The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com

by Various

  “They didn’t fight,” Gillapadraig said. He had come to walk beside David and spared now a backward glance at the departing eagle-chief. “I thought you said they would fight.”

  “Not yet,” David told him. He turned to ó Tubbaigh and said, “Mingolaigh. Chief?”

  “Mingo, chief Muisce ó Geogh,” he said. “Sachem, chief al-Goncuin.”

  David repeated the name more carefully. “Al-Goncuin, is it? Are they Saracens, then?” But ‘Saracen’ meant nothing to the red man and David did not press the matter. What concerned him was less whence the red men had come, than whither they might be going.

  When they turned onto the parapet overlooking the lough, David found Donnchad ó Mulmoy and Olaf the Dane waiting, as he had arranged.

  “How many?” David asked Donnchad, indicating the cog moored below them.

  “Three-and-twenty,” ó Mulmoy told him, “though it was a hard count, seeing how they all look alike. About half wear iron shirts. The others climb the ropes, so I think they must be the sailors. There are always two on guard but they don’t keep good watch.

  “They believe themselves among friends,” David said.

  “More than friends. A couple of ó Flaherty’s scullery maids have gone inside on one errand or another–mostly the other, I’m thinking–and they have a Pictish woman that they must have captured when they fought The ó Malleys.”

  David turned to the Dane. “Olaf, do you have any friends yet in Galway Town?”

  The Ostman shrugged. “Does a man with a price ever have friends? I suppose you could call anyone who hasn’t yet tried to slit my throat a ‘friend’.”

  “What if you could promise them a ship faster than any they’ve known?”

  “So…” Olaf’s eyes dropped to the alien ship. “She needs a proper keel. But I know a man at Bordeaux who would do it.” His eyes danced along the masts. “A dozen to sail her, I think, though the rigging be strange…and we would need to…” He stopped and nodded. “Ja. I’ve cut ships out before. It can be done.”

  “Good. Make a list of the men you want and give it to ó Mulmoy. Donnchad, ride for Galway Town. You know the town. Find the men Olaf names and bring them here by stealth. You may encounter ó Dallies down that way, and there is nothing ill between them and us; but if deBurgo is abroad take care. Travel unseen.”

  Donnchad smiled. “One ó Mulmoy is worth ten Burkes.”

  “Then take Kevin with you. I think there are more than ten.”

  Donnchad left. Olaf lingered a moment longer, gazing at the cog and rubbing his hands together. Then he too left.

  A silence passed before David said, “Tatamaigh home sail, warriors bring. Take you?”

  Ó Tubbaigh laughed bitterly. “Chief al-Goncuin. No more.” He slapped his chest. “Muisce ó Geogh all chief now. Town, stronghold, how say?” And he mimed the striking of a flint, the lighting of a fire.

  “Burn,” said David.

  “Town, stronghold al-Goncuin burn. Women…” And he thrust with his hips.

  “Books, too?” To the gilly’s puzzled look, David mimed reading and ó Tubbaigh shrugged.

  “Pfft.” His fingers fluttered like smoke.

  “Ochone. They do burn easily, do they not?” David said. He wondered if there were any monks in that New-Found Land. He wondered if they would catch whatever they could on their parchments before all the learning ran through their fingers like so much sand. He thought about the saints of Aire Land scratching away with quills in the failing light of the long ago while vikings howled outside. What they had written was tinder, but tinder of a different sort, which later, in the courts of Charlemagne, had lit a different sort of fire. And now Charlemagne himself was legend, a subject of romance and fable, as distant from the present day as the Fall of Rome had been from his.

  Ó Tubbaigh spoke in halting Danish. “Ship take hair yellow.” When David made no answer, a distant look came into his eyes. “Go with. Home see ahcheba. Ah, the grass, the grass.”

  David pulled his knife and scabbard from his belt and handed it to the Muisce ó Geogh captive, for such he had concluded the man was: one of the sacking horde in the wreckage of an empire, captured by a fleeing band of al-Goncuins, possibly even as the escape ship was casting forth. There were red stains on the cog’s decks that spoke of a desperate fight. Ó Tubbaigh hesitated. Then he snatched the knife from its scabbard and secreted it in the wraps of his turban, returning the empty scabbard to David. He said, “Smoke we two ahcheba.”

  “We will smoke again,” David lied.

  The ó Flaherty Himself escorted David to the edge of Cill Cluanaigh and sat upon his pony beside him while the hill men disembarked from the boats and sorted themselves out for the long trek back to the Slieve ua Fhlainn.

  “You’ll tell Cormac,” ó Flaherty suggested.

  “I’ll tell The mac Dermot everything I’ve seen.”

  The king of Iar Connaught grunted over the careful phrasing, then he looked west, past his stronghold in the lough. “I don’t understand your loyalty to a weakling like Aedh.”

  “A weakling he is, and a fool,” David admitted, “but if we demand our kings be worthy before we pay them the respect that kings are due, then all is chaos. Kings come, kings go. It’s the white rod that matters, not the fool that holds it.”

  The Ó Flaherty pondered David’s words. “I see,” he said at last. “You are Felim’s man. You’ve been Felim’s man all along.”

  “It would be awkward,” David explained, “if he killed his own brother. Turlough will see to that–should no cuckold step forward.”

  Ó Flaherty grinned without humor. “And then Felim’s dogs will remove Turlough, with the iron shirts to back them? Sure, it’s a sad tale, then, that the Red Foreigners will upset his plans.”

  David shrugged. “Life brims with the unexpected. Oh. I’m after losing my knife.”

  “Are you now?”

  “I think that red gilly is after taking it. I think he means to murder Tatamaigh.”

  “Over the woman? She isn’t much to look at, but I don’t suppose looking is what he has in mind.”

  “Maybe the woman. Maybe the smoke. It doesn’t matter. Warn Tatamaigh.”

  The king of Iar Connaught scowled, suspecting some cleverness. “It would be better for you–and Felim and Cormac–if Tatamaigh were slain.”

  David crossed himself piously. “The Lord commanded us to do good even for our enemies.”

  David halted his party once again on the hill overlooking Lough Corrib and turned his pony round to gaze at The ó Flaherty’s stronghold while awaiting the signal from the outriders that no ambush lurked. Gillapadraig trotted his pony to stand next to David’s.

  “So it did come down to a woman in the end,” he said. “How much have you teased out?”

  “They’re not coming,” David said. “They’ll never come; not to help Turlough, not for any reason.”

  “Can you be so sure? The Normans found it worth the effort…”

  David pulled on his moustaches, gauged the position of the sun, and wondered if he could reach the monastery at Tuam before nightfall. “The Irish Sea is a shorter crossing than the Ocean Sea. But that is not the reason. The al-Goncuin empire is broken. The clans of the Muisce ó Geogh light campfires with their books. Tatamaigh was desperate for a refuge and grasping at any straw. He would have promised ó Flaherty anything. We may see a few more such boatloads seeking the legend-lands the Danes sing of–but that is all.”

  “What of these Muisce ó Geogh folk, then? They are the victors, you say. Will they not come?”

  “The ó Flaherty is mad. Bad enough to invite the red Romans in; to invite the red Huns is pure Sweeney. They are horsemen, not sailors, and there is more wealth in the wreckage of an empire than on these poor shores. Yet they are a wild folk, and the horizon taunts them. Should ó Tubbaigh escape to tell them of us…”

  “Small chance of that.”

  “How small is small enough? He is a bold man, and a clev
er one to survive as long as he has in the hands of his enemies. When Olaf steals the ship, will he not be aboard? Could I hazard his escape? Ah, darling, it’s a cruel and pitiless age we live in to spend such a life to buy a little time. Had they not burned the books, I might have hesitated.” David fell silent and tugged his chin. “There may be a blessing, though, in all this.”

  “What is it?” Gillapadraig asked.

  “That Tatamaigh’s crown was solid gold, was it not?”

  “It had the look of it.”

  “A bold man with a sword might carve himself a pretty kingdom over there, a greater one than he can ever find in these poor hills.”

  Gillapadraig fell into open-mouthed silence. When he found his voice, he stammered, “Would you be leading the ui Fhlainn then into some foreign land?”

  “I would not, but the prospect of gold and plunder is a sore temptation.” David turned his pony about and saw the outriders coming in from the east, signaling that it was safe to proceed. He kicked his pony in the ribs and the hill men set off at a slow mile-eating pace. “Maybe the Normans will go.”

  * * * END * * *

  Copyright © 2011 by Michael F. Flynn

  Art copyright © 2011 by Richard Anderson

  By Michael F. Flynn

  Novels

  In the Country of the Blind (Baen, 1990)

  Fallen Angels (with Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle) (Baen, 1991)

  Firestar (Tor, 1996)

  Rogue Star (Tor, 1998)

  Lodestar (Tor, 2000)

  Falling Stars (Tor, 2001)

  The Wreck of the River of Stars (Tor, 2003)

  Eifelheim (Tor, 2006)

  The January Dancer (Tor, 2008)

  Up Jim River (Tor, 2010)

  Story collections

  The Nanotech Chronicles (Baen, 1991)

  The Forest of Time and Other Stories (Tor, 1997)

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Contents

  Begin Reading

  Madame Rosa says it is a mess and I agree. There is candy all over the floor, and it is very good candy, all the way from France if you believe the box, and there are also little white cupcakes, and red and pink roses, and those new stockings they call nylons, and a whole shelf of champagne bottles that also say they come from France, although that is harder to believe. The last thing on the floor is a dead guy with a large hole in his stomach, and smaller holes here and there.

  The small holes come from bullets, and the large one from both barrels of a shotgun. This is enough to discourage most citizens in a permanent way, but Madame Rosa says this guy keeps firing his own pair of pistols even after making the shotgun's acquaintance. The shooting does not stop until one of the dolls from upstairs comes down with a tommy gun she receives as a gift from an admirer, and the tommy gun goes rat-a-tat-tat. This ends the guy's business, and he falls down thanks to all his new holes.

  Then wires come spilling out of his stomach.

  I kneel beside the guy and look at the wires. Each wire is as black and as thick as the one that goes from your radio set to the wall. Dozens of these wires snarl around each other, and they drip something green I do not touch. I think the green drips must be the dead guy's blood, and this raises serious questions about the guy's place of origin. I have seen several persons with holes of this nature, so I know what most citizens have in their stomachs. It is not black wires and green blood.

  Madame Rosa stands by my shoulder. She says, "He is a spaceman."

  I say, "Madame Rosa, I believe you are right." But without seeing inside his stomach, it is easy to think this guy is human. Citizens with faces and clothes just like his walk down Broadway every day. Why, Shiv-Eye Sam wears the same green fedora. But Shiv-Eye Sam is not a spaceman. Shiv-Eye Sam comes from Philly, and he never shows up in Madame Rosa's with John Roscoes under his jacket, or the idea of shooting all the dolls in the house. Only spacemen do that. They have been doing it for two months now, in Chicago, Cincinnati, and Atlantic City. In those places, the spacemen are known to gun down a lot of sweet little dolls who work in establishments like Madame Rosa's. It is getting to the point that something ought to be done.

  Therefore, Madame Rosa decides to hire six guys to sit in her back room and to come out and handle things if finally a spaceman arrives in New York City. Tonight, these hired guys do their jobs. Now the spaceman is scragged, although as Madame Rosa says, the gunfight has turned the place into a mess. She keeps a store in the lobby that sells this and that to guys who visit the dolls, which is why there is candy and roses and maybe champagne all over the floor.

  It is also why Madame Rosa invites me to visit. I run a type of cleaning business where I remove articles that people no longer desire in their establishments. Madame Rosa wants me to remove the spaceman.

  "Here is the problem," I tell her. "Mr. J. Edgar Hoover is interested in spacemen, because he thinks they may be Reds. He offers large rewards for information, and maybe your dolls or their ever-loving guys will not mind talking to G-men if there are enough greenbacks on the table."

  Madame Rosa says, "You think someone will tell Mr. Hoover about this spaceman?"

  "Yes," I say, "that is exactly what I think. And even if the spaceman's body disappears, Mr. Hoover will come to your establishment in the company of bloodhounds and scientists who will find green blood on your candy rack. That will be bad for business, Madame Rosa, and I think Mr. Hoover will have ideas where you belong for the next ten to fifteen years."

  Madame Rosa says, "You are right." She is well informed on the thoughts of G-men, since she talks to them every night while they decide whether to buy their dolls candy or cupcakes. Madame Rosa knows that G-men will overlook some activities, but other things give them the hot foot. She says, "Then I want a clean sweep with all the trimmings. The girls are already out of the house, and they have taken their valuables with them. I am going now too, and I will not come back. There is a man who will be surprised when I show up in the middle of the night, but he is a man who likes certain types of surprises which I can supply in spades. Good-bye. I will see you at the opera."

  I do not go to the opera and I do not think Madame Rosa goes either, but maybe this guy who likes surprises does. That means he is a guy who can afford the articles that citizens wear to the opera, which for Madame Rosa will be diamonds and sables and one thing and another. This is just the type of guy Madame Rosa will be happy with when she retires, so I wish her my best and find out where to send my bill. Then Madame Rosa goes on her way, except she is only Rosa now, which will bring tears to eyes from Broadway to City Hall.

  I make phone calls to arrange this and that which a clean sweep needs, and I have to call in markers to get supplies in a speedy fashion. I do not know how long Mr. J. Edgar Hoover will take to catch wind of the spaceman's visit, but by the time he does I wish to be gone from these premises. I make my calls from Rosa's back room, and am hanging up the telephone when someone in the lobby says, "This is an A-1 mess indeed."

  It is Clean-Up Carl, who is a janitor at Macy's who helps out on my jobs. No one knows more than Carl about removing stains. He is like a professor of cleanology who knows all the chemicals, especially when it comes to blood spills and powder burns and other unpleasant smudges one encounters in a night's work. He is like one of those guys who goes to the Hot Box and sits in the front row and stares at the dolls without blinking, except that Carl does not stare that way at dolls, he stares that way at messes, becaus
e he wants to get his hands on them.

  Some people think Carl is daffy, but I consider him a valuable citizen. I will tell anyone who asks that Carl does half my work for me. However, Carl will never do the other half, because he does not like talking to customers, and once he sweeps something up, he does not care where it goes. Carl will put body parts and Roscoes out with the normal trash, when in fact it is best to dump such articles elsewhere, either where they will not be seen again, or where they will be found by people in need of a message.

  "Carl," I say, "our city has a spaceman."

  Carl looks as surprised as a man who discovers his thirty-to-one shot really is a thirty-to-one shot.

  I point to the floor. "The spaceman is this guy with wires."

  Carl says, "Oh," and calms down. After a moment, his face brightens. "Boss, I believe I can clean up a spaceman."

  "I believe you can too. Please find every drop of green blood, and clean it so it cannot be smelled by bloodhounds or scientists."

  "I can do that," says Carl, looking like a hungry man who hears he can eat the whole ham.

  "But this is a clean sweep with all the trimmings," I tell him, "so you must work quickly and leave nothing to interest Mr. J. Edgar Hoover."

  "The walls are full of bullets and buckshot," he says. "I can pull out the lead, and plaster the holes, but a bloodhound will notice the patches. Possibly the scientists will too."

  "In a place like Madame Rosa's," I say, "bullet holes only show high spirits. Remove all the spaceman parts and there will be nothing to hold a G-man's interest."

  Carl fetches a load of brown-glass bottles and commences to pour their contents here and there, sometimes with rubbing, sometimes not. Many nights, I like the smell of cleaning fluids, because it means I am on a job and when I finish there will be a nice score, like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. This time, however, Carl uses his strongest chemicals and it is a real stinkeroo. I decide to go upstairs to the dolls' rooms, where the smells are just as strong, but they come from French perfumes. Or at least perfumes that say they come from France.