Bloodsong

by Melvin Burgess

  She needs no light.

  What was the old king thinking of, marrying a creature like that? Of course these days, things are different, we understand that. If you can have a conversation with your dog it does wonders for the relationship. Things . . . well, they develop, put it like that. Grimhild has a decent pair of breasts—we forgot to mention them when we were listing her more human attributes—covered in that same flat white fur. Ideal for stroking. But still! Kings have to think ahead. The bloodline, succession. They spend a lot of time on this stuff. When one of your children is going to lead the nation one day, you take your breeding seriously. There are the womb-tanks, of course, cloning techniques and so on—but that basic genetic material is still important. What was he doing, breeding from a sheepdog? It makes no sense. It’s not even good taste. He could have chosen a decent breed, an old English, or a spaniel of some kind, if he wanted to be traditional, or something grand—a wolfhound, or an Afghan even. Something with a bit of class.

  But Grimhild wasn’t always like this. You should have seen her when she was first married! Frontal lobes? She had them in her elbows. Looks? She had them in her brains. She’s never been the same since the assassination. She lost everything— her husband, her looks, her brains, the lot. She barely got away with her life.

  It’s a story that’s never been told. Grimhild and Ida were the only ones there, and they ain’t talking. The assassins got in and out of the royal apartments without leaving a sign— shape-changers, most likely. The king was dead on the floor, Ida lay tied to a chair, the blood all down her front and her tongue on the table beside her. Grimhild lay whining on her husband’s feet, faithful old bitch that she was. What had happened, who was it? Ida had never learned to read and write and resisted all attempts to teach her, and Grimhild— well, she was a sorceress and a shape-changer herself. Everyone was familiar with that black and white sheepdog bitch—she’d used the shape many times. They stroked her and cuddled her, fed her, talked to her and petted her. It was surely just a matter of time before she changed back. Maybe the shock, the terror . . . ? Or maybe the murderers had done more to her than met the eye. But the hours turned into days, the days to years, and Grimhild remained the same, resistant to either sorcery or medicine. Palace security was reviewed and renewed—too late for the king and his queen. Grimhild never got back to the way she was.

  It’s ironic really. When she had the equipment, she was such a talker. Couldn’t shut up. Her husband was always telling her—“You talk too much, Grimhild,” he used to say. “You’ll give yourself away, one day.” But not anymore. Her long jaws and loose tongue have silenced her forever.

  What does she want, anyway, up so late? The whole palace is asleep. Is she nocturnal? She’s certainly an insomniac, old Grimhild. She walks the day with bags under her eyes. If she went to bed early it would do her no good, she’d only lie there sighing and scratching and staring at her cushion, tormented by anxious thoughts. Better to be up and listen to the radio or read a book when no one is watching. Or making plans. Her children, who love her dearly, would be surprised to think she has any plans left. In fact she’s full of them. She’s made of them. They pulse through her blood and flow through her water, they come out of her eyes and her ears, anywhere but out of her mouth. Secrets, secrets, old Grimhild. But from your own children? What for? You’re on the same side, after all. But people, sometimes even people you’re very close to, have a habit of disagreeing. The fact is they don’t know diddly-poo. Grimhild likes to be informed. Her motto: one step ahead.

  There she goes, past the flock wallpaper that was put up to please some fussy foreign minister who designed it himself; past toilets one, two, and three, past dining rooms, under chandeliers and sprinklers, clickety-click, clickety-clack over endless tiles—carpet is quiet but hard work—past lifts and trophy rooms, past the clock collection that fills two halls and was her mother-in-law’s obsession, past galleries with their displays of ancient artefacts depicting the ages of stone, bronze, iron, steam, petroleum, and electricity.

  Over her shoulder is a bag with a small portable radio in it. If something interesting is on, she might pause and sit down on one of the many chairs and sofas lining the corridors, and have a listen. Why not? There’s plenty of time. She’d have a book there too, but she doesn’t like to be seen reading.

  Oh dear! She likes the dark, she lets her children think she has the mental capacity of an aging sheepdog, never speaks, and, worst of all, she reads in secret. Bad signs. Yes, there is certainly more to Grimhild than meets the eye. Is there a sliver of fox in there, alongside the sheepdog? Could be. She can be sly enough, this one. What’s she up to? What does she want? What’s her game?

  No secrets! There’s nothing to know. It’s my favorite time of day, that’s all. Everyone fast asleep, the house so still. It’s a time when you can see the soul most easily. You need a glass, say one meter tall. You fill it up with spring water and if you know the runes you can catch the shadow of the soul moving inside by moonlight. You can understand it by signs—its color, its shape, how it moves. A person’s personality isn’t always anything like their soul. Souls have their own business.

  My mother showed me how. It’s a trick, that’s all—a party trick, like changing shape. Hide-and-seek. Nothing that means much.

  Yes, secrets move out of their hidey-holes at this time of night. The local wildlife, my husband used to call them—foxes, witches, ghosts, the spirit-world; the gods. Up to no good, he used to say, but he wasn’t above my using a little witchery when it suited him.

  And then GRAAAA-GRA-GRA-GRA-GRAHHHHHN NNNN . . . . snoring! Gunar, my eldest. And he even stutters when he snores! It’s enough to make you jump right out of your skin.

  Poor boy. I have to live until I’m a hundred! My children need me, they don’t know it, but they do. Flat on his back, head to one side, snoring like a pig. Just like his father. He used to drive me out of the bedroom with his noise. Not that Gunar has anyone to drive away. He complains that he’s full of love and no one to give it to, but he’s too fussy. Always picking faults. This one’s too ordinary, this one’s too fat, this one’s quiet, this one’s not mad enough. I’ve heard him say that. What sort of a thing is that, to want someone mad? “Only a bit mad,” he says. What does he want, a goddess? A good-looking man, any girl’d be proud to have him—but he’s too proud. Gunar-all-alone, Hogni calls him when he wants to tease.

  At least he had the job—but not now. Oh, don’t let that business of naming him king fool you, Sigurd’s the one in charge. Sad, but you can’t fight history; Sigurd has the following. Well, there’s no shame in following the likes of him. I watched him, I saw his soul. It’s true: He’s almost a god. Perhaps he’ll become one, with a little help. Everyone needs a bit of help. Yes. A pity. But if the Volsons are good enough for everyone else, they’re good enough for us, too.

  Grimhild, Grimhild! More secrets? And what ambition! You’d make your guest a god? Inside that flat skull of hers the language is rolling like the seas. She’s thinking like a human— yes, and lying like one too. There’s more layers to this one than an onion.

  In the old days, before her accident, Grimhild used to creep in on her children late every night, until they compared notes and worked out what was going on. They started staying awake to try and catch her spying. Yes, they called it spying—looking over her own children? Spying! It was always the way. Children have no gratitude.

  Tonight could be like old times, but although she pauses outside her boy’s room to listen, she doesn’t turn to go in.

  Off she goes again, pushing on her little scooter. As she rounds the corner, at the far end of the corridor behind her, Ida appears, stolidly plodding on her way around the palace after her mistress. She likes to keep an eye on things in case she’s needed. Wherever she goes, Grimhild knows that sooner or later, Ida will turn up behind her.

  And clickety click, past more doors, more rooms, more paintings. She doesn’t even pause at Hogni’s door tonig
ht, although she can’t help being mildly irritated by the sound of his snores. Does he have to sound camp even in his sleep?

  • • •

  ’Course, it’s his own business, but does he have any right to deprive me of grandchildren? That’s the thing. Ahh, my Hogni. Always the wrong thing in the wrong place. He can’t help it! And then he gets into bed with Sigurd when it should have been Gudrun! Oh, it makes me want to give him a good slap! The best fish in the sea and he’s gay! But Sigurd isn’t gay— just curious, I reckon. And of course he’s shy to get in with Gudrun after he’s already been with her brother. Time’ll sort it out. With a little help. Ha! And who will help, do you suppose? Oh, I need to live forever. My children! You can see how fine they are but they need me.

  Anyone can see—the way they look at each other. They ought to be together. The Niberlins and the Volsons—what a team! Poor Gunar! Well, I knew all the time of course. Gunar has a gift for detail but he’s a bureaucrat, not a politician. He has no nose for it. It’s Gudrun that understands politics, if you ask me.

  Mum’s the word. It’ll be Sigurd and Gudrun, king and queen. I can see it now.

  Wheeeeee—and along the corridors, past the photos of Niberlins past and present: Grimhild and her Al shaking hands with Sigmund, old and gray, but still a vigorous man, in those days, before he was blown to smithereens.

  Yes, she will support Sigmund’s son. She’ll help, even. Prod things along in the right direction. She’ll take care of him. Accidents will happen, but Grimhild has her insurance policies.

  And past more toilets one, two, and three, down another corridor, around a corner. Why, the boy’s part of the family already. So much depends on him! What if he fell and broke his neck? He could fall under a bus tomorrow, damage his jewels, and leave no heir, fall in love with the wrong person, anything. Oh, no, no, no. But not to worry. Grimhild has the means of making it better before it even happens.

  Outside his door. Yes, the old bitch has a favor to do for her new son tonight. It’s no more than she’s done for her own. But—what’s this? He’s not asleep? Grimhild didn’t have him down for secrets. His soul is nothing like that—so straight and so clear, you can see straight through it. She’s never seen anything like it. So what’s he . . . oh.

  Oh. That secret; the one we all have. So he’s human after all. She’ll have to come back later, that’s all. Well, well. It’s secrets in the dead of night. Mum’s the word! She’ll never tell a soul.

  A disgruntled Grimhild made her way back on her scooter— not to bed, though. Long ago the old woman decided that sleep wasn’t good enough for her. The right chemicals and hormones, speeded-up dreams—a lot of it can be dispensed with. Most doctors won’t do it, the risks are too high. But some can doctor themselves. These days Grimhild only sleeps for any length of time when she needs her dreams to prophecy.

  She was annoyed with Sigurd. He could have slept with her daughter if he’d chosen. Gudrun had made that clear enough. Instead he preferred to lie on his own between the sheets and do it himself. Well, boys will be boys—but good grief! It was unthinkable that that could be preferable to a night with her lovely daughter!

  She has many talents, this old woman, and many secrets. She’d hidden herself away in that little dogsbody, her brain folded up and down her spine while she played pet to her own flesh and blood. But she was all there, just as she had been a decade or more ago on that terrible night, the night of the assassination. She and her crafts were all totally intact.

  Expecting to find the boy in a deep sleep, she’d planned on taking a scrape from the inside of his mouth. Sigurd’s DNA would be worth having a look at for curiosity’s sake alone, but it was more important than that. The boy was too valuable an asset to risk, for mankind in general and to her family in particular. It was the least she could do. A little duplication could undo any serious harm. She already had several Gunars, Hognis, and Gudruns cloned, fit and ready to step into the shoes of the original if they needed to. It was only sensible.

  Exactly. Grimhild kept spares.

  The cloning was just science, it could only do so much— you can’t clone a good upbringing! So the old woman made a trip once in a while around the palace to copy her children’s minds, duplicate them and file them away—just in case. She spent many hours sitting down in her den under the palace with Ida, scanning their memories. Spying? Gunar, Gudrun, and Hogni had no idea what real spying was.

  She’s a hoarder, old Grimhild. It’s only common sense. This night was to have been the first step in doing the same for Sigurd. It didn’t take long with cloning techniques these days, she could have the first copies up and running within a few weeks. She was foiled this time because he was awake, but Grimhild knew how to wait.

  She headed down to her private quarters underground, to inspect her treasures fondly—her replacement children, lying still in their tanks. Ah, so sweet. Sleeping so deeply, just like they used to when they were babies. So sweet, so still, so ready to come to life whenever she wanted them to. Soon it will be time to renew the clones again. You have to keep things up to date. Scars and wrinkles, memories and impressions. It was delicate, painstaking work. The originals had to be carefully scanned, the clones prepared, updated, and eventually replaced. Then there was the nasty business of destroying the out-of-date version. She left that to Ida. What sort of mother would she be if she could face that—destroying your own children, even it was only to help them live? Yes, you had to keep busy when your country needs your children and your children need you.

  She could wait. The time would come. She would prepare a tank for Sigurd while she was down there this very night.

  A long day was followed by a short night. Sigurd had fallen asleep as soon as Gudrun left him. Wild elephants and factory hooters couldn’t have woken him up, but a tiny scratch at his window did at once. The windows were closed, because of the noise from the crowd outside, but even asleep, Sigurd was waiting for Jenny Wren to come.

  “Yes,” he murmured, and slipped out of bed to let her in. She wouldn’t come to him unless he was alone, and he hadn’t seen her since that first night, when Hogni had gone off to radio back home and get his instructions. She had hidden in the ivy and watched him in secret while he slept in the church and made love with Hogni—there were no secrets from Jenny, but she never judged. She had kept on waiting with her gift from Bryony, and now she was as pleased to see him as he was to see her.

  Joyfully she perched on his finger as he stroked her head and kissed her beak and made a fuss of her. Brave little bird— flying all this way through the fire to carry a message of love. Such a tiny link between two worlds.

  Around the wren’s slender foot was a small golden nut, a tiny little thing from a delicate golden circuit that Bryony had slipped on like a ring. Sigurd took it and put it carefully in his pocket. Now for something to send back. But what? Outside the window, a clematis was climbing up around the frame. It was late spring and the plant was covered in pink, star-shaped flowers. He picked one and gave it to Jenny; the flower was as big as she was. Too big? She took it up in her beak and shook her feathers. She could do it! She flicked her wings—and fell straight to the floor. Laughing, Sigurd plucked a single petal from the flower and gave that to her instead. She stood on the carpet looking up at him with it in her beak, then flicked, and there she was on the windowsill, looking over her shoulder at him. He laughed again, she looked ridiculous with that huge petal in her bill—then she turned, flicked again, and was gone.

  He thought how she would be with Bryony so soon—within hours perhaps. If only he could change his shape and fly like her through the tiniest holes. But shape-changing was not one of his gifts.

  Sigurd lay back down. Thinking about Bryony led him to sexual thoughts, which was why he was busy when Grimhild came by. Then he fell back to sleep.

  Gunar, as usual, was right. “Gunar is always right,” Gudrun used to say, without any sarcasm, when she was only three years old. Sigurd’s arrival in the reg
ion had turned the balance of power in favor of the Niberlins. War was on its way: Old Bill figured it might as well be now, before the Niberlins had time to organize.

  There had been no troop movements—that would have been picked up on—but weapons were readied, barracks put on alert, strategy discussed, and, disguised as ordinary business activity, munitions and supplies put into place.

  As every playground fighter knows, you go for the big bugger first. Bill had a few advantages yet. Ruthlessness was one, although he’d drawn back from attacking the crowds in the square the day before, if only because he needed people to do business with after he’d won. Your competitors are always wrong, but your customer is always right, as he often impressed on his workforce. The other advantage was surprise. Get in quick, go for the big bugger first, attack with extreme prejudice. He planned to open the war on several fronts at once and push forward rapidly. If he could establish a major advance in the first few hours, it could be decisive. His very first shot, the opening move, was directly on Democracy Palace. If he could kill Sigurd and the Niberlins in one raid, the war would be as good as won.

  Grimhild had not yet reached her secret basement when the sirens started up. Air strike! Ten-minute alert. In a panic she turned and headed back to where her children slept. Had they heard? Her precious cargo. Oh, time is a cruel sea! Faster, Grimhild, faster! Then—oh no! The clones! What about them? If her children were killed, the clones could live on. She had replacements. Surely the clones were the most important?

  Quick! No time to lose! She scooted the other way, caught in a dilemma: What is real? What is right? Poor Grimhild; maybe that accident had had more effect on her than she knew. The clones were every bit as precious to her as her actual children. She was unable to distinguish one from the other.