The Skies Discrowned

by Tim Powers

  “I’m always ready to do my country’s bidding,” Tom said with a pious look. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “I knew you were our man!” said Duprey with the sort of smile one saves for a true comrade.

  Unlike Blanchard, Frank made it a point to attend as many meetings of the Subterranean Companions as he could. He liked to keep up on the news and to learn as much as possible about the workings of the organization he’d become king of. Generally he sat to the side, smoking thoughtfully, only occasionally speaking up to add something or ask a question of Hodges.

  Tonight he squinted curiously through a haze of latakia smoke at Hodges, who had just claimed to have an announcement to make about “the deceased king, Tolley Christensen.”

  “After the duel in which Tolley Christensen was killed,” Hodges read from his notes, “his sword was picked up, together with the sword of King Blanchard. The two swords were observed to cling to each other. Upon investigation, Tolley’s sword proved to be magnetized. This is a trick expressly forbidden in the bylaws, and therefore I declare that Tolley’s admittedly brief reign was won by unfair means, and is, because of that, invalidated. Henceforth, then, our present King Francisco Rovzar is to be remembered as the successor to King Blanchard, with none between.”

  Frank felt a quick panic. That means that Tolley wasn’t king when I killed him, he thought. Therefore, technically, I’m not really the king now. Damn it, Hodges, I wish you’d cleared this with me before announcing it. Oh hell, he thought. Even if they do appoint someone else, I can always pull the ius gladii out of the hat again. And they’ll know I will, so they won’t try it even if they think of it.

  A magnetized sword, eh, Tolley? Were you that scared of Blanchard? In the legendry and superstition of the understreet thieves, a magnetized sword was reputed to be much deadlier than an ordinary one; but Frank couldn’t see that it would make any difference. It just might, he thought, make getting a bind a little easier, and it might make your parries a little quicker—but it would do the same for your opponent, too.

  Frank suddenly snapped out of his reverie. Hodges was now reading the names of newly-bonded apprentices. “What was that last name, Hodges?”

  “Uh … Thomas Strand.”

  “Thank you.”

  Thomas Strand! Could it be my old buddy? Frank wondered. I’ll have to check the lists after the meeting and see where this Strand is staying. It would be great to have Tom down here. Since Orcrist was killed, I don’t have a really close friend in this understreet antfarm—only George Tyler, I guess; and maybe Beardo Jackson.

  Eventually Hodges declared the meeting adjourned, and the crowd broke up into departing groups arguing about where to go for beer. Hodges was shuffling his papers together and a handful of young apprentices were waiting for the nod to drag out the ladders and snuff the lights.

  “Hodges,” Frank said. “I think I know one of the new apprentices. Let me—”

  “Frank!” came a voice from below him. “Your majesty, I mean.” Frank looked down and grinned to see Tom Strand standing in front of the first-row seats. Frank jumped down from the marble block and slapped him on the back. “When the hell did you fall into the sewer world, Tom?”

  “A couple of days ago. I saw you kind of blink when the emcee read my name. But Frank, you look ten years older! You’ve got a metal ear! And how did you cut your face? Shaving?”

  “We’ve both got long stories to tell, I’m sure. I’m taking off, Hodges. Oh, and I’d like to see you tomorrow at ten in the council room; there’s a detail or two of protocol I want to check with you on.”

  “Right, sire.” Hodges leaped down from the platform and ambled into the sacristy.

  “Come on,” Frank said. “I know where we can get some beer.” As they walked out he waved to the boys, who trudged off to the closet where the ladders were kept.

  “Tolley killed Orcrist and Blanchard, both of them friends of mine, so I killed him. Afterward I found that that had made me the new king. And here I am. So how is it that you’ve become one of my subjects?”

  Tom mentally ran through the story Duprey had provided him with. “Well, Frank, my old girlfriend, Bonnie—remember her? Of course you do—Bonnie and I were out getting drunk one night, and a Transport cop came over and said to her, “Drop creepo, here, baby, and try a real man.” Well, I told him to, you know, buzz off, and he punched me in the face, so I hit him with a bottle and he fell right over, like he was dead.”

  He’s lying, Frank thought—or at least exaggerating. Oh well, if he wants to look brave, I won’t hinder him.

  “There were about six other Transports there, and they went for me, swords out. I’ve never been scared by swords, you know that, but I figured six of ’em were too many, so I headed out the door.”

  “What about Bonnie?”

  “Hm?”

  “Bonnie. You left her there?”

  “Oh … no, no. I knew the guy that owned the place, see, and I knew he’d look after her. Anyway, I ran out of there and headed for Munson. I didn’t have any place to stay, and Munson in the winter isn’t the right town for sidewalk-sleeping, so I crawled into a sewer, followed it along, and found a whole city down here.”

  “You were lucky you did. Munson on the surface is a Transport nest. Who’s your sponsor?”

  “An old guy named Jack Plant. Know him?”

  “Slightly.” Frank frowned inwardly. Plant was a perpetual whiner and complainer, and had in the past been vaguely suspected of having made deals with the surface police. “I’ll get you a good position so you can pay off your bond quickly.”

  “Thanks, Frank. But I don’t want you doing me favors just because I’m your friend.”

  “Don’t worry. I never let personal feelings interfere with what’s got to be done. Never. But getting you a job isn’t any trouble. Finish your beer, now, and I’ll show you the way back to Plant’s.”

  After Frank had left, Tom sat drinking weak coffee in Plant’s front room. I can’t kill old Frank, Tom thought, even if he is a criminal. The poor devil’s had a horrible time and has to live his whole life underground in a sewer. Of course it isn’t that bad—and he’s living high, by sewer standards.

  Maybe, Tom thought, I could pretend to kill him. I could buy a slave of roughly Frank’s build, and then cut the slave’s head off and dress him in Frank’s clothes and tell Duprey that it was Frank. Then I’d have to do something with Frank … maybe I could sell him into slavery in the Tamarisk Isles. I’d have to cut out his tongue, I suppose, but that’s better than being killed. I guess it would probably be best to blind him, too—can’t have him coming back, after all—but that’s still better than being killed.

  Yes sir, Tom smiled to himself, that’s what I’ll do. That way I get the Transport post Duprey promised me, and I don’t have to kill Frank. Hell, he’ll probably be happier, dumb and blind in the sunny Tamarisk Isles.

  “Okay, Hodges, that wasn’t it. Send in the next one.” Frank leaned back in his chair and wished he had his pipe.

  The door opened and a thin, well-dressed man entered the room. His suit was clean and meticulously pressed, but looked a bit threadbare around the cuffs. He had apparently combed his hair recently with some kind of oil.

  “Please sit down,” said Frank. “You are related to the royal family, I believe?”

  “That’s right,” the man nodded.

  “What is your connection?”

  “My father was the rightful duke, and Topo had him killed so he could marry my mother.”

  “Your father was Duke Ovidi?” Frank asked.

  “That’s right. Topo had him killed.”

  “How?” Frank had always understood that Ovidi had died after falling, drunk, down a flight of stairs, thus leaving the dukedom to his brother Topo.

  “My father was sleeping, and two scoundrels that Topo had hired snuck up and poured poison in his ear. Then Topo married my mother and took the title of Duke. But now I think it’s time that I claimed my
kinship and threw Topo out. I’ve been having visions—”

  “Yes, yes, said Frank hastily. “Visions. I see. Well, thank you for your time. If anything develops, we’ll get in touch with you.”

  The man stood up uncertainly and ambled out of the room. A moment later Hodges leaned in. “Another blank?” he asked.

  Frank nodded.

  “Nut or fortune-hunter?”

  “Nut, for sure,” said Frank. “The guy doesn’t know Topo’s dead, even.”

  “Well, I’ve got six more out here. You want ’em now or save ’em to see tomorrow?”

  “Oh, tomorrow, I guess. We’ve got to find an heir, Hodges.”

  “If you say so, sire.”

  Frank waited until Hodges had got rid of the six other pretenders to the throne, and then went downstairs and put on his coat and sword.

  “Going somewhere, sire?” Hodges asked.

  “Yeah; I’m meeting a couple of friends on the boat.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always, Hodges.”

  Cochran Street was empty as Frank closed the door behind him. The air was chilly, and foul with fumes that were filtering up from some low-level swamp or stagnant branch of the Leethee. He pulled his coat tighter about him and strode off rapidly toward his dock. After insisting that his boatman and two guards remain where they were, Frank untied a small rowboat and took off down the Leethee. The river was flowing quick and smooth, but the choppy water and erratic evening wind of the harbor slowed him down. When he reached the anchored boat another rowboat was already moored to it.

  “Frank!” someone called from the deck. “Get up here with the key, for God’s sake!”

  Frank tied his rowboat to a mooring ring and climbed aboard the larger vessel. George Tyler stood shivering on the afterdeck, clutching a wine bottle as if it were a threatened baby. Frank unlocked the cabin and they both hurried inside.

  “Get the heater lit,” gasped Tyler. “I’ve been out there for an hour.”

  “You have not.”

  “Well, nearly. Who’s this friend I’ve got to meet?”

  “His name’s Tom Strand. He was my best friend before I came understreet.”

  “Oh.” Tyler struck a match and lit the lamps. “Say, Frank, I’m sorry about what happened at my party.”

  “Forget it, George. I’d say Kathrin and that Matthews dimwit are made for each other.”

  “I guess so. They certainly see a lot of each other, anyway.” Tyler slumped into a chair. “Say,” he said, “where is Sam’s grave? I never thought to ask, but now I’d like to go and … pour some wine on his last resting place, or something.”

  “He doesn’t have a grave,” Frank told him.

  “You didn’t bury him?”

  Frank pulled the cork out of George’s wine bottle. “Not exactly. I dragged his body back to our boat and then went on to that meeting we’d been heading for. Afterward I rowed out past the jetty and tied a heavy chain around him and let him sink in the outer sea.” He handed Tyler a glass of wine.

  Tyler frowned for a moment, and then nodded. “You did the right thing, Frank. Bodies buried understreet always pop out sooner or later on a lower level. Here’s to his shade!” He tossed off the wine.

  Frank drained his, too, and flung the glass hard at the narrow starboard window, which shattered explosively outward, spraying the deck with tinkling glass. Tyler flung his through the jagged hole into the sea.

  “Hey, take it easy!” someone called from outside. “Frank, is that you?”

  “That must be Tom,” Frank said, walking to the door. “I was beginning to worry about him.”

  Frank went out on deck and showed Tom where to tie his boat, then helped him aboard and opened the cabin door for him.

  (Two hundred yards away a tall, blond man in the harbor patrol uniform lowered his binoculars. He looked pleased as he took up the oars and began pulling toward the south.)

  “This is George Tyler, Tom, one of the great poets of our age,” Frank said. “George, this is Tom Strand. Will you have some wine, Tom?”

  “Sure. I can never afford any on an apprentice’s wages.”

  “Maybe you can do better than that,” said Frank, pouring two new glasses for Tyler and himself. “I have a position for you.”

  “Oh?” Tom took his glass and sat down. “Doing what?”

  “Training my troops in fencing. They—”

  “Troops?” Tom asked incredulously.

  “That’s right. I’ve been organizing these thieves and a lot of the homeless Goriot farmers into an army. I’m beginning to get them into some kind of shape, but they know nothing about real fighting. I’ve been giving groups of them some basic lessons in stance and parrying and all, but I need someone who can be a full-time instructor. You’re probably as good a fencer as I am; why don’t you take the job? You’ll have your bond paid off in no time.”

  Tom stared into his wine. An underground army, he thought. Duprey will be damned grateful when I tell him. “Sure,” he answered, looking up. “It sounds fine to me.”

  “Terrific. You can start the day after tomorrow. I’ll have Hodges get a group of the best ones together in the meeting hall.”

  They soon finished the wine and opened a bottle of Tamarisk brandy; the sight brought tears to Tom’s eyes.

  “Easy, Tom,” Frank said jovially. “I guess it’s been a long time since you’ve had good brandy. Relax. Real soon you’ll be able to buy all the fine brandy you want.”

  “I know,” said Tom.

  CHAPTER 2

  A fly was circling, in the aimless way of flies, in and out of a beam of morning sunlight in Duke Costa’s throne room, annoying him mightily. Three hard-eyed, leather-faced men stood in front of him and watched impassively as the powdered and jewel-decked Duke flung books at the insect.

  Finally one of them spoke. “Your grace,” he rasped. “Why have you called for us?”

  “What? Oh. You’re the assassins, right?”

  The three men exchanged cold looks. “We served your father in many ways,” spoke up another of them.

  “I know. But right now it’s only as assassins that I want to see you. Now listen closely, I hate repeating myself. The King of the Subterranean Companions is a young man named Francisco Rovzar. He owns a large boat in the harbor, just north of the ship basin; and he spends time there, I’ve heard, when he wants to relax after doing whatever horrible things he does—interfering with the government, mostly. Anyway, I want you to kill him. I’ll pay you the same rate my father did.”

  “Double it,” growled one. “The malory isn’t worth a sowbug’s dowry these days.”

  Costa frowned and pressed his lips together, but nodded. The three men bowed and filed out of the room.

  They’re insolent boys, Costa thought. I probably should have had them seized and flung into a dungeon (I wonder if I have any dungeons?). But no, I’ll let them kill Rovzar first. It will be fun to mention, off the cuff, of course, to those serious-minded Transports that I’ve succeeded where they’ve failed, and had Rovzar killed without their tiresome help.

  Tom Strand lifted his mask so that it sat on his head like a conquistador’s helmet. “Okay,” he called to the thirty sweating men lined up in the hall. “Advance, advance, advance, retreat, advance, lunge!” His students leaped about awkwardly, thrusting their swords in all directions. “Well, that’s pretty bad,” Tom said. “Let’s call it a day. But be back here tomorrow—I’ll teach this stuff to you guys or kill you all trying.”

  The thirty thieves sheathed their swords and swaggered out of the hall, clearly pleased with themselves. Tom threw his mask onto the floor, sheathed his own sword and hurried out after them. He decided he didn’t have time to change out of his white fencing clothes.

  He made his furtive way down a little-used alley that opened onto a stairway, which he followed down two flights. Moored to an ancient stone dock was a small skiff, in whose bottom lay two oars, a wide-bladed axe and a bound and gagged man. To
m hopped in, shoved the tied man aside, loosed the rope and pushed away from the dock with an oar.

  “So far so good,” he whispered nervously to the terrified prisoner. “Frank will get there about an hour after you and I do. Ha ha! You’re helping me into a high-paying Transport job, pal, so I guess the least I can do is kill you quick.”

  The boat skimmed smoothly down the torch-lit Leethee tide, and none of the scavengers and beggars they passed gave the skiff a second look. Soon they passed through the last stone arch and found themselves in the harbor. The sun was only a hairsbreadth clear of the oceans horizon, and the sky was a cathedral of terraced red-and-gold clouds against a background of pale blue.

  “We’re timing it well, my friend,” Tom grinned, turning the boat north. “Old Redbrick’s ship ought to be just lowering anchor beyond the jetty. I’ll kill you (begging your pardon), knock out poor Frank, cut out his tongue and eyes and row him out to the ship. Redbrick will give me a hundred malories and take Frank away to the Tamarisk Isles. I’ll take your headless body to Duprey, and tell him it’s Frank, and he’ll give me a job. Everybody does well except you, I guess. And, hell, a slave is probably happier dead anyway, right?” The slave moaned through his gag. “That’s right,” agreed Tom.

  He worked the boat north, around the anchored merchant ships, until Frank’s boat came into view. He pulled alongside it, relieved to see no other boats moored there.

  “Up you go,” Tom said cheerfully, hoisting the slave like an awkward piece of lumber onto the deck. Tom followed, carrying the axe. “Okay, you just lay there for a minute,” he said. “This is complicated, I admit, but if we all do our parts it’ll work out fine.”

  The slave turned his face despairingly to the cabin wall. Tom shrugged, put down the axe and went to the door, which was locked; he kicked it open and hurried into Frank’s room, where he picked up a gray shirt, a sword, a pair of shoes and a pair of white corduroy pants. He bundled these together, and went out on deck again.

  The bound slave still faced the wall, so Tom quietly set the clothes on the deck and picked up the axe. He raised it over his head, aiming at the man’s neck. Then he swung it down with all the force he could add to the thing’s own weight, and he crouched as he struck to keep the blow perpendicular. He stood up a moment later, rocked the blood-splashed axe blade loose from the deck-wood it had bitten into, and flung it overboard. The severed head he tied in a canvas bag weighted with two sextants, which he also tossed over the side.