by Unknown
If Ozma wanted this murder solved, I’d solve it. And then I’d get back to the important business of finding a way to send these people home while they still had the option.
I knew we’d reached the Square when we turned a corner and found ourselves facing a crowd. Crowds were rare in Downtown; they left you vulnerable to pickpockets and to surprise raids by the royal guards. If people were gathering, it was because there was something too interesting to be ignored. Dead bodies usually qualified.
Rinn continued marching straight ahead, shouting, “Make way for the Princess!” Guess he’d decided which of my titles he liked best. He might have been surprised to realize that I was already gone, ducking to the side and working my way around the rim of the crowd until I found an opening. I dived in, worming my way between bodies until I broke free into the circle of open space maintained by Ozma’s guards. A few people scowled and pointed, but they were sensible enough not to say what they were thinking out loud. They knew that you should never insult a witch to her face.
Jack’s round orange head bobbed above the crowd about midway through, marking Rinn’s progress. He nodded when he saw me. I nodded back and turned to see what we were dealing with.
The dead man lay in the center of the Square, arms spread as if he had been trying to make snow angels on the pavement before he died. His expression was one of profound confusion, a final perplexity that would never be resolved. I paced a slow circle around him, ignoring the glares from Ozma’s guards. Something wasn’t right here. I just couldn’t quite see what that something was.
He was dressed in Quadling red, six different shades of it: garnet, ruby, crimson, carnelian, scarlet, and macaw. That sort of motley marked him as a member of the upper class, since getting those specific distinctions out of their dyes was difficult and expensive. His boots were wine-red leather, counter-stitched with gold in honor of the road of yellow brick that brought the wastrel sons of rich families marching into the Emerald City. Those boots…
I stopped, crouching down and frowning at the soles of his boots. A brief ruckus behind me marked the arrival of Jack and Rinn. “Jack, look at this,” I said, indicating the dead man’s feet. “Does this look wrong to you?”
“How did you—” demanded Rinn.
I ignored him. So did Jack, who stooped down next to me, the branches in his back creaking, and said, “They’re awfully new boots. Probably expensive, too.”
“Not just new. They’re pristine. The streets are rough and filthy down here, so how did he wind up in the square without any scuffs or smears on his boots?” I reached out and grabbed his right foot, lifting it away from the pavement. “Look at his heel. Someone dragged him.”
“He’s still here, Dot. Even if he wasn’t killed Downtown, he wound up here.”
And that made him my problem. I dropped the dead man’s foot, frowning. “Something else isn’t right here.” Something about the cut of the clothes just wasn’t jibing with the man in front of me. I straightened enough to move up to his midsection and began undoing his belt.
Jeers and catcalls rose from the crowd, and from more than a few of the guards. I flipped them off and kept working, first unbuckling his belt and then untying his trousers. The jeers turned disappointed when I left his trousers on and used the slack I’d created to haul his shirt up over his belly. He had the beginnings of a paunch. Not a Quadling trait—Quadlings tend to be tall and skeletally thin—but city living can create anomalies in just about anyone.
The jeers finally turned to disgust and faded into muttering when I stuck my pinkie in the dead man’s navel and began rooting around. Behind me Rinn asked in a horrified tone, “What is she doing?”
“Shut up and grow a pair,” I snapped, pulling my finger out of the corpse and turning it so I could study what was caught under my nail. Then I smiled thinly. “Jack, get this man’s boots off. I think you’re going to find that they don’t actually fit his feet. He’s too short for them.”
“What?” demanded one of the other guards.
I looked up and smiled. “Nice of you to say hello. Hello. I’m Dorothy Gale, and this man is a Munchkin.” I picked the lint from under my pinkie nail and held it up. “Blue. They changed his clothes, but they didn’t give him a shower first.”
The guard blinked at me, looking nonplussed. He didn’t say anything as I straightened again, this time moving to squat next to the dead man’s head. That confused look on his face was bothering me. I just couldn’t put my finger on exactly why…
“He died overdosing on the drugs your people make,” said the guard, recovering his voice. “There’s no parlor trick for you to play here.”
“I learned humbugging from the best,” I said and leaned closer, carefully prying his lips open. The charms in my ears jingled again as I peered into the dry cavern of his mouth. It smelled strange, like the dustbowl fields of Kansas. My eyes widened, and I sat up straight, turning to stare at my companions. “Dust. This isn’t a poppy juice overdose. This is Dust.”
Everyone—even the parts of the crowd close enough to hear me—went silent. The only sounds were footsteps scuffing against the pavement, and the distant trill of birdsong from the lacy trellises of Uptown far above us.
Poppy juice predated the crossovers. It was a natural intoxicant, refined by the people of Oz when they needed something stronger than absinthe, but still weaker than pure poppy pollen. The crossovers just refined it a little. Dust, on the other hand…that didn’t happen until the crossovers were well established and trying to find new ways of supporting themselves.
Because every crossover had to cross the shifting sands, one way or another, many of them arrived in Oz with a few grains of the Deadly Desert stuck to their clothes or hair. I don’t know who first got the brilliant idea of grinding the stuff up and snorting it, but if I ever find out, I am going to kick their ass from one end of Oz to the other. Dust was addictive to Ozites and crossovers alike…and if people weren’t careful, it could also be deadly, just like the sands it was derived from.
The only thing I didn’t understand was where it was all coming from. Crossovers arrived with sand in their shoes and hair, but never more than a pinch. A few new people arrived every week. That should have been enough to provide a small cottage industry, not build an empire. And yet more Dust hit the streets of Downtown daily, and it was starting to appear Uptown as well.
Hatred of Dust was one of the pillars of the anti crossover movement. We’d created Dust. Get rid of us and, clearly, Oz would go back to normal—or what passed for normal, anyway. What they hadn’t considered was that even if the Dust was suddenly gone, the addicts would still remember what they’d craved—and they would still want it. Getting rid of the crossovers wouldn’t get rid of the Deadly Desert. Dust would still find a way in.
Ozma’s guards bundled up the dead Munchkin and carried him away, presumably bound for the Uptown morgue, where he could be kept preserved by stasis spells until the mystery of his identity could be unsnarled. The crowd dispersed as soon as the show was over. None of them stuck around to talk to us. In a matter of minutes, only Jack, Rinn, and I remained.
“Dust is a scourge,” said Rinn in a challenging tone.
“You won’t get any argument from me,” I said. “The closest I’ll come is this: if the crossovers had been treated better after they stopped being cute trinkets to show off at dinner parties, maybe they wouldn’t have needed to struggle to survive. Maybe they wouldn’t have chosen ways you don’t approve of. Dust is horrible. But the crossovers created it because they were starving. This is everyone’s fault.”
Rinn didn’t have an answer for that. He glared in stony silence as we walked back to my apartment, where the charms attached to my diamond bracelet—one spell per stone, thank you, Winkies, thank you—unlocked the door. I led the way up the stairs, past my apartment, and through a second locked door. This one was sealed with even more potent charms and led to the airy spires of Uptown. Here the air was fresh and sweet and tast
ed like the Oz of my childhood. The sun was neither too hot nor too bright, and the breeze that set my earrings jangling was just cool enough to make the day seem even lovelier.
Ozites strolled on the elevated walkways, many wearing the enchanted green goggles favored by the wealthy. They were all dressed in the latest fashions. I saw several pairs of boots like the ones we’d pulled off our dead Munchkin, done in all five of the citizenry colors. Only the yellow-clad Winkies acknowledged us as they passed, offering small nods or even bows in my direction. I replied with smiles and silence, not drawing attention to them. It was the only reward I could offer for them remembering that I was, after all, officially their Witch.
“Where are we going?” asked Rinn.
“The Munchkin Country embassy,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll be interested to hear that one of their citizens was found dressed as a Quadling in the middle of Downtown.”
“And dead,” said Jack. “Mustn’t forget dead. That seems to be one of the main selling points of this particular gentleman.”
I cast my pumpkin-headed friend a smile. “Oh, believe me, I won’t be forgetting that part.”
We walked on toward the embassy. It really was an unseasonably beautiful day.
The receptionist was a perfectly coiffed Munchkin woman who would have stood no taller than my chin in her highheeled boots. She could never have passed for a Quadling. Lucky her. Maybe that would increase her chances of survival.
Although nothing was going to increase her chances of coming away without a bloody nose if she kept looking at me like something she’d just stepped in. “Ambassador Boq isn’t seeing visitors today,” she said for the third time.
“Well, since I’m an ambassador, too, maybe you could make a little exception.”
She smiled thinly. “I’m afraid the Munchkin Country does not recognize Downtown as a territory.”
“Fine, then. Tell Ambassador Boq that Dorothy Gale, Princess of Oz, wants a minute of his time. If that’s not good enough, tell him that Dorothy Gale, Wicked Witch of the West, will have a minute of his time. If he’s accommodating now, my minute won’t happen unexpectedly in the middle of the night.” I bared my teeth at her in what might charitably be called a smile.
Her own smile faded. “One moment, please,” she said and slid off her chair, vanishing into the back of the embassy.
“That wasn’t nice, Dot,” said Jack.
“Nope,” I agreed. “It wasn’t.”
Rinn didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell whether that meant he was getting used to me or had simply been horrified into silence.
The receptionist returned only a few minutes later with the round, blue-clad form of Boq, Ambassador of the Munchkin Country and head of the anti-crossover political faction—not to mention one of my first friends in Oz back before everything changed—following close behind her. “Dorothy!” he bellowed in a tone that implied absolute delight at my presence. “You should have sent a card ahead. I would have met you at the door with cakes and lemonade.”
“I didn’t really have the opportunity, Ambassador Boq,” I said with a polite bow. “We’ve come on business for Ozma. May we retire to your chambers?”
Boq was a consummate politician, but even he couldn’t have faked the look of surprise on his face. It had been a long, long time since I went anywhere on business for Ozma. “Yes, absolutely, my dear. You and your friends, follow me.”
“Thanks.” I offered the receptionist a little wave as we followed Boq down the hall to his private chambers, which were larger than my entire apartment and appointed ten times as well. They still weren’t as nice as the quarters I’d shared with Ozma at the Palace.
I waited until Boq was settled in the chair behind his desk, giving him a few moments to feel like I’d been stunned into silence by the opulence of my surroundings. Then, without preamble, I said, “A Munchkin man was found dead in the old Wizard’s Square today. He was dressed in Quadling colors. It’s pretty clear that we weren’t expected to figure out where he was from. Do you have any idea who he might have been? Ozma has tasked me with finding his killers.”
Boq’s face twisted into a mask of revulsion. “You’ve come here to talk about Downtown, with me? Dorothy. I thought better of you.”
“No, Boq, I came here to talk to you about a murder. A Munchkin is dead. Surely that’s more important than your hatred of the crossovers.”
“Spoken like a girl without a country to defend,” he spat. “You deserted your precious Kansas for us. How long before you desert us for something better? It was only a matter of time before the crossovers began killing.”
“The fact that they had access to Quadling clothes and knew to re-dress him, that doesn’t concern you at all?”
“Crossovers are as cunning as Winged Monkeys and about as trustworthy,” Boq countered. “Really, you started killing the day you arrived. No wonder you speak for the rest of them. You’re the first murderess of the lot.”
“Since it got me a crown and made me a witch, I guess murder is pretty lucrative,” I said. “You’re the only one who might tell us who the man was, Boq. And you’re the one who stands to benefit most from an Ozite dying Downtown. That makes me wonder why you’re so defensive. I might just have to tell Ozma about this.”
“You can’t threaten me with Ozma,” said Boq. “She heeds my counsel now, not yours.”
“She heeds whatever counsel keeps Oz safest,” I corrected gently. “Who was he, Boq? You know every Munchkin in the City of Emeralds. Who’s missing?”
Boq hesitated. Then he sighed and said, “Taf. He’s a junior clerk here at the embassy. He didn’t report for work this morning.”
“Why didn’t you tell the guards?” asked Rinn. “We would have helped you find him.”
“Munchkins police their own.” Boq looked at me coolly. “We don’t depend on outsiders to fix our problems.”
“Funny,” I said. “I seem to remember an outsider taking care of your little ‘witch’ issue a few years back.”
Boq reddened, but he didn’t look away.
“Thanks for letting us know who he was,” I said. “You can probably collect his remains from the morgue later today.”
“Dust is a scourge,” he said. “I blame you and your kind.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said and turned to go. Jack and Rinn followed me.
We were almost to the receptionist’s desk when I froze, my earrings chiming madly with the sudden motion.
“I’m an idiot,” I said.
“What?” said Jack.
“I never told him it was Dust.” I turned, running back to Boq’s office.
He was in the process of emptying his desk when I burst in—with Jack, Rinn, and the shouting receptionist all close behind me. I didn’t hesitate before launching myself across the room, grabbing Boq by the shoulders and pulling him away from what he’d been doing before he could destroy any more evidence. He shouted and threw a sachet of fine gray powder in my face, where it burst and filled the air around me in a choking cloud. I coughed and grabbed for him again. He shied away, stumbling right into Jack’s arms. Jack grabbed him and held fast. The pumpkin-head might be made of sticks, but he was stronger than a normal man. Magic can be funny that way.
Boq struggled against Jack’s grip for a moment before spitting in my direction and saying, “At least I get to see you die, crossover.”
“Uh-huh.” I coughed again before wiping the Dust out of my eyes. I was going to need another shower. “Funny thing, Boq. Crossovers can gather this stuff because they’re resistant. Crossing the shifting sands makes the Desert a little less potent for them. I’ve crossed the shifting sands more times than anyone.”
His eyes widened. Then he sagged, going limp in Jack’s arms. “You bitch.”
“It’s pronounced witch, but that was a good try.” I turned to Rinn. He was keeping his distance from me. Smart boy. At this point I probably qualified as a walking intoxicant. “Take him to Ozma. Tell her his clerk overdosed
and Boq staged the murder to implicate the crossovers. Also tell her he tried to kill me.” I couldn’t keep myself from smiling. Ozma and I might not get along, but I was still her property, as far as she was concerned, to coddle or break at her whim and no one else’s. She wouldn’t take kindly to hearing that Boq had given me a face full of Dust.
Boq knew that too. He whimpered, and kept whimpering as Rinn handcuffed him and pulled him from Jack’s arms.
I coughed again. The room was starting to spin. My multiple crossings of the Deadly Desert made me resistant, not immune. Jack’s arms caught me before I could hit the carpet, and I let him bear me up and carry me home.
When I woke up, it was raining, and the whole room smelled like petrichor. My head was still spinning, and so I closed my eyes again, waiting for the world to be still.
“Ozma sends her thanks,” said a voice from beside me—female, alto, and more welcome than a thousand roads of yellow brick. “She says that Boq will be dealt with appropriately.”
“Meaning he’ll be out in less than a week.”
“He’d have been out in less than a day if he hadn’t thrown that Dust in your face.” Polychrome’s hand touched my forehead. Her skin was cool and faintly damp, like a fine mist. “How are you feeling?”
“Better now.” I reached up to catch her wrist without opening my eyes. “How long has it been raining?”
“About eight hours. You’ve been asleep for ten. We should tell Jack that you’re awake—”
“In a minute.” Oz was a land divided; the City of Emeralds was only the visual representation of a split that would tear us all apart, if we weren’t careful. Boq was my enemy now, if he hadn’t been already, and I was deeply afraid that if I started looking for the source of the Dust, all roads would lead me back to the Munchkin Country. Ozma was starting to use me again.
