Overhead at least one warden is always flying, watching over this city and above the Call's accursed reach. For all of this you must thank the Airlord.
"The Sentinels are the second scourge. Should anyone be so full of pride and confidence to build a barge, tram, regal, or gunwing of greater length or breadth than twenty-nine feet six inches, what would be its fate? When next a Sentinel Star passed overhead by day or by night, and if that vehicle was moving, it would be seared to ash with such speed that the blink of an eye could well mask its passing. Nevertheless, nobles may fly in safety, steam trams carry merchants and their goods across mountains and deserts on rails of wood shod with steel, barges ply our rivers and canals, and pushdrays rumble along our country roads behind teams of free, hearty laborers. The inspectors, the standardeers, the guildsmen, and the artisans that keep our civilization flourishing within that confinement of twenty-nine feet six inches, all of those men are under the direct patronage of the Airlord of Bartolica.
"And the third scourge, that which kills electrical essence devices: how can it be that we have flourished without the electrical engines and lamps for two thousand years? It is because our Airlord is the patron of workshops, artisan halls, and other such places of research, and these develop ways to climb back to the ancient achievements without electrical essence. Such research gave us the compression engine many centuries ago, and moved war into the sky where it is harmless.
"In the twenty years past that Airlord Parttral the Fourth reigned, there have been less than a thousand Bartolicans lost to the Call. In that same time not a single vehicle has been burned by the Sentinels. Surely this is Divine blessing on both his rule and the Bartolican way. Today the clouds parted to enshrine Airlord Leovor in light as he was crowned, and who can deny that this is a sign of betterthings to come? Warden noblemen will patrol the skies to keep Greater Bartolica safe from foreign invasion and warned against the Call. Squires, guildsmen, and artisans will keep the wings, compression engines, and guns maintained as they have for uncounted centuries. Inspectors, clerks, and merchants will travel the vastness of Bartolica and preserve its unity, and the estatiers and their tenants will keep our tables laden and our wardrobes full.
"Let us now pray for the blessing of a prosperous and glorious reign under our new ruler, Airlord Leovor the Seventh of Greater Bartolica."
The bishop led the chant, and all but Leovor himself joined in the responses. As he sat presiding over his first grand ceremony it seemed to the new Airlord of Bartolica that the wingfield disaster of the previous day had been such a terrible misfortune that it had sponged up all the bad luck that could possibly befall the coronation ceremony. Heaven itself had obviously--and publicly--blessed his coronation.
Nevertheless, his first official duty of appointing a new governor for the East Region was still to come. His protocol advisers had been frantically coaching him for the Governor's investiture in every spare moment since the very hour that the gunwing crashed, however, and Leovor actually felt relaxed and confident about the words and procedures. The preliminary report from the Inspector General had been presented, and it mentioned that nothing suspicious had been found in the wreckage. Warden Darris, who had also died in the disaster, had been named as the dead governor's recommended successor. In the opinion of the Office of Character and Heraldry, Warden Desondrian of Lemihara was the next in line for the position.
Within the crowd that packed the throne room the envoy from Veraguay and her guard were following the ceremony as best they could. They could understand only Old Anglian, the common scholarly language, but all the coronation's speeches and declarations were in Bartolican.
Glasken felt a tug at his sleeve, and he turned to see a maid from the Hannan household. Although not a short woman by any means, she had to go up on her toes to whisper in Glasken's ear. Never one to miss any opportunity, he bent down to listen and slipped an arm about her waist.
"Oh! Sair, ah, the Inspector General wishes the Veraguay envoy to come to a soiree in five days," she whispered rapidly.
"Why not tell her yourself?" Glasken whispered back, his lips brushing her ear.
"Sair Glasken, the, ah, Inspector General does not want unseemly rumors ..."
Her voice trailed off. Glasken nodded knowingly.
"So, he has the message delivered as if you and I have a tryst instead. Lucky me."
"Oh Sair, I would never presume such a thing."
"Ah, unlucky me," Glasken sighed.
Her face suddenly displayed a grin, and she gave him a little nudge with her hip.
"Well, we should act the part out I suppose," she said coyly.
"Join me when we go into the gardens later. I shall have a reply from the envoy and ... we may speak more easily."
"Sair Glasken, ask her only to hold the evening free. A formal invitation will only be delivered with an hour's notice. The wife of the Inspector General is not at all understanding where the Veraguay envoy is concerned."
"I understand," said Glasken, allowing his hand to slide from her waist to caress her rump.
The maid had no more to say, but she lingered for another minute before melting into the close-packed crowd. When she had gone the envoy took Glasken by the arm and whispered to him.
"So you are making friends already, Sair Glasken?"
"Only exploring diplomatic channels, Semme Envoy.Oh, and by the way, I believe that a certain Bartolican wishes to explore your own diplomatic channel."
"Would he be an Inspector General?"
"He would, and he wishes to invite you to an evening of refined pleasures on May the eleventh. You are advised to keep the evening free and expect a late summoning."
"I am disposed to accept such advice. He is a dear, well-meaning, and vulnerable man. Why can't you be like that, Sair Glasken?"
"Because lecherous, shiftless wretches have a better time of it. I shall pass your disposition on to his maid."
"You must come along and protect me when I attend. His wife is a dragon."
Just then the Bishop ended the prayers. The court herald . called for attention, then announced that Airlord Leovor would speak. Fighting an automatic impulse to stand, Leovor declared from the throne his intention to appoint a new governor as his first act of office. The crown had been on his head for only minutes, and it was a great display of statecraft and maturity. His father had merely declared a week of festivities at his own coronation two decades earlier. Leovor enunciated the prescribed words clearly, missing none, and managed quite a commanding tone. When he had finished, the court herald stepped forward and the Airlord relaxed everything but the muscles of his face and his bearing. His part was over, and he was practically melting into the throne with relief. Nothing could go wrong now.
"Warden Alexes Desondrian, come forward in the name of the Airlord!" commanded the court herald, and the noble stepped before the throne and went down on one knee. "In the name of the Airlord I ask if you are willing to accept the honor of this appointment?"
The question was indirect, so as to avoid the chance of a slight to the Airlord in the event of a refusal. In this case there was no such danger.
"I accept," answered Desondrian.
"If any peer of the Convocation of Bartolican Wardens sees fit to warn the Airlord of an impediment to this appointment, let him speak now," declared the court herald, grandly and gravely.
"I do!" cried Warden Stanbury, stepping forward.
The court herald froze with surprise. He had never heard a challenge in a dozen such appointments, and he had to think frantically to remember the form of reply. The Airlord had even less experience in such matters, but knew enough of the ceremony to realize that it was beneath the dignity of a monarch to be directly involved. He remained discreetly impassive and above it all.
"Declare your name and wardenate," ordered the court herald.
"I am Warden Mikal Stanbury of the Wardenate Stanbury."
"Warden Mikal Stanbury, state your grounds or hold your peace."
"The late Governor Movael Merrotin, Semme Merrotin, and Warden Darris were well known to me, and I am sure that they would never have taken such a foolish risk as led to their deaths. I petition for a criminal inquisition before Governor Movael Merrotin's successor ascends to that office. I register my dismay at the unseemly haste with which Sair Alexes Desondrian has accepted the appointment, without the scrutiny chamber's results having cleared Warden Darris' judgment as contributing to his own death."
Desondrian had not in fact wished to ascend to the office so quickly after his friend's death, but the new airlord's courtiers had been anxious to embellish the coronation ceremonies with an appointment. Faced with blaming his airlord for undue haste or defending the insult himself and thereby acting as champion of the Airlord, Desondrian chose the path of honor and sacrifice. He rose to his feet and walked forward, removing the black glove from his right hand. Standing before Stanbury, he held out the glove, then dropped it before the challenger's fingers couldclose on it. Rather than bend before Desondrian to accept the glove, Stanbury put his hands on his hips and spat, hitting the glove squarely. Desondrian reddened and his lips pressed together. After an exchange of murderous glares both turned and bowed to Leovor.
"The Airlord has deemed that this same day the position of governor is to be filled," the court herald concluded, "so in duty to the Airlord you will fight this very hour. The victor will ascend to the office in dispute. Go to your guildsmen and make ready to duel."


Envoy Alveris Sartov, governor in absentia of North-Yarron, was not the preferred choice of company for most Bartolican nobles, but Regional Inspector Vander Hannan valued his fair and forthright opinions. The man was like a mirror, and if what was reflected therein was not to the taste of the original, then blaming the mirror was hardly sensible. As usual, Sartov was on the way to being drunk by the time that the duel was scheduled to start, but he was still steady on his feet.
"There's nobody else here?" asked Sartov as they climbed the stairs of the observation tower.
"No, there's no Bartolicans for you to insult."
"There's you."
"Ah, but I am not easily insulted."
They stood together on the balcony of the tower at the east corner of the Hannan mansion, which commanded a good view of the southwest of the palace and the wingfield. There the preparations were under way for the duel, the sword that would slash apart the threads of knotted diplomacy. The courtiers and guests had dispersed to their homes and hostelries to watch from the comfort of their own towers. This duel involved the judgment of the Airlord and thus symbolically had to be held above the city and above his grounds. Such duels were rare, and it was unusual for more than half a dozen to be held in a decade.
There was no wind at all, and sound carried very wellover the holiday-hushed city. A fanfare of massed trumpets sounded in the distance, and was followed by the cheering of thousands of spectators who were gathered in the vicinity of the palace--and who were mostly ignorant of the dispute at the heart of the duel. The sound of compression engines cut through as the cheering subsided. A servant appeared with pairs of field glasses for both the Regional Inspector and his guest, and mounted them on chase frames. Both aircraft were plainly visible on the wingfield, painted in the heraldic colors of the two Bartolican wardens.
"So, the Conciliator has failed," Sartov observed.
"Sometimes a result is more important than justice," replied Vander. "Settlement by combat does at least produce a result."
Down amid the turmoil on the wingfield Stanbury spread his arms wide and addressed a group of noble onlookers.
"I came here with no intent of dueling, so I wear the colors of no lady on my arm," he pleaded. "Will any lady honor me with the warmth of her colors, or must I face the sky with my heart cold and my luck eclipsed?"
Most of the noblewomen present hesitated, but Samondel skipped forward at once, sweeping a bunch of embroidered ribbons from the clip on her sleeve.
"Wear the colors of Samondel of Leovor, Warden Stanbury," she declared, and he accepted them with a bow.
"Wardens may fight for the honor of airlords and ladies, Semme Samondel, but on this day a lady did indeed come to the rescue of a warden's honor," he said with gallant flair.
Away in the serenity of the Inspector General's residence, Sartov strained for sounds of action from the wingfield. The compression engines of the distant aircraft revved briskly, as if impatient to be aloft.
"I heard that they are both using Daimzer engines andMiscafi guns," Sartov said, as if to show that he took this very seriously.
"That is correct. Stanbury is Desondrian's cousin, so he has the right to use the work of their family guilds. I believe that the Daimzer Guildmaster of Engineers has cursed Stanbury for the affront and commanded all those of his house to render no assistance to him. Gremander had to do all the enhancing and tuning."
The crowd at the distant wingfield cheered as a fanfare sounded again. The guildsmen dispersed from around the two gunwings, and the aircraft were left standing together at a white line across the flightstrip. The city's marshal strode out before the gunwings: from the Hannans' tower he was a bright, tiny figure in scarlet robes. He walked first to Stanbury's gunwing, then to Desondrian's before taking a black flag from his aide and walking down the entire length of the flightstrip.
Vander was still focusing his field glasses as the Marshal began waving the black flag and the Daimzer engines of the two gunwings roared. To Hannan they looked like distant white Vs painted on the wingfield's flightstrip. They climbed into the air, then banked away in opposite directions, each turning for their respective tourney towers. Tournament rules applied to duels, and they had to circle their own tower at less than its height before engaging the opponent. They were evenly matched, and Hannan followed Desondrian as he flew for the tower, his gunwing only a few feet from the ground. At the tower he pulled up steeply, clawing for altitude and circling for the sun. Stanbury sped outward, but in a shallower climb.
Within two minutes Desondrian had the advantage of altitude while Stanbury was better placed to use the sun's glare. Both climbed in tight spirals, but Desondrian was edging closer to his opponent. Desondrian broke and dived, yet Stanbury continued to climb as he approached. Desondrian was trying for a tail pass, but Stanbury rolled his aircraft and turned into an even steeper, straight climb.
"If he stalls, he's dead!" exclaimed Sartov, but Stanbury had judged his speed well. The gunwings swept through a head-on pass, reaction guns chattering, then broke into a chasing circle and again fought for height as they pursued each other.
The Mounthaven epics described how wardens used to duel with unpowered sailwings pushed over cliffs. The object then was to descend more slowly than one's opponent. There was grace and style in such a tournament, but this had no such style and finesse. It was all brute power and speed.
Just then, Stanbury broke out of his circle and arced outward as Desondrian turned to pursue him. Again as the gunwings converged Desondrian found himself facing an almost stalled opponent who was nevertheless facing him and firing. On the other hand, Stanbury presented a far better target, and fragments of fabric scattered into the air as the two aircraft passed. Yet again they ended up in a chasing circle, clawing for height. For a third time Stanbury broke and turned to intercept Desondrian's pursuit, and again the gunwings slashed at each other in a head-on pass before dropping back into a chasing circle five thousand feet lower.
"Stanbury took hits again," said Sartov. "He must have a reason for offering himself as a target like that."
"Inexperience," replied Vander.
Stanbury broke again, but this time instead of diving Desondrian came around in a wide arc, intending to catch Stanbury's gunwing after it had lost altitude in its near-stall. It never happened. Stanbury banked to climb in a counterclockwise circle, gaining precious height.
"Good Lord, he's won!" exclaimed Sartov. Vander nodded gravely in agreement.
Stanbury rolled into a dive, and Desondrian tried to emulate his opponent's ploy of firing from a near-stall. Stanbury had the benefit of practice, however, and confidently raked his cousin's gunwing with his twin Miscafis. Desondrianbroke into another chasing circle, but there was a thin streamer of dark smoke trailing from the engine of his gunwing. Stanbury closed with the advantage of full power, and within another minute had climbed above Desondrian and cut across the chasing circle. Now only one pair of Miscafis chattered as Desondrian's gunwing bucked and swerved within a deadly hail of shots. He dived, rolled, did a spin-turn, then dived again, but Stanbury merely dropped back and closed again each time.
"He has height and power, damn him," said Vander. "Desondrian can do nothing but fly the silk."
At that moment Desondrian's gunwing belched a plume of black smoke and rolled on its back before dropping into a steep dive. Stanbury followed without attacking, dropping back and plainly taking a chivalrous aspect. Desondrian's gunwing recovered at rooftop level, gained height, then leveled out, all the while trailing black smoke. Suddenly his port wing snapped, its structure burned out by the flames trailing from the engine. The gunwing seemed to give up like a vanquished warrior. Desondrian leaped from the gunwing, his parachute streaming behind him. The canopy opened almost horizontally; then both gunwing and warden crashed into a stand of ancient, ornamental fir trees. Stanbury turned for the wingfield, giving a single roll. There were cheers and fanfares in the distance. Red and white pennants were displayed at the poles over the palace gates.
"Had Stanbury but kept doing those head-on passes Desondrian would have shredded him like a target kite," said Sartov as he turned away to go back inside. Vander followed.
"Desondrian tried to ride his tail, to humiliate him," said the Regional Inspector. "Those head-on exchanges made Stanbury look brave and tenacious. Desondrian's family wanted the enemy discredited, not just beaten. Politics, Sair Sartov, but politics count for nothing in a duel. PerhapsStanbury was counting on Desondrian having a political agenda behind his tactics."
A rocket trailing black smoke rose from where Desondrian had come down. Vander watched it through the open doorway of the gallery.
"So he is dead," Vander declared, although there was not a soul in the city above the age of four who did not know the meaning of a rocket trailing black smoke.
They turned their backs on the scene of the duel and settled into a pair of chairs. A footman waited with a tray of glasses and a jug of wine chilled by ice flown in by some warden for Leovor VII's table, but which had been somehow divided and distributed elsewhere. Vander took a distorted lead ball and rolled it between his fingers. Sartov sat down and pressed the tips of his index fingers against his lips as the footman poured his wine.
"Desondrian died beneath his parachute," said Sartov. "In the public eye he died in the act of surrender--and while Stanbury was chivalrously standing off. Stanbury has won more than a duel for his family, he has won honor and influence as well."
"The tone of your voice is dark," Vander observed as he toyed with the musket ball.
"Dark, yes. Stanbury is a fine warrior and warden, but he and his family are ambitious and unpredictable. Although Bartolica's nobles have no love for them, they symbolize glory and honor triumphant for all those who have ever been overlooked or neglected in the interests of good politics."
"You talk in obvious truths, Envoy Sartov, but what could Stanbury and his people do?"
"Shake the peace of the Mounthaven dominions, Regional Inspector Hannan."
"Madness. The wardens of Cosdora and Yarron are both an even match for Greater Bartolica's, and all the southern dominions would rally against us if Senner, Montras, or Westland were attacked. Bartolica would have formal warswith as many as five dominions, yet is scarcely united enough for even one."
"Do you really think so? A chivalric war is a good way to ensure unity among wardens."
"I'm sure of it."


Stanbury was gracious in victory, paying respects and consolation to Desondrian's widow as soon as he landed, then praising the dead warden's skills to the adjunct. He finally returned Samondel's favor with profuse thanks.
"The power of your favor is exceeded only by your beauty and kindness, Semme Samondel of Leovor," he said as a circle of admiring nobles and guildsmen applauded. "Would that it could be available next time I ascend in service or anger."
"Would that a lady be lucky enough to be tied to your heart by then, Governor Stanbury," she countered gracefully.
Alion stood in the background, looking studiously at the toes of his brass-capped parade boots and with his hands clasped firmly beneath the tails of his flight jacket. As the group began to disperse he scarcely noticed. Samondel touched his arm. He looked up.
"My lady, I had no idea!" he exclaimed in a sharp whisper. "Yesterday I thought--no, I mean I hoped that--"
"Alion, hush. The new governor was caught alone and without colors, and I came to his aid. It was the honorable and chivalric thing to do."
"Of course, of course, but--"
"Alion, I would be honored if you would wear my colors when next you ascend in service or anger. Keep them until then."
"My lady, Semme Samondel!" whispered Alion, going down on one knee and kissing the hand that held the bunch of ribbons out to him.
Not far away a group of commoners was watching. The young Yarronese guildsfolk could not hear what wordswere being spoken, but the expressions on the faces of Alion and Samondel spoke far louder.
"I think they're so sweet and romantic," said Kallien Feydamor, Serjon's youngest sister.
"The stitching on her colors is sound, but lacks imagination," observed Ramsdel.
"I hear she once flew a sailwing trainer," Bronlar said with approval.
"There were thirteen ribbons in her colors," Serjon pointed out. "No good will come of it."


Vander had returned to the window to watch Stanbury's gunwing being mobbed as it landed. Presently he turned to the footman, spoke an order, and went back to his chair. The footman reappeared with a long case and presented it to Sartov, then left the rooftop gallery.
"Please, open it," Vander prompted.
Sartov lifted a beautifully made flintlock pistol from the case. Although there was some damage to the wood of the stock, it looked serviceable, and had been cleaned and oiled recently. Its action was firm and sound.
"What do you think?" Vander asked.
"Not an ornament," was Sartov's verdict. "This is the work of a guildsman who specializes in such weapons, yet to my knowledge no such guildsmen exist. Does it work?"
"I have tested it myself. It has a heavy kick, but shoots true."
"Who made it?" asked Sartov, intrigued.
"I had hoped you might help me with that matter. A trapper on the northern Callscour frontier has his terriers trained to follow men lured away by the Call. The dogs bring back items dropped and discarded by the doomed followers of the Call, often after days away."
"It is a living, I suppose, and no less honorable than diplomacy."
"One of his dogs found this four years ago, but the trapper thought it of no importance or value. He added twomore pegs to his gunrack, and there it stayed until I happened to pay a visit relating to moonshine whisky production in the area."
Vander took the lead ball that he carried and tossed it to Sartov.
"It probably shot this half-inch ball--which was cut from the body of the man it killed back in 3956. It was fired in near darkness at quite a long range. Whoever used this was very experienced with flintlocks, and beat an opponent on his own ground who had a rapid-fire carbine made by a reputable guildsman. How do you explain that?"
Sartov thought for a moment.
"Logic suggests that an elite warrior from some distant Callhaven has reached Bartolica. In his Callhaven they have very skilled artisans, yet their weapons lag behind ours by centuries."
"Such a visitor should have caused a sensation, yet I, the Regional Inspector, heard nothing. Either this is an elaborate prank, or there really have been visitors from a remote but civilized dominion that fled home at once."
"Or they are known to highly ranked people within Bartolica."
"That is true, and thus worrying. Why would a pair of explorers armed with flintlocks be kept such a close secret?"
"I cannot say, but then there are many things that I cannot explain about your dominion, Vander. Why are so many carbineers being recruited by Bartolica's merchants for the tramway militias? Your outlaw problem is no worse than Yarron's, yet your merchant carbineers have increased tenfold in the four years past."
"Why worry? You can't wage war with carbineers," said Vander dismissively.
"The Mexhaven dominions do," said Sartov.
"Maybe so, but their nobles have no gunwings."
Later that afternoon the Inspector General released his scrutiny inquisition ruling on the death of the late governor.He found that the fuel system of Governor Merrotin's gunwing had been tampered with, and as the Daimzer guildsmen serviced both the governor's gunwing and that of Desondrian, suspicion fell upon the house of Daimzer. All field engineers and artisans were ordered to be arrested, and their tools and assets impounded.
Not only had Stanbury been proven right, he was also shown to be an excellent judge of character and behavior. His bravery and skill in the air made him all the more of a hero. The new airlord formally confirmed him as governor of the East Region, and lauded him before his court, the envoys, and the visiting dignitaries as being an example of the finest virtues of Bartolican chivalry.


That evening Vander Hannan was at home having dinner when the mansion's main door slammed. The boom reverberated throughout the large residence. Vander looked up to see the footman wince.
"My mother is in another of her tempers," Vander commented, the forkful of emu meat poised just below his lips.
"Semme Laurelene has been in a continuous temper since the envoy from Veraguay arrived in Condelor, Sair Vander," the footman replied.
"So I have observed, yet what is the problem? My father has had discreet dalliances before."
"They were discreet, Sair, and for those which Semme Laurelene discovered he was given a great deal of tongue. With the envoy there is no discretion, and--"
The doors to the dining hall were flung open by Laurelene, who stormed in without breaking stride. She was dressed in an afternoon gown with a skillfully designed and sewn framework supporting an expansive cleavage rimmed with olive-gold frills. The rest was just an impression of gold brocade and ruffles to Vander as she swept up to the table and pounded so hard with her fist that the silverware jingled.
"That filthy, lecherous stoat did it again!" she thundered."The Veraguayan guard of that scrawny little hen of an envoy!"
"Sair Glasken is from Sierra Madre in Mexhaven, he--"
"Don't contradict me!" she shouted, pounding the table over and over again. "He, he hung about with Kyleal. I feared for her virtue so I sent her on an errand and remonstrated with him in person. I told him that loose and fast romance was not the Bartolican way, but he replied that he did but learn by example--that was a remark about your shameless father, make no mistake. Then he swept off that absurd feathered hat of his and bowed to me so low that the filthy waxed point of his beard dipped into my, my ... cleavage!"
An adventurous man, thought Vander. He clasped his hands, rested his chin upon them, and tried to look sympathetic.
"Of course I complained to your father but it did no good. That's the second time that Veraguayan guard has shamed me in public. If your father will do nothing then you must!"
"My region is the north, I have no authority here," replied Vander hastily.
"But you can challenge him to a duel."
"He is not a warden. As far as I can tell his rank is about that of carbineer yeoman. It is his master who must punish him or duel."
"His master is the envoy."
"The envoy can't fly. You could declare a civil feud and--"
"No! That would shame me because my husband and son did not intervene on my behalf."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to arrest Juan Glasken for molesting a noble. Make the envoy accountable in court."
"Mother, the diplomatic protocols--"
"I didn't come here for excuses!"
"Well, why did you come here?"
Laurelene swept up a goblet and flung it at Vander's plate, scattering his dinner along the table and onto the floor. When she had left, slamming the door behind her, the footman suddenly became reanimated and called for a serving man to clean up.
"Semme Laurelene is a loud, intimidating, and forceful woman," observed the footman as he cleaned scraps of food from Vander's dinner coat.
"But the envoy is a soft, sympathetic, and persuasive woman," replied Vander. "With luck I may be back north by the time they square off across my father's body, but then I am not a believer in luck."
11 May 3960: Condelor
Rosenne Rodriguez was not on any of Laurelene's lists of people to invite to Inspectorate gatherings in the days following the coronation, but to her annoyance her husband seemed to find his way into the company of the envoy at every other function. On the evening of May 11th there was no delaying the invitation to the reception for the envoys any longer. Rosenne was an envoy, so Rosenne had to be invited. The invitation was sent out with an hour . remaining to the commencement, but the envoy's acceptance came straight back with the message boy.
The Inspectorate mansion had quite a large reception hall, and it was ideal for entertaining the thirty-one envoys from four Callhavens. They talked mainly in Old Anglian out of deference to the Veraguayan envoy, a point that was not lost on the fuming Laurelene. Rosenne's guard Glasken also mingled with the envoys and aides. His clothing was a contrast of tight straps over baggy cloth, with the trousers tucked into his boots. Laurelene knew this to be the Hildago fashion of around a year ago. She also had the impression that his eyes lingered on her breasts whenever he had cause to look in her direction.
"What impressed me most was that pretty little ... how do you say it, gunbird girl," Rosenne was saying as the platters of delicacies were brought past by the servants. "She was so small and sweet, yet she flew all the way from Yarron in that big war gunbird."
"The word is gunwing, my dear," said Inspector General Hannan, his voice easily familiar, "and as to her flight, well, it was quite impractical as a feat of endurance."
"Impractical? I do not understand," said Rosenne with a simpering smile.
"Oh she was far lighter than a strong, trained warden and thus the gunwing could carry more fuel. She has little strength, however, and strength is required for combat."
"Strength? Oh yes, a warrior must be strong."
She charms men with great facility, thought Laurelene, holding an amiable smile over a sullen glare. She asked intelligent questions, but played the fool with the answers. From her observations of the envoy Laurelene realized that Rosenne reserved her greatest charm for men of the senior nobility. Her husband was just such a man.
"You too have-traveled an immense distance, Semme Rosenne, I can barely imagine it," Laurelene interjected, more to defuse an obvious buildup of her own anger than out of interest. "I envy you so much."
"But you travel as well," Rosenne replied. "You have said that you go with your husband on some of his trips."
Not when he could help it, thought Laurelene. "All that I have seen is North Bartolica and parts of the Dorak frontier. Oh I have traveled to Senner and Westland too--and Montras, everyone goes to Montras."
"So you like travel?"
"Peasants and peons are much the same everywhere."
"What sorts of guns do you have in Veraguay?" asked Vander, who had said little during their reception so far. "Do they load at the muzzle and have flints to strike sparks when you shoot?"
Rosenne reached beneath her parlor jacket and took outa small, ornate gun with two barrels and handed it to him. Vander turned it over several times, making a careful appraisal.
"The inlay work is beautiful," said Vander.
The artisan who made it had been wonderfully skilled, but had clearly based the design on one by the Lewistar family of Denver. He removed one of the rounds and saw that it had been made in Cosdora.
"We of Veraguay believe everything that adorns a lady should be a work of art as well as functional. Guns are the weapons of the better classes in Veraguay. Commoners use crossbows and snares for hunting."
"And outlaws?"
"Oh I would not know such things."
Just then Envoy Sartov was announced. Being the Yarronese envoy, he was pointedly late and was dressed in a plain promenade coat instead of formal finery. At the door he registered a request to be presented to the Veraguay envoy.
"Semme Envoy Rodriguez, I am pleased to introduce the envoy from Yarron, Warden Sartov," Hannan said with smooth politeness, making the presentation only to be near Rosenne.
"I am as honored to meet you as I am stunned by your beauty," replied Sartov, bowing low as he took a step back.
Rosenne made a show of being charmed by any compliment and beamed at the Yarronese envoy as he straightened again. His movements, however graceful, were slightly uncoordinated. The Yarronese envoy had arrived drunk.
"Gracious sair, I see you are a warden," she replied. "That means you fly. How brave of you."
"Ah, but you flew in a regal to cross the Callscour from Mexhaven," Sartov replied earnestly. "You are brave as well as beautiful, while I am merely brave."
Rosenne simpered and blushed, but Hannan drained his glass, called for another, and drained that too. This wasproving to be a very trying exercise in diplomacy.
"I am envoy to Bartolica for only two months more," Sartov was explaining. "We Yarronese like to share the burden of living in Bartolica, so even though I am a provincial governor and seventh in line for the Yarronese throne, I had to suffer here for six months."
Rosenne leaned forward and examined the tiny badges of gold sewn into his collar. She counted fourteen, and noticed that they were all different.
"Are those your house crests?" she asked, pointing with her two index fingers pressed together.
"No, they are victories in clear air combat. Three in duels and eleven in chivalric wars. Five are Bartolican kills, you will note."
Rosenne squirmed slightly, knowing that Hannan was beside her. She turned to him, meaning to ask about the number of victory badges on his collar, then discovered to her discomfort that he had none. Very hastily she turned back to Sartov.
"Your wife must be very proud of you," she said.
"Alas, my wife died last year in a training accident."
"As a flyer?" Rosenne exclaimed in genuine admiration.
"Yes. She was preparing for accreditation as a flyer. We Yarronese are very advanced in such matters. Her death broke my heart, but I am more proud of her than of all my victories. She was accredited posthumously. I declared myself governor in absentia, then petitioned to be the envoy to Bartolica for six months. I reasoned that the torture of being in Bartolica would distract me from grieving for my wife."
Rosenne had by now decided that the conversation should end before the tipsy envoy said something that caused her host to die of apoplexy.
"Would it be possible for me to be presented at court when I visit Yarron next month, Sair Sartov?"
"Introduce me to your secretary and I shall make the arrangements."
"Ah no, my guard Sair Glasken oversees all my travel plans."
Hannan put on a show of forced sympathy once they had left Sartov with Glasken.
"He may be rude, but he comes from a good family. Their tradition of flying goes all the way back to the dueling kites of the twenty-fifth century. He lost his soul when his wife died, and now he is supremely rude, even by Yarronese standards. He has killed two fine Bartolican wardens in clear air duels since arriving here. Sometimes I think he is looking for an honorable way to die. Most times I wish he would find one."
A handsome, heroic, unmarried envoy compliments her so graciously, yet she spurns him to flirt with my lecherous old stoat of a husband, fumed Laurelene silently. To make matters worse, the guard Glasken was still allowing his eyes to linger on her own cleavage. Theresla had been standing nearby, and Laurelene now noticed that a man in the blue uniform of the merchant carbineers had come up to her.
"What in hell are you doing here?" she heard him demand in a very odd dialect of Old Anglian.
"We were sent to provide an independent perspective," Theresla replied calmly.
Carabas, his name was Carabas, Laurelene recalled. She had met him earlier in the week, but remembered only that he was part of some new tramway militia.
"Our work is sensitive in the extreme," Carabas hissed. "If you betray us, we can never go home."
"Fras Carabas, the Miocene Arrow operation has cost hundreds of thousands of gold royals, yet nobody is willing to say just what it might be--outside the Supreme Assembly of Aviads. We are here to find out."
"How did you get here?"
"Tell me about the Miocene Arrow and I might discuss my transport arrangements."
"You cannot be trusted with the plans of the Supreme Assembly."
"If it's like their plan to murder Highliber Zarvora, then I think it is my duty to save the Supreme Assembly from itself. With a single bullet they cut off our supply of the old technology and set us back centuries."
Carabas clicked his heels and gave the briefest of bows. "I do not believe we have further business, Frelle Theresla," he said, and melted into the crowd without awaiting a reply.
Laurelene had not understood much of their rapidly spoken conversation, but it was obvious that agents of another Callhaven were active in Bartolica. If so, the Veraguay envoy would be part of the conspiracy, and might well be vulnerable to the truth being exposed to daylight. Glasken would know, Laurelene decided, and Glasken was stupid enough to let something slip. She caught sight of the feather in his hat above the crowd and moved toward him. She hailed him and he broke off his conversation with Sartov. Bowing low over Laurelene's cleavage, he again caressed it with the point of his waxed beard. She flinched back, but retained her smile.
Fifty if he's a day, Laurelene thought. No bulging gut, all muscle, and he carried the scars of a lot of action. One ear was partly shot off. Not far behind him Rosenne and Hannan were discussing something earnestly, as they nearly always seemed to be doing. She asked Glasken several questions about Mexhaven, and dropped the words Miocene Arrow quite casually. Glasken did not react at all, yet something about his manner hardened ever so slightly.
"You speak Old Anglian with some facility, Sair Glasken," she remarked. "Have you been in Mounthaven before?"
Glasken, who had been expecting more searching questions from her, relaxed inwardly.
"I have never crossed Mounthaven's Call frontier before now, Semme Hannan. There was a warden's aide fromSouth Colandoro living in Chihuana. She taught me, ah, the scholarly tongue in this Callhaven. It has a lot in common with our own scholarly language."
"But Hispan is nothing like Old Anglian."
"Ah--but there is also Anglaic."
Laurelene had not heard of Anglaic, yet Glasken could certainly speak Old Anglian well, and had a convincing Hispan accent. Still she knew a lie when she heard one, and he was definitely lying.
"That is a lot of trouble to go to, learning the language of such a remote and distant place as Mounthaven."
"Oh no, Mounthaven is the summit of civilization and learning, great Semme. When the Veraguay envoy announced that she was going to cross the Callscour desert there were dozens of fine bravos coming forward to be in her service. I knew Old Anglian, however, so that put me ahead of all the stronger, younger, and less experienced young men. Besides, I am a guard to the nobility, and nobles travel more than others, even in Mexhaven."
"Are you sure that you are not a noble yourself, traveling in disguise to observe Mounthaven more candidly?" Laurelene asked, batting her eyelashes at him.
The effect was not so much alluring as alarming, as practiced by Laurelene. Glasken managed, "Great Semme, you flatter me."
"I'm sure a great many ladies flatter you, Sair Glasken," she said, turning her head to one side with a simpering smile.
"Maybe so, but I must attend the safety of my envoy," Glasken responded with mechanical charm.
I cannot even charm this yoick who pays better heed to my servants than me, Laurelene thought with a momentary pang of despair. As a parting flourish, Glasken began a low bow over Laurelene's expanse of cleavage. Her patience with everything that was frustrating her snapped without warning, and seizing Glasken by his whole ear andwhat remained of the other she rammed his face down between her breasts.
"If you like them so much, Glasken, take a really good look!" she shouted, then swirled around and stamped away through the crowd--which parted readily at her approach. Total silence blanketed the reception hall until the door slammed behind Laurelene.
"You must forgive my wife, she is a little rough in her affections," said Hannan to the astonished Glasken.
As the reception struggled to regain its genial mood Sartov seemed to materialize beside Glasken. He was swaying alarmingly and holding a pitcher of wine, but the expression on his face was anything but jovial.
"Sair Glasken, the 'spector General's wife ... attacking the Veraguay envoy ... through you," he said slowly, maintaining the logic with difficulty.
"A remarkable woman," said Glasken as he straightened the points of his waxed mustache.
"Don't under ... , ah, estimate. She'll press charges, unseemly conduct ... against you."
"That may not be all she presses against me."
"Your patroness, Semme Rosenne ... be exiled, if you lose."
"And what happens to me if I lose?"
"Hmmm ... Could be imprisoned ... forever. Could get hung on the public scaffold--shorter sentence! Get it? Shorter sentence!"
Sartov elbowed him in the ribs, began laughing uncontrollably, and collapsed. Glasken caught the lightly built Yarronese as he fell and removed the pitcher of wine from his grasp.
"If you flee, poof, no trial," Sartov gasped as Glasken drew him up straight by his collar.
"But that would declare my guilt."
"Think your word's better than, er, 'spector General's wife?"
Glasken swallowed, and needed no more time than that to make up his mind.
"I'll flee--but where?"
"Glasken, I wish to go home but I'm ... ah, incapable. Navigate me to, er, Yarronese embassy, and I'll point you to Yarron."


Sartov arrived back at his embassy across Glasken's shoulders. The clerk did not respond to his knocking.
"Slack wretch, going Bartolican," Sartov muttered in exasperation as he drew out his keys.
After several minutes of fumbling Glasken took the keys from Sartov and opened the door. The envoy turned up the lamps, then slumped into a chair and regarded his guest.
"You're lean, strong, and fit, Sair Glasken," Sartov pronounced. "You'll make it."
He stood up, tottered to the bell cord, and grasped at it. Somewhere in the distance a bell jangled.
"Announcing Sair Juan Glasken, Sierra Madre," declared Sartov as Glasken guided him back to his chair.
The appointments clerk presently shuffled in wearing a bedrobe and slippers, and looking a little puzzled and drowsy.
"Prepare border passage papers for, er, Juan Glasken of Sierra Madre," said Sartov. "Now."
When the clerk had gone the big man thanked him and bowed slightly, his hands crossed over his chest. He sat down on an imported Yarronese lounge chair, which was high-backed and more firm than the Bartolican variety.
"So, you went where no man would, ah, voluntarily go," said Sartov. "What did you say that Semme Laurelene would, ah, take offense?"
Glasken leaned forward. "I made no lewd suggestions, Envoy Sartov, I do not hunt seductions. I gather up those that are easily available, and Semme Laurelene could notbe described thus. We had been speaking of language and travel when she seized me and--"
"Yes, yes, saw it all. Unbelievable. Thought I was drunk. Well, ah, I knew that. And you took no liberties at all?"
"No. Not even a little nip while I was down there. It all happened so fast."
Sartov blinked. "She'll be angry, she'll act quickly. Pack, leave now. You're dangerous. No, Laurelene's dangerous. You're in danger."
"Long experience with angry fathers and husbands has taught me to be prepared to flee at all times. I have a gun, knife, and gold with me, my coat is warm and my boots stout. A blanket and some dried fruit and bread would be welcome, though."
"Done! Pantry's there ... on the right. Take a wineskin too, hey, and there's Mexhaven condoms in there. You'll need one if Laurelene catches up. Bartolican pox, Bartolican pox; It grabs their menfolk by their cocks; ... ah shit, what comes next?"
The clerk returned with the papers. Sartov signed without checking the details.
"Anywhere in Yarron you'd like to go--particularly?"
Glasken pointed to a map of Yarron under glass on a low table. "Middle Junction, Median, and Forian. After Forian, to Denver in Colandoro. I have, ah, colleagues there, and a library that I must explore."
"A library? You? You, ah, no scholar."
Glasken draped a leg over the arm of his chair and twirled his mustache. "Scholars can be as rakish as the next man, but they are mostly discreet about it."
"Mostly."
"Mostly. I once tried being discreet. It led to a war."
Sartov shook his head as he endorsed Glasken's papers in a register. He dismissed the clerk, and did not speak again until they were once more alone.
"Can give you papers, Sair Glasken, but steam tramsonly leave in the morning. Too late. You'd ... better walk."
"I'm good at that," Glasken replied without a trace of disappointment. "Thank you very sincerely, Envoy Sartov."
They stood up and grasped wrists.
"Just why are you doing this?" Glasken asked as he buttoned his coat and pulled his cap low over his face. "I am not important and I can never hope to repay you."
"You are a jackhare with the whole hunt pack of terriers at your heels: I feel sorry for you. Besides, I'm drunk, and when I'm drunk I annoy Bartolicans. Annoying Bartolicans is ... national sport of Yarron. Semme Laurelene will be exceedingly annoyed by this."
"I don't believe that," said Glasken as they reached the door. "You are friends with her son."
"Ha ha, sharp, very sharp. Vander's fair and reasonable, a good inspector. My friend. I'll not see my friend ... dragged into the gutter. Stupid mother, she'll do that. Force him ... be her advocate. With you gone, poof! No case."
"I presume Semme Laurelene is jealous of her husband's interest in the Veraguay envoy, and seeks to stir bad feelings between the two households."
"Aye. Now promise me to escape, Glasken. You owe me a drink for this."
"I'll fetch you a drink to remember, Sair Envoy."
Again they seized each other's wrists in the Mounthaven greeting. Sartov opened the door and checked for lurking constables or carbineers.
"Take the mountain road east, past Bear Lake. It's rough and steep, but only one hundred miles to Yarron. A fit and desperate man might take ... three days."
"I am that man," replied Glasken, turning up his collar.
12 May 3960: Condelor
The next day marked the official end of the coronation festival, and the capital of Greater Bartolica hung between revelry and normality as the debris of celebration were swept away. The bakers and tailors cleaned their shops and counted their profits, while the churls who swept the streets and hauled the refuse carts moved many loads of faded petals, dry leaves, and shreds of colored paper from the streets. The wreckage of Desondrian's gunwing was recovered by the guildsmen and artisans of his wardenate. The airframe was cremated, along with Desondrian's body, but the guns and engine were taken away to be stripped down and rebuilt.
The smoke from Desondrian's funeral pyre was rising into the calm air as Carabas met Stanbury on the promenade of the palace wingfield. The new governor of the East Region was on his way to his gunwing to fly back to his capital. There he would formally present his credentials and take charge.
"So, I have my region," he said nervously, aware that many pairs of eyes could see him in the merchant carbineer's company. "What payment do you want in return?"
"The use of an isolated and abandoned estate with a wingfield, and your help to secure the services of several artisans."
Stanbury threw him a sidelong glance but kept walking.
"The first is not hard, the second will raise questions. What will their work be?"
"It will be in support of Dorak against Yarron."
"Against? In what sense?"
"War."
Stanbury stopped in his tracks.
"What?" he exclaimed, louder than he had intended. "The Dorakian and Yarronese wardens have a truce goingback decades, they are even developing that small, newly discovered Black Hills Callhaven together."
"Nevertheless, they will soon be making declarations, selecting seconds, petitioning for a council of delegates, and making territorial claims. Bartolica will second Dorak, count on that."
Stanbury thought this through for a moment. His new region shared a border with both Dorak and Yarron, but it was not prime territory.
"How will a few artisans affect the outcome of a war?" he scoffed. "Even a minor war of, say, seventy dueling pairs?"
"They will be guildsmen artisans, and they will be the price of services rendered. Your guilds guard their artisans well, and the people who sent me here have seen little return after four years of expense. The artisans are a symbol, a deposit, a holding fee. Certain factions at home will lose credibility if I can supply gunsmiths who are willing to train our own artisans in the making of reaction guns, for example."
"And will those reaction guns come back to us in the hands of Mexhaven carbineers?"
"Governor, we have a whole continent to conquer, we have no interest in your dry and poor mountains. The reaction guns are for our internal struggles, to make our own sailwings invincible. Remember, our sailwings are far, far in advance of yours."
"I still cannot understand how your people can build sailwings powered by the sun, yet simple reaction guns and compression engines are beyond your skills."
"Look upon it as a mercantile opportunity, Governor Stanbury. You have something that we will pay for generously."
"And the war between Yarron and Dorak: do you mean to involve me?"
"No, Governor, but you would be advised to claim the credit for our involvement. It will greatly enhance yourstatus with Airlord Leovor the Seventh. Advice can be taken or left, but this is your single chance to seize a magnificent destiny."
Carabas bowed, then took his leave. Stanbury continued on to where his gunwing was being made ready. A steam engine on a cart spun the gunwing's compression engine to life, and while it was warming the flight clerk briefed him on weather, Call vectors, and the gunwing's performance in a test flight made an hour earlier. His ascent was untroubled, and Stanbury banked out over the mountains as he climbed, hoping for a boost from thermals. Looking to port as he turned north, he marveled that so much had changed in the capital over the days past, yet from the air it looked the same as when he had arrived.

Copyright © 2000 by Sean McMullen