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

by Various

  Though the sun had risen, the morning was still bitter cold. A wind blew up and went right through his clothing, chilling him to the bone. Sir Toby had said that his best agent had died recently. Ritter could not help thinking of the look of shock on the face of the glamour-wielder when Sir Toby shot her. Shock, possibly, at his betrayal? Her body had been left on the mountaintop. There could be no identifying it now. No way that Ritter could ever know if his dark supposition were true.

  Yet, even if it were, could he entirely condemn his new master for an act whose repercussions were surely for the good? Forty-one deaths weighed against millions. Sir Toby valued tough-mindedness above all things. To him, that was the kind of calculation that solved itself.

  Dark days were ahead, and he was going to be a part of them. Ritter fervently hoped he would never reach the point where such a sacrifice would seem to him a sensible thing.

  But he rather suspected that he would.

  Copyright (C) 2012 by Michael Swanwick

  Art copyright (C) 2012 by Gregory Manchess

  Books by Michael Swanwick

  The Dragons of Babel

  Bones of the Earth

  Jack Faust

  The Iron Dragon’s Daughter

  Griffin’s Egg

  Stations of the Tide

  Vacuum Flowers

  In the Drift

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  The Dog Said Bow-Wow

  The Periodic Table of Science Fiction

  Cigar-Box Faust and Other Miniatures

  A Geography of Unknown Lands

  Gravity’s Angels

  Moon Dogs

  Puck Aleshire’s Abededary

  Tales of Old Earth

  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

  The armies of the Mongolian Wizard had just crossed into Poland when Sir Tobias Gracchus Willoughby-Quirke arrived at Buckingham, with attaché and wolf in tow. Entering the palace with uncharacteristic briskness, he was confronted by the sight of servants hurrying every which way in a manner closely resembling panic. He and his attaché exchanged glances. Had the news they had come to relay somehow preceded them?

  In that instant of uncertainty, the Lord Chamberlain, a lean man with a beak like a crow’s, cried, “Tobias! Thank heavens you’re here.” Seizing Sir Toby’s arm, the Earl of Beckford leaned close and murmured, “Queen Titania is dead.” After the briefest pause to let the news sink in, he continued: “Spontaneous combustion, apparently. In her bedchamber, not an hour ago. I’m no wizard, but it looks damnably suspicious to me. This is your sort of thing, so I’m counting on you to clear it up. Establish what happened and settle the matter once and for all.”

  Coming on this of all days, the queen’s death could not possibly be coincidental. But Sir Toby merely said, “Ordinarily, I would be anxious to help. But my mission today is too urgent for even tragedy to delay. I must see the king immediately.”

  “Yes, yes, I am sure your business is vitally important. But if King Oberon is unwilling to see you—what then? The poor fellow is practically comatose with shock and grief and will surely remain so until the circumstances of Titania’s death have been resolved.”

  Sir Toby’s face, customarily bland and amiable, twisted unhappily. “Then take me to the queen’s chambers immediately.”

  The soldiers standing guard before the queen’s door parted at their approach. Inside, Sir Toby discovered a perfect circle of black where the oriental carpet had been burned to cinder and a corresponding, though softer-edged, circle of soot on the ceiling above. The smell of charred human flesh lingered in the air.

  The queen must have gone up like a flare.

  Sir Toby looked around the room, so clean and tidy in all aspects save for the black nullity in its center. Even the carpet was bright where it was not actually destroyed. “Where is the body?”

  “It was taken to the chapel,” Lord Beckford said.

  “What? This is the scene of a crime! What idiot—?”

  The Lord Chamberlain threw Sir Toby the sort of look he normally reserved for bunglers or political archrivals. “King Oberon himself gave the order, of course. Which was, naturally, instantly obeyed. He has locked himself in the chapel with the cindered remains of his wife, and left instructions not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

  Grimacing, Sir Toby pinched the flesh between his eyes. Then he said, “Ritter? Tell me what you observe.”

  Franz-Karl Ritter, late of the Werewolf Corps but still partnered with his wolf Freki, gazed about the queen’s bedchamber with an interest natural to a young man who knew he was unlikely ever to be in such a place again. “There don’t seem to be any closets,” he commented.

  The grey-haired servant who had trailed the Lord Chamberlain as silently and ignoredly as Ritter had trailed Sir Toby said in a tone of mild reproof, “The queen’s clothing is brought in by her dresser. Therefore she does not require closets.”

  Ritter spun on his heel. “The queen has a dresser? Then she must have been present when the Feuerbrunst, the—damn this language! How do you say it? The—”

  “Conflagration,” Sir Toby said. “You are right, she must be questioned. Mr. Vestey, please send for Lady Anne at once.”

  “But she—”

  “Now, Mr. Vestey.”

  Meanwhile, Ritter slid into Freki’s mind and sent the beast padding softly about the perimeter of the room. His sensorium was flooded with a wolfish richness of smell. It was dominated by the stench of death, of course, but there were other odors as well: perfumes, poudre de riz, a rose petal–scented chemical used to clean the carpet, linen sheets with just a hint of the queen’s scent upon them (which was so common a thing in his investigations that Ritter had no difficulty ignoring it), satin comforters, Irish lace, and here and there a small flake of soot that had floated free of the queen’s immolation. Plus…“Give me a hand moving the bed away from the wall,” Ritter commanded.

  Without a murmur of protest, Sir Toby and Lord Beckford obeyed. Grunting, they three wrestled the massive piece of furniture outward.

  Ritter whipped out a pair of white gloves and donned them. Then, stooping, he retrieved a small charred scrap of red cloth. “Aha! Here is the weapon—the dress itself. The cloth is woven from a thread made up of salamander’s hair.”

  “Salamander? A fire sprite, you mean. Are you certain?”

  “If you had the nose of a wolf, you would not doubt it. There is nothing that smells remotely like it.” Ritter drew a square of paper from his pocket and began folding it into an envelope for the cloth remnant. “Now if only we knew how it was ignited. Once set ablaze, of course, the human body will go up as a matter of course. Essential fat in a woman runs between eight to twelve percent of her body weight, which is easily enough to—” A woman appeared in the doorway and he withdrew from Freki’s mind.

  “Sir? You sent for me?” The woman who followed the saturnine Mr. Vestey into the room was of aristocratic rather than beautiful features. Her hands were freshly bandaged.

  Instantly, Sir Toby was all warmth and avuncular concern. “My dear Lady Anne! How terrible this experience must have been for you. Your poor hands! I trust that they have brought in a wizard from the College of Chirurgeons to place a healing spell upon them.”

  “Oh, yes, he was quite gentle and very gentlemanly, too. He said that—”

  “Your hands were burned in the incident?” Ritter asked. />
  The stricken expression returned to Lady Anne’s face. “I was just fastening the last button on Her Majesty’s new gown and it…she…the flames went up over my hands.”

  “Shush, shush, my dear. It’s all right to cry.” Sir Toby took the woman into his arms, quite engulfing her, and she wept into his chest. “You have had a terrible experience but never fear, the villains responsible will be caught and punished. Your mistress, I swear to you, will be avenged.”

  “The gown,” Ritter said. “This was the first time Queen Titania ever wore it?”

  From deep within Sir Toby’s embrace, Lady Anne sobbed, “Yes.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “It was tailored by Knopfman and Rosenberg, that’s all I know.”

  “Was it commissioned by the queen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it a present? Perhaps from some foreign embassy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who brought it to the palace?”

  “It was Gregory Pinski.” Lady Anne lifted her head from Sir Toby’s embrace and almost smiled. “He’s the clerk for Knopfman and Rosenberg. I don’t ordinarily know the names of the delivery-men, but Gregory is such a gossip, and such a flirt. Perfectly harmless, you understand, but very amusing.”

  “When this Pinski brought the gown, did you happen to mention to him, among all the gossip and flirtation, that Queen Titania would be wearing the gown on this particular day?”

  “I…I don’t remember. It’s possible, I suppose.”

  “Think hard! Did you—?”

  “Mr. Vestey!” Sir Toby said loudly. “Would you do us the kindness of escorting Lady Anne back to her chambers? She has had a difficult day and I shouldn’t be surprised if her doctor wants to prescribe a sedative for her.” Then, when the lady had departed, he turned to Ritter and exclaimed. “My dear young dunderhead! You have the most damnably brusque way with women that I have ever seen in my life.”

  “I get results,” Ritter said defensively. “That’s all that matters.”

  “You haven’t gotten any results yet,” Sir Toby reminded him. Then, turning to Lord Beckford, “Now, whether he wishes it or not, I must see the king. The war that has been so long in the coming has at last arrived and His Majesty must begin preparing the most important address to Parliament that he will ever make.”

  “The chapel is locked and guarded and the king refuses to speak to anyone.”

  “Need I remind you that am a wizard? One way or another, Oberon will see me. Meanwhile, the investigation will be continued by—” Sir Toby favored Ritter with a glare “—my capable assistant.”

  Hurrying across London, his wolf at his heels, Ritter saw knots of people engaged in agitated conversation, and from snatches overheard in passing, he gathered that already word had leaked that war was about to be declared. He knew that what Sir Toby wanted was for him to wrap up this matter as swiftly as possible, thus freeing his services for more important matters than the mere death of a lone woman, queen though she might be.

  In this, however, if in nothing else, Ritter believed his master to be wrong. True, the Mongolian Wizard had engineered this atrocity solely in order to hobble the British people with a heartsick and indecisive king in their hour of need. The deed being done, Oberon VII would either be cajoled and scolded by Sir Toby into providing the leadership that duty required, or else he would not, in which case a way around his inertia would have to be found. So in that sense, apprehending whoever was directly responsible would accomplish little. But the villain or villains were still at large and capable of acts of sabotage that might greatly hinder the war effort. Who knew what resources they had? The Mongolian Wizard was famed for his subtlety and cunning. But he was also thorough, and he had clearly been planning this matter for a long time.

  In an alley off Savile Row, Ritter hammered on the door of a dressmakers’ shop to no response. Rather than forcing the lock, he took the opportunity to drop into the neighboring tailoring establishments and ask a few questions. Local communities of specialized tradesmen always knew a great deal about one another’s lives.

  So it was that when, some hours later, a slim, dark-haired woman carrying an overnight bag came up the street and, clearly startled to find the shop closed, unlocked the door, Ritter was waiting. Emerging from a doorway, he said, “You are the Jewess Shulamith Rosenberg?”

  The woman studied him as one might a snake. “Who asks?”

  “My name is Franz-Karl Ritter, I am attached to your government’s intelligence service, and that is all you need to know. Shall we continue this talk inside?”

  Miss Rosenberg stepped within. Ritter and Freki followed.

  The lady put down her bag and lit two oil lamps, revealing a tidy little dressmakers’ shop that was the essence of respectability. “Speak,” she said.

  “Recently, your firm delivered a gown to Her Majesty, Queen Titania. Don’t try to deny it.”

  “There is nothing to deny. Knopfman and Rosenberg are dressmakers to the queen. That fact is painted on the placard by our door.”

  “Upon Knopfman’s death, your father became the chief dressmaker. You also are esteemed in this regard, though not as highly as he. Piecework is let out to various skilled local women, but your establishment is essentially a two-person operation. You and your father came here from Russia some fifteen years ago, when you were a child, and have since prospered. A year ago you took on a clerk named Gregory—or more properly Gregori—Pinski, also a Russian, to maintain your books. Yesterday you were called away to Brighton, but you told your neighbors that you would be back by mid-afternoon today.”

  “It was a fool’s errand. The client who had supposedly sent for me swore she had not done so. Why are you reciting facts at me which I already know?”

  Ritter slid a part of his awareness into Freki’s mind. He turned the wolf’s head so it was looking directly at the woman. Watch, he commanded silently. “You have doubtless heard that the Mongolian Wizard’s armies have crossed into Europe. Have you also heard that Queen Titania has been assassinated?”

  Shulamith Rosenberg gasped. All the blood drained from her face. Freki could smell her shock. If she was faking her response, she was a very good actress indeed. “Is Tanya…I mean, is the queen…?”

  “She is dead. Moreover, the instrument of her assassination was a gown which caused her to burst into flames and which came from this shop.” Watching intently, Ritter saw Miss Rosenberg sway, eyes half closing, as if she might faint from the shock. “An establishment I now discover to be made up entirely of Russians. You can see why I am so very suspicious of you.”

  To Ritter’s mild surprise, this last caused the woman’s eyes to shoot wide open and then narrow with anger.

  “If you think we are Russian agents, then you know nothing about how Jews are treated in Russia! Why do you think we came here in the first place? In St. Petersburg our property was seized, our shop vandalized, offensive men made threats against our lives. It cost us all we had to buy our way to London and start over again. Yet you believe my father and I would turn on the nation that gave us safe haven out of loyalty to the Mongolian upstart? The queen was kind to me, though it was of no particular advantage to her to be so. I, in turn, loved her as dearly as any native-born subject would. You bastard! I would spit at your feet were this not my own shop.”

  Withdrawing from Freki’s mind, Ritter said, “Don’t be alarmed.” The woman’s outrage was not feigned, of this he was provisionally certain. “I believe you. But I had to raise the possibility.”

  The woman continued to glare as if she could stare him into stone. This interview was as good as over, and it was all his own bungling fault. What would Sir Toby do in this situation? All at a loss, Ritter could think of nothing else than to, in imitation of his superior earlier that day, open his arms and say, “It’s all right to cry.”

  To his astonishment, Shulamith Rosenberg rushed forward, clutched his jacket in both her fists, buried
her face in the cloth and wept piteously. Ritter put his arms around her and made vague comforting noises. For several minutes they stood thus until the woman, having cried herself out, stepped away from him.

  Silently Ritter offered his handkerchief and silently she accepted it.

  As gently as he could, Ritter said, “Now, Miss Rosenberg – Shulamith, I should say. I must interview Abraham Rosenberg. Your father, I mean. Where is he?”

  “He ought to be here,” Shulamith said. “Perhaps he fell asleep in the back room. He’s an old man, after all.”

  “Then let’s look in the back room.”

  The back room was a clean and efficient workspace. One wall held nothing but crisscrossing shelves, creating diamond-shaped bins for bolts of cloth of many kinds and colors. In the facing wall, a row of windows opened on to a small garden and the brick back of another building. Light flooded through the windows and onto a white-bearded man of saintly aspect, who sat in a wooden chair, head down, as if he had just nodded off. A pair of scissors protruded from his chest.

  He had been stabbed to death.

  Shulamith made an urgent noise in the back of her throat and started to rush forward. But Ritter grabbed a wrist and hauled her back by force. “Touch nothing!” he commanded. “Your father is dead, do not doubt it. Freki tells me so, and in these matters a wolf is never wrong. Further, I can tell you that the deed was done hours ago, in early morning—at about the time when Pinski would have left to deliver the fire gown to the palace.” He reached out with his mind to meld with his wolf. “Which leads me to wonder where the third and increasingly most suspicious member of your business might be hiding.”

  At a thought, Freki went bounding to the far end of the workroom and up a narrow stairway to the second and third floors, where the living quarters were. It took him less than a minute to determine that the clerk was not there.