by Tim Powers
He vaguely remembered his near-drowning and realized in a detached way that he probably needed first aid pretty badly. He stood up on knees that refused to work together, and staggered up the passageway, arms out before him to feel for obstacles. If I get through all this, he thought, I’ll stay home the next time Orcrist wants to go on an adventure.
John Bollinger was a religious man and took no part in the sinful society of Munson Understreet. He subsisted on fish and mushrooms and lived in a tiny one-room house that had belonged to his father. He had four books—a bible, a copy of Paradise Lost, the Divina Commedia, and Butler’s Lives of the Saints. He always said, even when no one was listening, that to have more books than that was vanity.
He had heard the explosion during the night, but figured it was just a judgment on someone, and lie forgot about it. He was looking at the Dore illustrations in his Milton when, the next afternoon, there came a knock at his door.
“Who knocks?” asked John.
There was no answer, aside from a confused muttering.
Rising fearlessly from his table, John strode to the door and flung it open. Confronting him was the strangest apparition he’d ever seen.
It was, as John was later to describe it to his pastor, “the likeness of a young man, naked and blue-colored. He wore curious shoes, and an indecipherable medallion about his neck on a string, and his hair was cut in a barbaric tonsure.”
“What seekest thou?” gasped John.
“Clothes, for God’s sake. Hot soup. Brandy.”
“Aye, come in. Sit down. Of what order are you?”
“What?”
“What order do you belong to?”
“I don’t belong to any order,” Frank said. Seeing the old man frown, he added, off the top of his head, “I’m an independent. Freelance.”
“An anchorite! I see. Here. You can use this blanket to cover your shame. Will you join me in some fish and mushrooms?”
“Will I ever!”
Half an hour later Frank was beginning to pull himself together. The food and strong tea that John had given him had revived him, and he felt capable now of finding his way back to Orcrist’s apartment. I wonder if he managed to survive that street-fall? he thought. The last time he had seen Orcrist, he was chasing that Transport away from the collapsing street. He must think I’ve had it, though. I’d better get back quick.
“Thank you for your hospitality to a naked stranger,” he said, standing up and wrapping the blanket around himself like a robe. “I will repay you.”
“Don’t repay me,” John said. “Just do the same some day for some other homeless wanderer.”
“You bet,” Frank said, shaking the old mans hand. “Can you tell me how to get to Sheol from here?”
“We all go to Sheol eventually,” said John with a somber frown, “and we’d better be prepared.”
“I guess that’s true.” Poor devil, he thought. Brain warped from a diet of fish. A lesson to us all. Frank crossed to the door and opened it. “So long,” he said, “and thanks again.”
It was chilly in the tunnels, and Frank was glad to have the blanket. He hurried southeast, numbed feet beating on the cobblestones, and finally did, as John had predicted, get to Sheol, where he turned left. He was wondering what he’d do if some understreet vagabonds were to attack him, because his strength and endurance were very nearly gone. As it happened, though, none did; he wasn’t the type of wanderer that would tempt a thief.
After he’d found Sheol the rest of the trip was easy, and within ten minutes he was turning the emergency hide-a-key in Orcrist’s front door lock. He swung the door open. The front room was empty, so he stumbled to the bathroom and began putting iodine and bandages on his various cuts and gouges.
Nothing seems to be broken, he thought, wincing as he probed a bruise over his ribs. Not obviously broken, anyway. His left ear was swollen and incredibly painful to touch, so he just left it alone. Finally he stood up and regarded his black and blue, bandage-striped body in the full-length mirror hanging behind the door.
Good God! he thought. What’s become of my hair? He ran his fingers through the ragged, patchy clumps of hair on his scalp. This dismayed him more than anything else. Those damned mice ate it! I didn’t know mice did that. What am I going to do? How can I face Blanchard looking like this? Or Kathrin?
He went to his room and dressed. He put on a wide-brimmed leather hat, tilting it at a rakish angle to keep it off his wounded ear. Finally he plodded wearily to the sitting room, poured a glass of brandy and collapsed into Orcrist’s easy chair.
CHAPTER 3
Frank woke up to the sound of the front door squeaking open and someone scuffing mud off of boots. Frank tried to stand up, but a dozen sudden lancing pains made him decide to remain seated.
“Pons?” It was Orcrist’s voice. “Pons?”
“Mr. Orcrist!” Frank called.
Orcrist stepped into the sitting room and stared at Frank in amazement. The older man was still dressed as he had been that morning, and still had not shaved, nor, to judge by his eyes, slept.
“I’ll kill Poach,” he said. “He swore he saw you and about two hundred feet of Henderson Lane fall into the river.”
“Don’t kill him,” said Frank. “That’s what happened. I managed to climb out of the Leethee after about six blocks.”
“Are you all right?”
“No.” Frank took off his hat.
Orcrist raised his eyebrows. “Why don’t you tell it to me from the beginning,” he said, pulling up another chair. As economically as possible, Frank explained what had transpired after Orcrist ran off in pursuit of the fleeing Transport cop. “Did you get him, by the way?” Frank asked. Orcrist nodded. When the story was finished, Orcrist shook his head wonderingly.
“The Fates must have something planned for you, Frank.”
“I hope it’s something quiet. How did the rest of you do?”
“Well, let’s see. Wister and Lambert went into the river with you, and are presumed drowned. Bob has disappeared also. Poach is fine. I’m fine. You’ve lost your hair. None of the Transports seem to have survived.”
“What was the purpose of it? Just to nail some Transport cops?”
“No, Frank, not at all. What we did was … set a precedent. We’ve got to make it clear to the Transports that they are free to lord it topside, but have no jurisdiction understreet. If we can make sure that no Transport who comes down here ever returns topside, after a while they’ll stop coming down.”
“Maybe so.” Frank sipped his brandy. “Is it inevitable that they lord it in Munson?”
“As far as I can see. Are you still thinking of overthrowing the palace?”
“Sure.”
“Oh well. A mans reach should exceed his grasp, and so forth. Would you like a wig? I’m sure I could get one somewhere.”
“No, that’s … well, yes maybe I would.”
During dinner there was a knock at the door, and George Tyler wandered in, grinning, leading by the hand a woman Frank had never seen. She was blond and slightly overweight; her eyelids were painted a delicate blue.
“Good evening, Sam, Frank,” Tyler said. “This is Bobbie Sterne. We were just ambling past, so I thought we’d stop in.”
“Sit down and have something to eat,” said Orcrist. “Pons, could we have two more plates and glasses?”
“Oh, uh, look at this, Sam,” said Tyler shyly, handing Orcrist a small book bound in limp leather. Bobbie smiled and stroked Tyler’s arm.
“Poems,” Orcrist read, “by George Tyler. Well, I’ll be damned. Congratulations, George, published at last! This calls for a drink. Pons! Some of the Tamarisk brandy! Sit down, Bobbie, and Frank, get a chair for George.” Frank fetched a chair from the sitting room and took the opportunity to make sure his hat was firmly on.
“Frank,” said Tyler when he re-entered. “You’re limping. And you’ve got a cut over your eye. Did one of your students get vicious?”
“It�
��s the lot of a fencing master, George,” said Orcrist. “Be glad you’ve got a more peaceful craft.”
“Oh, I am.”
Pons had, zombie-like, served the brandy, and Bobbie was tossing it down like beer. Tyler took a long sip and smiled beatifically.
“Ah, that’s the stuff,” he said. “I’ll try to publish books more often, at this rate. Say, what do you think of that depth charge last night?”
“Depth charge?” Orcrist asked.
“Don’t play the dummy with me, Sam. The Transport used some kind of depth charge to blow out ten levels in the northwest area.”
“George, it was four levels, not ten, and it was a regular bomb. They dropped it on the surface to break up a riot. The only reason it did so much damage is that we’ve dug so many tunnels under Munson that it’s like a honeycomb down here.” Frank could see that Orcrist was controlling his impatience. “I think if anybody stomped really hard on any sidewalk in Munson a couple of levels would go.”
“Well, maybe so,” said Tyler, not quite sure of what was being discussed. “If I ever claim my kingdom I’ll do something about it.”
“That’s a comfort,” said Orcrist wearily.
“You think I’ll forget? Just because I’ll be living at the palace again? I won’t forget old friends, Sam. I’ll see to it that nobody steps on any sidewalks over your place.”
“Is this a limited edition, George?” asked Orcrist, thumbing through Tyler’s book. “It’s very handsomely printed.”
“Oh, yeah, nothing but the best. It’s limited to five hundred copies, and you can have that one. Here, I’ll sign it. I’m not the one to say it, but it’s likely to be very valuable in years to come.”
“I expect it will,” said Orcrist. “Thank you.”
For a few minutes everyone occupied themselves with the dinner.
“You look tired, Sam,” said Tyler, munching on a celery stick. “Been keeping long hours?”
“No longer than usual, George. I must just be—” he was interrupted by a crash from the kitchen. “Would you go see what that was, Frank?”
“Sure.” Frank stood up and walked into the kitchen. Pons lay on the floor, unconscious, bright arterial blood gushing from a long slash that ran from his elbow to his wrist. Blood, spattered on the counter and wall, was pooling on the floor.
“Sam!” Frank shouted. He ripped his shirt off and quickly knotted it around Pons’s upper arm. Then he thrust the handle of a butter knife under the fabric and began twisting it to tighten the tourniquet. At the third twist the blood stopped jetting from the arm.
Orcrist ran in, stared at Pons for a moment, and ran out again. He was back in five seconds with a needle, fishing line, and the bottle of brandy. He poured the liquor all over the wounded arm, and rinsed his own hands in it. He then threaded the needle with the fishing line and began working in the gaping cut. “Got to try to repair the artery, you see, Frank,” he said through clenched teeth. “There it is. Hold the skin there, will you?”
Frank held the wound open while Orcrist sewed shut the cut artery. Everything was slippery with blood and Frank didn’t see how Orcrist could tell what he was doing.
“Okay, let’s sew the slash closed now,” said Orcrist, cutting off the line that dangled from the knot. Frank pressed the edges of the wound together and Orcrist sewed it up as neatly as a seam in a pair of pants. He released the tourniquet, and though blood began to seep out around the stitches, he declared that all was well. He used Frank’s torn shirt as a bandage to wrap Pons’s arm.
“Will that do?” asked Frank.
“Actually, I don’t know,” Orcrist answered. “It looks right to me.”
Frank looked up. Tyler and Bobbie were standing in the doorway, looking pale and queasy.
“How did it happen?” Tyler asked.
“He cut himself, it appears, with that knife over there,” Orcrist said, pointing to a long knife lying next to the stove. “When he fell he knocked over this cart.”
“Good Lord. Should I get a doctor?”
“No, George, I don’t think so.” Orcrist went to the sink and began washing his hands. “I don’t really think there’s anything you can do here, so if you’ll excuse us, Frank and I have a bit of work to do.”
“Oh, sure, Sam. Come on, Bobbie.”
Frank washed his hands; then he and Orcrist lifted Pons and carried him into his room, laying him on the bed. They heard the front door close as Tyler and Bobbie left.
Orcrist, looking eighty years old, Frank thought, sank into a chair. “This has been a day to try men’s souls,” Orcrist said. “You and I seem to have survived. I’m going to bed. We can clean everything up in the morning.”
Frank stumbled to his own room, fell into bed and was plagued all night by monstrous dreams.
After the grisly mopping up was finished next morning, Orcrist left the house for an hour. Frank spent the time reading Housman’s poetry and drinking cup after cup of black coffee. When Orcrist returned he handed Frank a book-sized package. Frank opened it and lifted out the furry object it held.
“What the devil is it?” he asked. “A guinea-pig skin?”
“It’s a wig, and you know it,” Orcrist said. “Try it on.”
Feeling like a fool, Frank pulled the thing over his patchy, bandaged scalp. “How’s it look?” he asked.
“Pull it to the left more,” said Orcrist. “There, that’s good. Hows your ear?”
“It doesn’t hurt as much today. And I think the swelling’s going down. Wait a minute, I’ve got to see how my brass ear fits with this wig.”
Frank went to his room and took his strung metal ear off the bedside table. He put it on over the wig and it fit as well as ever, with the carved ear hanging exactly over the spot where his right ear used to be.
“It’s a perfect fit, Mr. Orcrist,” he said, returning to the sitting room.
“Yeah, you look like your old self. And I guess you can call me Sam, since you’re not a kitchen boy anymore.”
“All right.” Frank sipped his coffee and wondered how one scratched one’s head in a wig. “How’s Pons?”
“He was conscious this morning and I gave him some potato soup.”
“Is that what they give to people who’ve lost a lot of blood?”
“I don’t know. It’s what I give them.”
“Say, Sam,” Frank said, “was it a suicide attempt?”
“I think so. I wouldn’t have sewed him up if I was sure it was.”
“Ah.” Frank stood up. “Well, I’d better be off to the school. I’ve got to start working this stiffness out of me before that appointment with Blanchard day after tomorrow.”
“Okay. I may drop in later. I want some practice on that parry in prime you’ve been trying to teach me.”
“Sure. You can even take over the lessons if I find I get too exhausted.” Frank put on his coat and shoes, and left.
Frank’s first pupil of the day was waiting in the street in front of the school when he arrived.
“Good morning, Lord Emsley,” nodded Frank as he unlocked the door. “Sorry I’m late.”
“My time is money, Rovzar.” Emsley was a short, surly man with a bristly black moustache and bad teeth.
Once inside, Frank lit the lamps and opened the streetside windows; the window that faced the river he left closed, since there were still a few refugees floating down the Leethee.
“Okay, my lord, take an épée and let me see your lunge.”
Emsley selected a sword and crouched into an awkward on guard; then he kicked forward with his sword up.
“Extend your arm before your lead leg goes,” Frank told him. “Otherwise he sees it coming. Do it again.”
Emsley did it again.
“Arm first, my lord, arm first. And keep your rear leg straight. Do it again. And again. And again. Good. And again. And—”
“Damn you, Rovzar!” Emsley roared. “This is insane! There’s no value in all these … calisthenics. Do you think it matter
s in a fight whether my leg is straight or my arm moves first? I’ll tell you what matters: speed! Listen—I’ll lay a wager with you. These ten malories say I can beat you, your style against mine.”
The lord flung ten one-malory notes onto the floor.
“Okay,” said Frank, picking them up and putting them on the table. “You’re on.” Damn it, Frank thought. I can’t fence today. Every muscle in me is tight as a guitar string. But I’ve got to show this blustering idiot where he stands. Let me see, what are his weakest points? He doesn’t parry well in sixte, when I come in over his sword arm. Let’s see if I can do something with that.
“Here,” he said, tossing Emsley a mask. He put one on himself and picked up one of the left-handed epees. God help me, he thought as he pulled on a leather glove. “On guard,” he said. Emsley lunged immediately, and Frank parried it; but his riposte was slow, and the lord parried it without difficulty. Don’t be lured into attacking, Frank told himself. Wait for another one of his stupid lunges.
A heavy knock sounded at the door. “Just a minute,” Frank said, turning and raising his mask. Emsley drove his sword at Frank’s back, and the blade flexed like a fishing pole as the padded tip struck a rib. The breath hissed painfully through Frank’s teeth.
“You owe me ten malories, Rovzar!” crowed Emsley.
“Shut up, you ass,” Frank said. He crossed to the door and opened it, and his heart froze. Three Transport policemen stood on the doorstep, and one of them, a captain, wore an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster.
“Yes, officers?” Frank said.
“Are you Francisco Rovzar?” asked the one with the pistol.
“Yes. Why?” Can I kill all three? he wondered. I don’t like that gun. Emsley will be no help, that’s certain, and I’m not in top-notch shape anyway. Better talk to them.
