The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year-Volume Four

by Jonathan Strahan

  Usually, Hester explained, her dear friends the Perrys held the swordfight after the bonfires had been lit. They also brought dancers down from their Northern estates to perform the traditional horn dance beforehand—and that was thrilling to see. But because once the fires were started (and the Harvest drinking seriously begun, though she didn't actually say that) people got a little wild, they'd thought it best here to begin with the duel while it was still clear daylight. She hoped Mistress St. Vier wasn't anxious. Master Thorne, the swordsman valet, was really as gentle as a lamb. She would see.

  Octavia had seen Richard running around with Crispin, eating cakes and apples and throwing the cores across the yard at people. She was glad he wasn't nervous. His shirt couldn't be helped; it had been clean when he left the house.

  Hester waved a strip of silk at the men with the horns—they were hunting horns, brought into service for a somewhat cracked but nonetheless thrilling fanfare. Richard and Master Thorne entered from opposite sides of the yard.

  Master Thorne moved with a smooth elegance Octavia hadn't seen since she'd left the city. He was arrayed—there was no other word for it—arrayed in green satin, or something that shone like it, his breeches without a wrinkle, his shirt immaculate white. He set his jacket aside, and rolled up his sleeves as meticulously as a master chef decorating a cake. It was a treat to watch, the way they folded neatly into place. She stole a glance at Richard, who was both watching the man intently to see if he knew tricks, and fidgeting with impatience. That particular fidget was well known to her.

  Crispin had begged to serve as Richard's aide, but Lady Trevelyan had put her foot down; it wouldn't be seemly for the son of the house, not even at Festival. So it was to a footman that Richard handed his sword while he took off his jacket. His mother watched him hesitate a moment before deciding to leave his sleeves as they were. Then he and Thorne advanced to the middle of the field, saluted each other, and began to circle.

  It was only a half-circle, really. Richard lunged and struck, and Thorne fell back. People gasped, or clapped, or both.

  "Whoops!" said Thorne. "I must have slipped. Shall we try again?"

  "Please do!" Lady Trevelyan commanded. She had planned on her entertainment lasting longer than this.

  The duelists saluted, and assumed guard. Richard struck Thorne in the chest again.

  "Well done!" cried Thorne. He held up one hand for a pause, and then rolled up a fallen sleeve. "You're very quick, my friend. Shall we continue?"

  He did not wait for an answer, just went on guard again, and immediately struck at Richard. Richard didn't even parry, he simply stepped out of the way—or so it seemed from the outside. Thorne thrust, and thrust again. Richard sidestepped, parried, parried again, but did not return his blows.

  Octavia recognized the drill from her hen yard. He was running Thorne through his paces. He was reading Thorne's vocabulary of the sword, maybe even learning as he went, but it was nothing but a drill to him.

  "Stop!" Lord Trevelyan stood up. The fighters turned to him. "Richard, are you going to fight, or just—just—"

  "I'm sorry," Richard replied. He turned to his opponent. "Want me to go a little slower, sir?"

  Master Thorne turned red. He glared at the boy, shook out his arms, and breathed deep. He passed one sleeve over his face—and then he laughed.

  "Yes," he said; "go a little slower, will you? It's Harvest Feast, and the Champions fight for the honor of the house and the virtue of the land. Let's give the people what they came for, shall we?"

  The duel was so slow that even Octavia could follow the moves; for the first time she understood what it was her son could do. It was a textbook lesson—but it thrilled the country folk, who'd never seen real swordplay before.

  Richard wasn't quite grown up enough to let Thorne beat him. So when Thorne finally tired of showing Richard and the crowd just about everything he knew, he obligingly opened himself for St. Vier's final blow.

  "How long did you study?" Richard asked Thorne later.

  "Oh, just long enough to put on a show. I figured I could get work as a house guard if valeting got thin. Lots of city men do that. It's always good to have a second skill to fall back on."

  "So do you think I should learn how to valet?" Richard asked with distaste.

  "You?" Thorne shook his head. "Not you."

  When Richard was sixteen, the old man came back.

  He could smell fumes from the cottage before he entered and found him in there, peeling potatoes for his mother at the big chestnut table as though he'd never been away.

  "Look at this dagger," the old fellow wheezed. "Worn thin as one of the King's own Forest Leaves. Now I peel with it, do I?"

  "Use the paring knife." Richard held it out to him.

  The old man flinched. "Put that down on the table," he said. "It's bad luck passing a knife hand to hand. Cuts the friendship. Didn't you know that?"

  It hadn't been that kind of flinch.

  "Want to spar?" Richard asked.

  "Spar? With you? Hell, no. I hurt, boy; everything hurts. Everything hurts, and I can hardly see. Spar with you?"

  "Oh, come on." Richard felt himself jiggle with impatience. "I'll nail my feet to the turf. We'll only do standing. You can just check my wristwork."

  The old man wiped a rheumy red eye. "Told you, I can hardly see."

  "You've been chopping onions. What's for supper?"

  "Onions. Stew. How the hell should I know? I'm just the servant here. You're the man, St. Vier. The man of the house, the man of the hour . . . ."

  "Cut it out." Well, he'd smelt it before he came in. There was the tell-tale jug, propped against the chimney piece.

  Octavia came in with a fistful of thyme. "There you are, Richard. Look who's dropped by for dinner."

  "I didn't come for your cooking, lady," the old man said. "I came for the feast."

  "What feast?"

  "Don't get out much, do you?" He hawked and spat into the fire. "The whole county's buzzing with it. Thought you'd know. There'll be a feast, after. And alms galore, I shouldn't wonder. And booze."

  Octavia pressed her back to the door for support, knowing she'd need it. "What's happened?"

  "Your man Trevleyan's on his way out. Thought you'd know."

  No one had told them. It was close to autumn; everyone would be busy with the harvest or the hunt; they'd been staying out of the way. True, Lord Trevelyan had been ill for a bit in summer, but last they'd heard, it had passed.

  Richard drew a long breath. "He isn't dead now. Maybe it will be all right."

  "Maybe," his mother said. She started chopping thyme, thinking, Well, I've still got a long lease on the cottage . . . Maybe Crispin will take Richard into his service . . . I wonder if Thorne will stay on . . . .

  She handed the old man another onion. "Make yourself useful," she said.

  But Richard took it from him. "You're going to slice your thumbs off." The old man's hands were shaking. Richard put the jug into them. "Just drink," Richard said. "I'll cut."

  In the morning, very early, he was gone. They found his sword out by the gate, and a horn button in the hedge. Octavia followed her heart to the orchard, expecting to find him lying under the very tree where they had first discovered him passed out with a sword in his hands. But there was nothing there, only a few apples, rotting in the grass.

  Three days later, Lord Trevelyan died. The valet, Master Thorne, came himself to the cottage to tell them.

  "Should I go see Crispin?" Richard asked.

  Thorne fingered the frayed rushes of a chair back. "Maybe. I don't know. He's doing his best, but it's hard on him. Any man grieves when his father passes; but Crispin's Lord Trevelyan now. He's not himself, really; none of them are. The lady's distracted. I didn't know it would be this bad. You never know till it happens, do you?" He sipped the infusion Octavia gave him.

  "So should I go now?"

  "You might do that." Master Thorne nodded slowly. He looked ten years older. "
Yes, go ahead; I'll just sit here for awhile and drink this, if you don't mind."

  Richard walked softly through the halls of the Trevelyan manor. He'd known it all his life, but it felt different now. Not the lord's death, exactly—but the effect it had on everyone. The people that he passed were quiet; they barely acknowledged him. The sounds of the hall were all wrong: footsteps in them too fast or too slow, voices too gentle or too low. Richard felt lost. It was as if the shape of the hall had changed. He closed his eyes.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Lady Trevelyan stood before him, dressed in black, her long bright hair bound back behind her, falling like a girl's. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her face had the same pulled look as Master Thorne's.

  "I came to see if Crispin was all right." She just stared at him. "I'm Richard St. Vier," he said. He wanted to fidget under her gaze. But something about the focus of her stare now kept him still and watchful.

  "Yes," she said at last; "I know who you are. The swordsman. That peculiar woman's son." She was grieving, he reminded himself. People were said to go mad with grief. Maybe this was it.

  "I'm Crispin's friend," he said.

  "Well, you mustn't see him now. He's very busy. You can't see him, really. It's not good. He's Lord Trevelyan now, you know."

  He wanted to retort, "I do know." But she felt weirdly dangerous to him, like Crispin on one of his dares. So he just nodded.

  "Come with me," she said suddenly. Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked away. The swirling edge of her black skirt struck his ankle.

  Richard followed her down the silent halls. People bowed and curtsied as she passed with him in her wake. She opened the door to a little room, and beckoned him in with her, and shut it behind them.

  The walls of the round room were heavy with fabric, dresses hanging on peg after peg.

  "My closet," she said. "Old gowns. I was going to sort through them, but now it doesn't matter, does it? I may as well dye them all black, and wear them to shreds."

  "They're pretty," he said politely.

  She fingered a green and gold dress. "I wore this one to the Halliday Ball. I was going to have it cut down for Melissa . . . Children grow up so fast, don't they?"

  She looked up at him. She was a tiny woman. Crispin's bones hadn't come from her. "Would you like to see me in it?" she asked wistfully.

  What kind of a question was that? He licked his lips. He really should go.

  A swoosh of icy blue hissed across his skin. "Or do you think this one's better?"

  The cold and cloudy thing was in his arms. It smelt metallic.

  "That's silk brocade, Richard St. Vier. Blush of Dawn, the color's called. It's to remind you of early morning, when you wake up with your lover." She brushed the fabric over his lips. "Thus. Do you like it?"

  He looked over at the door. Silk was expensive; he couldn't just drop it on the floor. Maybe there was a hook it went back on—

  She followed his gaze to the wall. "Do you like the pink silk better?" She held a new gown up against herself, the glowing pink cloud eclipsing the black of her dress. "This becomes me, don't you think?"

  He nodded. His mouth was dry.

  "Come closer," she said.

  He knew the challenge when he heard it. He took a step toward her.

  "Touch me," she said. He knew where he was, now: walking the fallen tree, climbing to the topmost eave . . . .

  "Where?"

  "Wherever you like."

  He put his hand on the side of her face. She turned her head and licked his palm, and he started as if he had been kicked. He hadn't expected that, to feel that again here, now, that dangerous thrill at the base of his spine. He shuddered with the pleasure he did not like.

  "Hold me," she said. He put his arms around her. She smelt of lavender, and blown-out candle wicks.

  "Be my friend," she whispered across his lips.

  "I will," he whispered back.

  Lady Trevelyan laughed low, and sighed. She knotted her fingers in his hair, and pulled his head down to her, biting his lips as she kissed him. He shivered, and pressed himself against her. She lifted her inky skirts, and pulled him closer, fingering his breeches. He didn't even know where his own hands were. He didn't know where anything was, except one thing. His heart was slamming with the danger of how much he wanted it. His eyes were closed, and he could hardly breathe. Every time she touched him he tried to think what a terrible thing this was, but it came out completely different: he had to stop thinking entirely, because thinking it was dangerous just made him want it more. She was saying something, but he couldn't hear it. She was helping him, that was what mattered. She was helping him—and then suddenly it was over, and she was shouting:

  "You idiot! Pink peau de soie—ruined!" She shoved him away. His sight came back. He reached for his breeches, fallen around his knees. "What do you think you're doing? Who do you think you are?" Her face and neck were flushed, eyes sharp and bright. "You're nobody. You're no one. What are you doing here? Who do you think you are?"

  He did up his buttons, stumbled out into the hall.

  The door was closed; he couldn't hear her now. He started walking back the way he'd come—or some way, anyway. It wasn't a part of the house he knew.

  "Richard!"

  Not Crispin. Not now.

  "Richard!"

  Not now.

  "Richard, damn you—you stand when I call you!"

  Richard stood. He had his back to Crispin; he couldn't look at him now. "What?" he asked. "What do you want?"

  "What do I want?" Crispin demanded shrilly. "What the hell's wrong with you? What do you think I want?"

  "Whatever it is, I don't have it."

  "No, you don't, do you?" Crispin said bitterly. "God. I thought you were my friend."

  "I guess I'm not, then. I guess I'm not your friend."

  Crispin threw a punch at him.

  And Richard returned it. He didn't hold back.

  It wasn't a fair fight, not really. They'd never been even in this game.

  It was, Richard reflected after, a good thing they'd neither of them had swords; but he still left Crispin, Lord Trevelyan, a wheezing mess crumpled on the floor.

  Then he went home and told his mother what he'd done.

  She had known that it would come someday, but this was so much sooner than she'd hoped.

  "You have to go, my love," she said. "Trevelyan's dead. His lady won't protect you, and Crispin certainly won't."

  Richard nodded. He wanted to say, "It's only Crispin," or "He'll get over it." But Crispin was Trevelyan now.

  "Where should I go?" he said instead. He pictured the mountains, where bold men ran with the deer. He pictured another countryside, much like this; another cottage by a stream, or maybe a forest . . . .

  "To the city," his mother said. "It's the only place that you can lose yourself enough."

  "The city?" He'd never been there. He didn't know anyone. The house with no air was there, and the place of last resort. But even as he thought it, he felt that curious thrill down his spine, and knew he wanted it, even though he shouldn't.

  "The city," he said. "Yes."

  "Don't be frightened," his mother said.

  He said, "I'm not."

  She pulled out the book on Toads, opening to the hollow where the money was. "Here," she said. "Start with this. You'll earn more when you get there."

  He did not ask her, "How?" He thought he knew.

  THE PELICAN BAR

  Karen Joy Fowler

  Karen Joy Fowler was born in Bloomington, Indiana and attended the University of California at Berkeley from 1968 to 1972, graduated with a BA in political science, and then earned an MA at UC Davis in 1974. She sold her first science fiction story, "Praxis", in 1985 and has won the Nebula Award for stories "What I Didn't See" and "Always". Her short fiction has been collected in Artificial Things and World Fantasy Award winner Black Glass. Fowler is also the author of five novels, including debut Sarah Cana
ry (described by critic John Clute as one of the finest First Contact novels ever written), Sister Noon, The Sweetheart Season, and Wit's End. She is probably best known, though, for her novel The Jane Austen Book Club, which was adapted into a successful film. She lives in Santa Cruz, California, with husband Hugh Sterling Fowler II. They have two grown children and three grandchildren.

  For her birthday, Norah got a Pink CD from the twins, a book about vampires from her grown-up sister, High School Musical 2 from her grandma (which Norah might have liked if she'd been turning ten instead of fifteen), an iPod shuffle plus an Ecko Red t-shirt and two hundred dollar darkwash 7jeans—the most expensive clothes Norah had ever owned—from her mother and father.

  Not a week earlier, her mother had said it was a shame birthdays came whether you deserved them or not. She'd said she was dog-tired of Norah's disrespect, her ingratitude, her filthy language—as if fucking was just another word for very—fucking this and fucking that, fucking hot and fucking unfair and you have to be fucking kidding me.

  And then there were a handful of nights when Norah didn't come home and turned off her phone so they all thought she was in the city in the apartment of some man she'd probably met on the internet and probably dead.

  And then there were the horrible things she'd written about both her mother and father on facebook.

  And now they had to buy her presents?

  I don't see that happening, Norah's mother had said.

  So it was all a big surprise and there was even a party. Her parents didn't approve of Norah's friends, (and mostly didn't know who they were) so the party was just family. Norah's big sister brought the new baby who yawned and hiccoughed and whose scalp was scaly with cradle-cap. There was barbecued chicken and ears of corn cooked in milk, an ice-cream cake with pralines and roses and everyone, even Norah, was really careful and nice except for Norah's grandma who had a fight in the kitchen with Norah's mother that stopped the minute Norah entered. Her grandmother gave Norah a kiss, wished her a happy birthday, and left before the food was served.