Exodus from the Long Sun

Chapter 5 — The Man from Mainframe

A hand signal held the group parallel to the human stream below; Sciathan reinforced it with helmet notification: “Two east.” As each agreed, he checked them off mentally: Grian, Sumaire, Mear, and Aer were still willing to accept his leadership. His right arm stiff, he slapped toward Viron’s thatch and shingles, palm down. “Going lower.” Fingertips to forehead. “You may follow if you choose.”

Aer almost certainly would.

Was this man Auk among the marchers’ creeping rectangles? One of the spectators whose cheers had dwindled to chirps in the vastness of the sky? Either way this Auk was a lone individual, his fellow citizens a myriad of myriads. As he had from the beginning, Sciathan told himself that he should be bursting with pride; for this daunting, almost impossible mission, Mainframe had chosen them.

The possibility that Mainframe wished to destroy them had to be dismissed unheard, like the equal possibility that he, Aer, and the rest had been chosen because they were expendable.

Right arm pointing, hand cupped. “I fly east.”

Four acknowledgements. They were all coming.

He had begun a circuit of the city. They would have to land soon, have to remove and secure their wings, question and persuade its inhabitants in the Common Tongue. Whether he was a miracle worker or a malcontent, his fluency had no doubt been a factor.

Where was there a good, big field, with people near but not too near, close to the city? Below him, a house with a desert-colored peaked roof sprang up like a mushroom.

Right arm extended, palm flat, motioning down. “Lower.”

It seemed that he could read the character of each of his companions in their acknowledgments: Grian weighing the odds; Sumaire narrow-eyed, her hands deadly still; Mear frantic for adventure; Aer concerned for everybody except herself.

At this altitude they were within the reach of small-arms fire, and small arms were evident; all the overseers of the bearded men erecting tents seemed to have them. He reminded himself that once they had landed the presence or absence of weapons would make no difference, that any mob of Cargos could kill them with stones or sticks. In fact the weapons that these Cargos had should be an advantage; armed, they would be less apt to feel threatened.

Pointing arm, hand a fist. “North.” Two fingers down, separated. “Terminate flight.”

“Aye, Sumaire.” Taut face, dry lips, hooded eyes.

“Aye, Mear!” Descending too fast and glorying in it.

“Aye, Grian.” Picking his spot.

“Aye, Aer.” Worrying about him, worried not that he would crash but that he would bungle his approach.

Grassy land, a little uneven. No more time for character or planning. Reverse thrust, legs down and feet together, hands braced for a fall that must be straight forward.

Mear was already down, having pulled up at the precise moment and landed striding; reckless though Mear was, no more skilled flier ever tuned the sun. Now he, too, would have to land without a fall or lose what authority he had. Four cubits, stall, drop into the wind. Did it!

At once a gust nearly blew him off his feet.

Grian, Surnaire and Aer came down as he was taking off his wings and PM, Aer too close, perhaps; Sumaire four-pointing; Grian dropping a full eight, wings bow-bent when he hit.

Big women were running toward them from the tent ground, pursued, overtaken, and surpassed by a lone woman on horseback.

“Peace!” He raised both hands, palms out. “We who serve the gods mean no harm.”

The rider reined up, a handweapon drawn. “There are no gods but the goddess!”

Could the database be wrong? “We are her supporters and servitors!”

A dozen towering women surrounded them, some staring, some leveling short, gap-mouthed guns, some clearly waiting for the mounted woman’s instructions.

“We come from Mainframe,” Sciathan explained. “Mainframe, the home of the goddess. At her order we come to find Auk.” Privately he wondered which goddess it was.

“We’ll help you, but first you must give your weapons to us.” There was calculation in the mounted woman’s eyes.

Aer said, “No gun, no knife.”

The mounted woman’s attention went to her at once. “You’re in charge?”

Aer shook her head. “Fliers.” She touched her chin. “Aer I am. All fly.”

Mear joined them carrying his wings and PM, and accompanied by a gaggle of big women. “Each is one. Five ones.”

“Surrender your weapons,” the woman on horseback told him.

Coming up behind Mear, Sumaire held out her hands. “Mine. With these I kill.”

Calculation again. “You’re the leader.”

“Yes. My own.”

Mear said, “I am mine. No weapon. No gun. You give?” One of the big women laughed loudly and the horse shied, neck bent and hooves dancing.

“Quiet, you!” Pulling up the reins, the mounted woman scrutinized them. “Marhaba! Betifham ’arabi?”

Aer and Mear looked to Sciathan; he could only shrug.

She holstered her weapon and dismounted; her smile could not vanquish something vindictive that had made her face its own. “We started badly,” she told Aer. “Let’s start over and be friends. I’m Major Sirka, Flier Aer. I command the advance party of the Horde of Trivigaunte. I can’t welcome you to this city, because this city’s not mine. Mine’s to the south. You have flown over it many times. You must know it.”

Aer nodded and smiled. “Beautiful!”

“This man,” Major Sirka nodded at Sciathan, “came looking for a Vironese, another man. Are you looking for a woman?”

Sumaire said, “The man. Where will we find Auk?”

Grian, who arrived still wearing his PM, said slowly, “We are not like you are, Woman.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be, little man. Now listen to me. You’re…”

Her voice faded; she had become a painted figure, an image of gray on a featureless plain. Sciathan felt his lips drawn back and lifted in a grin by someone else.

Aer gaped at him, eyes wide as her mouth. Now, when all other color had fled, the blue of her eyes was still bright. Someone else reached out to her with Sciathan’s arms, and in a distant place she screamed.

The flash and boom of the shot so startled him that almost he woke; colors were briefly real, the scarlet-daubed thing at his feet Aer. He felt himself thrust violently down and back into a helpless dark at the edge of oblivion.

Sumaire slew with a touch and Mear fought with desperate valor until more shots threw both to the ground in their first embrace. Still carrying his wings, Grian shot straight up. He, Sciathan, should fly too; but his PM was gone, his hands bound. Turning, he saw his wings and kicked and stamped them.

“Let me think, Patera.” Maytera Marble cocked her head to one side. “The generalissimo from Trivigaunte and another one, but we don’t know her name. I’m assuming it will be a woman.”

Silk nodded. “I believe we can rely on it.”

“We don’t know how much either one eats. Probably a lot. Then there’s General Saba and Generalissimo Oosik. I’ve seen them, and they’ll want a whorl of food. Are each of them going to bring somebody, too?”

“That’s a good point.” Silk considered. “Oosik’s almost certain to, because Siyuf said she’d bring one of her staff. Let’s assume that they both do. That’s six so far.”

“All big eaters.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but His Cognizance and I won’t eat much and you’ll eat nothing.”

“Am I invited?” It was difficult to read Maytera Marble’s expression.

“Of course you are. You’re the hostess, the mistress of the house — of this palace, I should have said.”

“I thought Chenille might do it, Patera.”

“She’s a guest.” Silk settled himself more comfortably in the big wingback chair, conscious that he would have to leave it soon. “She’s here only because she may be in danger.”

“She’s a real help, that girl. She does everything I tell her to and looks for more. There are times when I have to hold her back, Patera.”

“Now I understand. You were afraid I wouldn’t invite her, that I’d ask her to wait on table or something. She’s invited — or she will be as soon as I see her. I want her, and your granddaughter and Master Xiphias; I sent Horn to tell him.”

“I teach arithmetic.” Maytera Marble sighed. “And now I want to count on my fingers. What’s worse, I can’t. Only up to five, and we had six with Generalissimo Oosik and all those foreign officers. You and His Cognizance make eight. The old fencing master nine. Chenille, ten. Mucor and me, twelve. If you’re going to invite anybody else, you’d better make it two, Patera. Thirteen at table’s not lucky. I don’t know why, but you’re supposed to bring somebody in off the street if you have to, to make fourteen.”

Silk stood up. “No, that should be all. Now come with me. I asked Hossaan to bring the floater, and I think I heard it a moment ago.”

“Where…? I can’t go away, Patera. Not with company for dinner tonight.”

Silk had anticipated that; he imagined himself arguing with Siyuf and was firm. “Of course you can. You’re going to. Go get your hand.”

“No. No.” Maytera Marble’s one functioning hand gripped the arm of her chair so tightly that the upholstery rose like dough between its metal fingers. “You don’t understand. You’re a good man. Too good, to tell the truth. Too good to me, as you always have been. But I’ve a thousand things to do between now and dinner. What time will it be? Six?”

“Eight. I do understand, Maytera, and that’s why we’re going to that shop the valet — what was his name?”

“Marl. Patera, I can’t.”

“Exactly. You can’t because you have only one hand. You have to tell Chenille, for the most part, and get her to do it. So we’re going to get your right hand reattached. As you say, there’s a lot to be done, and with two hands you’ll be able to do twice as much as Chenille, instead of half as much.”

Without waiting for her to reply, he strode to the door. “I’ll be outside; I want to ask Hossaan why their generalissimo speaks the way she does. We’ll expect you in five minutes, with your hand.” As he stepped into the reception hall, he added, “You and Chenille, and your granddaughter Bring her, too.”

Maytera Marble’s last wailing “Patera…” was cut off by the closing of the door. Grinning, Silk limped the length of the reception hall and got an overrobe of plain black fleece from the cloakroom off the foyer.

The outer door swung toward him before he could open it, and Hossaan stepped inside with Oreb perched on his shoulder. “Your bird was out there, Calde. I guess he couldn’t find a window open, so I brought him in.”

“Girls fly,” Oreb aoaked, fluttering. “Bird see.”

“Yes, and just in time, silly bird. Come here.”

Oreb hopped to Silk’s wrist. “Men perch!”

“He’s been flying up to the airship,” Silk explained. “By now he probably understands it a great deal better than I do. They lower people from it in a thing like an oversized birdcage, and bring people and supplies up; that seems to interest him.” He hesitated, then waved toward a long divan. “Let’s sit down for a moment. There’s something I want to ask you.”

“Sure thing, Calde.”

“We could do this in your floater, but I have the feeling there’d be somebody wanting to talk to me, and I don’t want to be interrupted. Did you see the parade?”

Hossaan nodded. “I was keeping an eye on you up on that stand, Calde, in case you wanted me.”

“Good. Then you saw me talking to Generalissimo Siyuf and General Saba. Do you know either of them, by the way?”

“Personally, you mean, Calde? No, I don’t. I know what they look like.”

“You haven’t spoken to them.”

Hossaan shook his head.

“But you’ve traveled. You’re from Trivigaunte originally?”

“Yes, Calde. I was born there. You’d be a fool to take anything I tell you at face value. You realize that, I’m sure.”

“Good man!” Oreb defended him. “Men fly. Perch!”

“Of course. I understand that your primary loyalty must be to your native city.”

“It is. And you’re right. I’ve traveled more than most men ever do. I can tell you about some of the places I’ve been, if you like, but I can’t always tell you what I was doing there.”

Silk nodded thoughtfully. “Here in Viron, we sometimes say that someone speaks Vironese, as if it were a separate language. It isn’t, of course. It’s just that we have certain idiomatic expressions that aren’t used, as far as I know, in other cities. There are words we pronounce differently as well. I know very little about other cities, but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they have peculiarities of their own.”

“That’s right. I think I know what you’re going to ask me, but go on.”

“Is there any reason you shouldn’t tell me about it?”

“Not a one.”

“All right. I was going to say that there actually are other languages, languages quite different from ours. Latin, for example, and French. We have French and Latin books, and there are passages in the Writings in those languages, which makes them of interest to scholars and even to ordinary augurs like me. Presumably there are cities in which those languages are spoken just as we speak Vironese here.”

“The Common Tongue,” Hossaan said. “That’s what travelers generally call it, and it’s what we call it in Trivigaunte.”

“I see.” Silk’s forefinger traced small circles on his cheek. “In that case you, from your foreign perspective, would say that both Viron and Palustria, for instance, speak the Common Tongue? Palustrian is similar enough to Vironese that one might have to listen to a speaker for several minutes to determine his native city. Or so I was taught at the schola.”

“You’ve got it, Calde.”

“Very well then. I can imagine a foreign city in which another language is spoken, Latin let us say. And I can easily imagine one like Palustria, where the Common Tongue is spoken; I can’t prove it, but I suspect that there may be more differences between the speech of a Vironese of the upper class and a beggar or a bricklayer than there are between an ordinary merchant from Viron and a like merchant from Palustria. What I cannot imagine is a city in which some citizens speak the Common Tongue, as you call it, and others Latin or another language.”

Hossaan nodded, but said nothing.

“Men fly!” Oreb announced, having lost patience with his owner. He launched himself from Silk’s shoulder and flapped around the room spiraling higher. “Fly! Fly! Girls! Men!” He extended his wings in a long glide. “Perch!”

“Great Pas guide us!” Maytera Marble was coming down the staircase with Chenille and Mucor. “What’s gotten into your bird, Patera?”

“I don’t know,” said Silk — who thought, however, that he did. “Hossaan, he came to you while you were waiting in the floater, is that right?”

“He landed on the back of the seat, Calde, and started tailing. I couldn’t understand him at first.”

“Yet another language, or at least another way of speaking the Common Tongue.” Silk smiled wryly. “What did he say?”

“’Bird out, bird out, Silk in.’ Like that, Calde.”

Silk nodded. “Go out and wait for us. Put the canopy up. I don’t know how long the wait will be, and there’s no point in your freezing.”

As Hossaan left, Chenille asked, “Aren’t we going, Patera?”

“In a moment. Step into the library, please, everybody. Oreb, where are the flying men and flying girls who perched?”

Oreb hopped to a corner occupied by a fat-bellied vase and rapped it sharply with his beak.

“Northeast, Mucor,” Silk muttered. “Did you see that?”

Her skull-like face turned toward him as a pale funeral lily lifts its blossom to the sun. “Flying, Silk?”

“Fliers, I believe. The people who fly on wings made of something that looks like gauze.”

Chenille added, “Like the Trivigaunti pterotroopers, only their wings are longer and look like they’d be lighter.”

The night chough flew to Silk’s shoulder.

“One more question, Oreb. Were there houses where the flying people landed?”

“House now! Quick house!”

Silk took a handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out, and draped it over his spread fingers. “Like this?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Sit down, please,” Silk told the three women. “Mucor, as a great favor to me, and your grandmother, too, do you think you could find out what these Fliers are doing?”

When she did not answer, he said, “Search the grazing land north and east of the city, where the Rani’s men are putting up their tents. I believe that may be what he means when he says quick houses. The Fliers will have taken off their wings when they landed, I imagine, and they’ll probably leave at least one of their number to guard them.”

“As Patera says, this is for both of us, Mucor.” Maytera Marble patted her knee. “I don’t know why it’s important, but I’m sure it must be.”

Chenille remarked, “You know, I’ve been wanting to have a look at this ever since that Trivigaunti saw her in the mirror, only now I can’t even tell if she’s doing it. You ought to be chanting and sprinkling perfume on Thelxiepeia’s picture.”

“The miracle — or magic, if that’s what you wish to call it — is in Mucor,” Silk told her.

“Auk believes in the gods, Patera. He’s really religious in his way, and he knows I had Scylla inside running things. But what I’m seeing wouldn’t make him believe in this.”

“Auk,” Mucor repeated suddenly.

Oreb cocked his head like Maytera Marble. “Where Auk?”

Mucor’s toneless voice seemed to emanate from a forsaken place beyond the universe. “Where Auk is… Silk? Chain my hands. Feet smash strong-wings.”