Terri Windling

by Borderland

  Manda nodded. “After being in here with you today, I can tell you’re not as scary as you make yourself out to be down there.” She nodded to where the gangs were gathering. “But how’d this get to be your job?” “Kinda fell into it, I guess. The kids didn’t have anyone looking after them and the gangs just started getting too rough on them. Hell, I’m no shining knight— don’t get me wrong. But someone had to look out for them. Only now . . . shit, I don’t know how it got so out of control.”

  Manda looked down. She could make out Fineagh now, standing at the head of the Bloods. He seemed so small from this height that she felt she could just reach out and squeeze him between her fingers like she might a bug.

  “I guess we should . .. get down there,” she said. Stick nodded grimly. “Maybe I can shame Fineagh into going one-on-one with me—winner take all.”

  “Do you think he’d . . Manda’s voice trailed off. “Look!” she cried.

  But she didn’t have to point it out to Stick. Forcing a way through the spectators came a familiar band of bikers. It was the Horn Dance. An open-backed pickup truck followed the path the bikes made. That was the portable stage and power generator that they needed for their amps and sound system.

  The bikes pulled up at the front steps, forming a semicircle around the truck. The truck stopped, its cab facing the museum doors, its bed directly in front of Fineagh.

  “What the hell are they trying to pull?” Stick muttered as the band members began to strap on instruments. The whine of feedback and the sound of guitars and synthesizers being tuned rose up to their window.

  “I think they’re trying to help,” Manda said.

  “We’d better get the hell down there,” Stick said. He strode off, Lubin at his heels, going so fast that Manda had to trot to keep on with him.

  “Did you get it yet?” the Hood asked Farrel Din.

  The wizard sat frowning behind the amplifiers in the bed of the Horn Dance’s pickup. He looked at an old bumper sticker that was stuck to one of the wooden slats that made up the sides of the bed. It read, “I’d rather be Dancing.” Well, he’d rather be anywhere, doing anything, he thought, than be here.

  “Farrel?” the Hood prompted him.

  “I’m thinking. I always have trouble with the simple spells. They’re so easy that they just go out of my mind.”

  “Well, if you know some big smash-up of a one, go for it, for Christ’s sake!”

  Farrel Din sighed. “I never could learn the big ones,” he said.

  “We should have gotten another wizard,” Bramble said to the Hood.

  “Nobody else seemed to have a better idea when we got Farrel.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Will you go away and let me think!” Farrel Din shouted at them. “Why don’t you start playing or something and as soon as I get it, I’ll let you know.”

  “If you get it,” Bramble muttered.

  Farrel Din sighed, and returned to his task. It was such a stupidly simple spell, surely even he could remember it—couldn’t he? It had been such a favorite— long ago, before Elfland left the outside world in the first place. But there hadn’t been much call for it in the last few centuries. And he never was much of a wizard anyway. Why else did he run The Ferret? He’d always been better serving up beers than serving up spells.

  Up front, Johnny Jack was arguing with Fineagh. The Blood leader wasn’t ready to just wipe out the Horn Dance—they were too popular for him to risk that—but he was rapidly approaching the point where he just wouldn’t give a fuck. He hadn’t expected so many of the other gangs to show up either—but screw them as well. The Bloods were ready to take on anyone.

  “Listen, you jackass,” he told Johnny Jack. “I’m giving you two minutes to get that shit out of my way, or we’re just going through you—understand?”

  “Everybody tuned?” the Hood asked from the bed of the pick-up. He’d been keeping a wary eye on the Bloods and knew that they couldn’t hold off much longer. Farrel Din, he thought. Get it together and we’ll play your club for a month-free of charge.

  “We’re rooting to toot,” Teaser called to him.

  “Then let’s get this show on the road!” the Hood cried.

  jje s}s #

  Stick and Manda stepped out of the museum’s front door at the same moment as the Horn Dance kicked into the opening bars of a high-powered version of the “Morris Call”. The sheer volume of sound stopped them in their tracks. The Bloods looked to Fineagh for direction, but the rest of the crowd immediately began to stamp their feet.

  “All rightY' someone shouted.

  Shouts and whistles rose up from the crowd, but were drowned by the music. Bramble kept an eye on Fineagh, then turned to see how Farrel Din was doing, all the while playing her button accordion. The portly wizard was hunched over, muttering to himself. Great plan, Hood, Bramble thought. She turned back to face the crowd.

  Most of the punkers and runaways were dancing—a combination of shuffled country dance steps and pogoing. The Rats eyed the Bloods, ready to rumble. Everyone else seemed to be trying to Figure out if they’d come to a free concert or a street Fight, with the crowd from the Hill hanging back as usual—wanting to be a part of things, but nervous of a free-for-all.

  Stick started down the steps, Manda and Lubin trailing a few paces behind. Fineagh’s eyes narrowed as he took in Stick’s shotgun. The Horn Dance broke into a medley of “Barley Break” and “The Hare’s Maggot”.

  “Come on” the Hood shouted at Farrel Din.

  “Easy for you to say,” the wizard replied. He counted on his Fingers, shaking his head. “No. That’s shit into gold. Maybe ... ?” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think, while the music thundered on.

  Stick moved along the side of the truck, the shotgun held down by his side. With his Fmger in the trigger guard, he only needed to swing it up to Fire.

  Bramble tried to catch Manda’s eye. If Stick and

  Fineagh started at each other—it wouldn’t make any difference if Farrel found the spell or not. But Manda’s gaze was locked on the tall Blood leader who awaited their approach. The Bloods began to press closer to Fineagh. Those armed with bows, notched arrows.

  Stick stopped when he was a few paces away from Fineagh.

  “Kill that shit,” Fineagh said, nodding at the band.

  “Not my party,” Stick said.

  Fineagh turned to his followers, but before a command could leave his lips, Farrel Din sat up in the back of the truck.

  “Got it!” he cried.

  He jumped up and ran over to Bramble, tripped over a power cord, and fell against the willowy redhead. The two went down in a tumble. Bramble was carrying the tune. When she fell, her accordion made a discordant wheezing sound. The band faltered at the loss of the melody line.

  Farrel Din grinned into Bramble’s face. “Play ‘Off She Goes’,” he said as they disentangled themselves.

  “But—”

  “Trust me. Just play it.”

  Bramble nodded to the Hood. The band stopped, and she broke into the jig. She played the first few bars on her own, then the others recognized the tune and joined in. In the meantime, eyes closed in concentration, Farrel Din stood directly in front of Bramble. Hopping from one foot to the other, he waved his fingers around her accordion in a curious motion, all the while singing something in the old elfin tongue.

  The effect was almost instantaneous. Anyone not already moving to the music, immediately began to dance, whether they wanted to or not. Rats and Bloods shuffled in time to the lilting rhythm. Those in the crowd already dancing seemed to move into high gear, happily swinging partners and generally having fun. In the back, the crowd from the Hill looked embarrassed as they flung themselves about, but seemed to be having a good time all the same.

  The Bloods fought the glamour, but the spell, combined with the music, gave them no choice. They lifted one foot, then the other, keeping time with the beat, frowns on their faces. Only Fineagh, through the sheer
stubbornness of his will, stood still. Fineagh and Stick.

  Jigging on the spot, Manda couldn’t believe that they weren’t affected. Even Lubin was dancing—though the ferret loved to at any time, so perhaps that didn’t count. But then Manda saw that even their feet were tapping slightly.

  “This doesn’t stop anything,” Fineagh said. Fires flickered in his eyes.

  Stick shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be like this—you could just walk away.”

  “Can’t.”

  “You mean, you won’t.”

  The hate in the elf s silver eyes became a quicksilvering smolder. Stick knew they were both moments away from falling prey to the glamour in the music.

  “Give it up,” he said.

  Even if he said yes, Manda wondered, how could they trust him? But the Blood leader had no intention of giving up. One minute his hand was empty, in the next a throwing knife had dropped into it from a wrist sheath. The blade left his hand, flying straight and true for Stick. He brought up the shotgun, knocked it from the air. Leveling the gun, he pulled the trigger. The shell was a dud.

  A second knife appeared in Fineagh’s hand at the same time as Stick pumped a new shell into place. The boom of the shotgun was lost in the thundering music, but Fineagh’s chest exploded as the load hit him. He was lifted into the air and thrown back a half dozen feet, dead before he hit the ground.

  The band’s music stopped as suddenly as though someone had pulled the plug. Hundreds of eyes stared at the blood-splattered remains of the tall elf. The sound of Stick’s pumping a new shell into place was loud in the abrupt silence. He leveled the shotgun at the ranks of Bloods.

  “Anybody else what to play?” he asked.

  Their leader was dead. Gone with him was the mania that had brought them all to this point. The Bloods were suddenly aware of just how out-numbered they were.

  “Hell, no,” Billy Buttons said finally. “We’re cool.”

  Turning, he shouldered his way through the Bloods. Long tense moments passed, but slowly the Bloods followed him, leaving Fineagh’s corpse where it lay.

  “Th-that’s it?” Manda asked softly.

  Stick looked at her, then at the Horn Dance and the crowds still gathered.

  “It’s not enough?” he asked.

  Manda swallowed. “Sure. I mean . . .”

  Stick nodded. “I know.”

  With that, he turned and retraced his way back up the museum’s steps, the shotgun hanging loosely in his hand. Lubin ran ahead, disappearing before him. Stick paused at the door to look back.

  “Come visit sometime,” he said. Then he too was gone.

  The door closed with a loud thunk.

  Manda stared at it, but all she could see was the pain she’d discovered in Stick’s eyes. Damn him! Didn’t he realize that it didn’t have to be like this? He had friends.

  The Horn Dance had turned out io help him. Farrel Din had. She was here. Tears welled up in her own eyes and she wasn’t sure if they were from feeling hurt, or for him.

  She started to move for the door, but Bramble appeared at her side. She caught Manda’s arm.

  “But I want... I should . .

  “Not a good time,” Bramble said.

  “But . . .”

  Bramble pulled a couple of notes from her button accordion, then softly sang.

  There was an old woman tossed up in a blanket ninty-nine miles, beyond the moon And under one arm

  she carried a basket a?id under t’ other she carried a broom Old woman, old woman, old woman, cried I 0 wither, 0 wither, 0 wither, so high?

  I’m going to sweep cobwebs beyond the sky but I’ll be back again, by and by

  She ended with a flourish on the accordion and gave Manda a lopsided smile.

  “I don’t understand,” Manda said.

  “Clean your own house, and let him clean his. You heard what he said. He did ask you to come visit him sometime.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “But now’s not ‘by and by’,” Bramble said. “Come on. Give the Horn Dance a chance. We’ve got a captive audience—what with Farrel’s spell. We could use your licks, kiddo.”

  Manda looked up at the museum’s fifth floor. Was there a movement at the window? But then she realized that Bramble was right. While Manda wasn’t sure what she wanted from Stick, it had to come at its own pace. She’d give him a bit of a grace period, but if he didn’t wise up soon, then he’d find her camped out on his front steps.

  “Hey!” Big Will called from the back of the truck.

  Manda looked up at him and saw he was holding out Bramble’s canary-yellow Les Paul. She followed Bramble up onto the back of the truck and took the instrument with a smile of thanks. Someone had already removed Fineagh Steel’s body. Bramble led the band in a rousing version of the “Staines Morris”. Teaser and Mary moved amongst the crowd, showing the steps. Manda was about to join in, when Johnny Jack caught her by the arm.

  “I think you’re forgetting something,” he said. He held out her foxhead and mask and the ribbon-festooned jacket.

  Manda propped the Les Paul up against its amp and put them on. Then she slung the guitar on and joined the tune with a flashy spill of notes. Bramble gave her a grin.

  Leaning into the tune’s chords, Manda looked out at the sea of bobbing faces. The Rats had left soon after the Bloods. The crowd that remained didn’t need Farrel Din’s glamour to join in. And neither did she, Manda thought, jigging on the spot with Johnny Jack.

  The music was good and the people were good. Maybe it was about time that she stopped backing away from things and took the plunge. If she couldn’t do it herself, how could she ever expect to set an example for Stick?

  She glanced up at the fifth floor again, and this time, while she didn’t see Stick, she could see Lubin dancing on the windowsill. Smiling, she turned her attention back to the music.

  CHARIS

  Ellen Kushner

  I have this very blond hair, see, almost white. About the most thrilling thing I’ve ever done in my life was to go to this Elvin club called the Wheat Sheaf which is in Soho. It’s not like the Border itself, I mean they can’t actually keep you out if you’re human, but it’s understood you don’t go there if you are. I put on a ton of makeup, made my face utterly white, painted on swirls which were the thing that year, covered my ears up, and left my hair just the way it is. I got in all right. The music was not bad, what I heard of it. And the lighting was truly weird, gorgeous colors swirling around in the air, almost too bright, too vivid for my eyes. And there were all these elves, dancing the way they do, as though they didn’t have any joints in their bodies. Some of my friends spend hours after school trying to teach themselves to dance like that.

  About the most thrilling thing I’ve ever done. That says it all. I stood against the wall and watched elves

  dance. I bought myself a drink, and drank half of it. Then I went home. Scullion trailed me all the way, to make sure I didn’t get roughed up by any halfie kids.

  Scullion never told on me, either. He knew my parents would skin me if they knew, but he told me once that wasn’t his job: Lena and Randal hired him to protect me, not to spy on me.

  Scullion’s all right. He’s half elf, half human, born and bred in B-town. He’s very tall and very strong. What he doesn’t know about the streets here isn’t worth knowing. He has a Tree of Life tattooed all the way up his left arm. I loved looking at it when I was young. I don’t know where he came from, but I suspect he was in some kind of trouble, and Lena got him out of it on the condition that he become my guard. Bordertown’s a rough place, even if you live up with the other privileged folk on luxurious Dragon’s Tooth Hill, like we do. And important High Council members are an easy target for unrest. You’d figure, in a city made up of poets, wizards, halfies, runaways, and folk trying to strike it rich, there’d be plenty of unrest. In the middle of this chaos, anything that needs ruling gets ruled on by the Council, or some branch of it, from regulating currency price
s to deciding what crimes are punishable by banishment to the open Borderlands.

  So now we’re getting ready for the M-Bassy Ball, the social event of the year for little old B-town. I don’t know what “M-Bassy” means; probably the name of the person who started it: M. Bassy—Michel, Maude, Milo, something like that. The M-Bassy Ball is held every year in one of the oldest buildings, all the way in the heart of decadent Soho. They cordon the whole area off for days beforehand, and clean up the building and decorate it. And you can only get in if you’re carrying a special invitation. People will do anything to get an invitation. But unlike most big parties and private clubs where you can use your power, money, or contacts to get in, the M-Bassy Ball is only for a select crew on a carefully picked guest list.

  Invitations to the M-Bassy Ball can’t be faked: they’re hand-scribed and decorated by a different artist every year. If there’s one thing Bordertown has, it’s lot of artists looking for work. Whenever it’s humans’ turn to run the ball, Lena and Randal make a bit point of encouraging new talent. People (I use the term loosely) keep those invitations, have them framed and everything. I’ve got a terrific collection my parents gave me. But this is the first year I’m going to the ball myself.

  I’m terrified.

  I know I’m supposed to be this walking glamour: born and bred in exotic Bordertown, where every kid who hates his parents and can play three guitar chords runs away to be Artistic. I’ve known elves all my life, and every weird fashion that comes along I’ve worn. I heard Leaf and Winter’s Sorrow play for one of my parents’ dances when I was ten. Let me tell you something: it doesn’t make a bit of difference. If you’re born ordinary and clumsy and, let’s face it, with a big nose and no cheekbones, you might as well come from East Succotash for all the good it does you.

  Lena disagrees. She says every sixteen-year-old girl feels the same, that there’s nothing wrong with my nose, and she wished she had legs like mine when she was my age. A lot she knows about it. She always had enormous eyes the color of poured chocolate. And she was brilliant. When my mother was nineteen, she was the go-between in a market fight between elves and humans. When she was twenty-one she was aide to Serif Boynton on the Bordertown High Council. The rest is history.