Funny Fantasy

by Gail Carriger

  I think Carol cataloged the Branch Library of Babel. The whole thing. And that made it . . . go away. Not back to where it came from. On to where it was going. I think she reversed entropy and collapsed the singularity that allows extrusions of pure logic into our universe. Through Space and Time fused in a chant, and the flowing, eternal Identity . . .

  Yes, I know it's an infinite library. I know I told Ted you couldn't organize it all. But the Branch Library contained a fractional but infinite number of squatters. If Carol and Ted spent those last weeks making peace with the tribes and uniting them, had them pass the word along, showed them how to use the Library of Congress filing system . . .

  A fractional but infinite number of librarians is the same size as a complete and infinite number of books. Isn't it? I wish I still had that sign we used to keep behind the front desk.

  I remember punching the security code on the front door. I remember turning the key in the lock.

  The inside of the firehouse was a whitewashed cinderblock room with all-weather carpeting. No other rooms. Nothing. Except for the book on the floor.

  It's not even one of the nice editions. I mean, look at it. 1985 trade paperback from Watermill Press, with, frankly, kind of an ugly cover illustration of the Pequod under attack. You see it in a lot of used bookstores.

  But the text is perfect Moby-Dick, no hiccups or irregularities, from beginning to end.

  The first edition of Moby-Dick was irregular, you know. That 1851 edition. It came out in England first, and the English publisher put out this terrible, typo-riddled book. They even left out the Epilogue. The critics all gave it bad reviews, and Melville's masterpiece—I do think it's a masterpiece, even if I skip the boring parts—was forgotten for almost a hundred years. I used to like to imagine the Branch Library was trying to fix that old mistake by putting out an infinite number of irregular editions, with one perfect one, the way it should have been, mixed in somewhere.

  Well, they're all shelved correctly now, all the good Moby-Dicks and bad Moby-Dicks in the universe. And all the books that aren't Moby-Dick, although to me all books are Moby-Dick, it's just that some of them are really badly misprinted. They're all in order now, and our librarian and star volunteer keep them that way, in a cinderblock pocket universe that's infinitely less chaotic, infinitely more meaningful than this one. I really do believe that. And I only am escaped alone to tell thee.

  That's from the Bible, originally, you know. That line. Is it all right to mention the Bible at a city council meeting?

  Well, that's good to know. Thank you very much. It's from Job. And I guess you can go ahead and tear down the building now.

  This story originally appeared in Strange Horizons, 2011.

  Shaenon K. Garrity is an award-winning cartoonist best known for the webcomics Narbonic and Skin Horse. Her prose fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Lightspeed, Escape Pod, and Daily Science Fiction. She lives in Berkeley with two birds, a baby, and a man.

  The Queen's Reason

  Richard Parks

  THE COURTIERS AND SERVANTS did their best to conceal the truth, but that was a losing battle. The final straw, so to speak, was when their beautiful young queen managed to elude her Ladies in Waiting and greet the South Islands Confederation ambassador while wearing only a skirt made of broom straw and a gardenia pot for a hat. After that incident there was little point in denying the obvious: Mei Janda II, newly crowned Queen of Lucosa, was barking mad.

  The Chief Assistant, a youngish man who was the second son of an earl, conferred with the Head of the Privy Council, an oldish man who held the rank of duke, as they walked through the palace gardens.

  "Lovely roses," said the Chief Assistant, by way of conversation.

  "I hate roses," said the Head of the Privy Council in the same spirit. "Pity about Her Majesty, though. Do you think the nuns knew?"

  Mei Janda had spent the last five years in a convent, according to the wishes of Their Late Majesties. The Privy Council had ruled in her name until her eighteenth birthday, whereupon the coronation had taken place. All had gone as planned. Except for the "barking mad" part.

  "The Sisters of Inevitable Sin? Almost certainly, though I'm not sure I blame them for keeping it quiet. Still, if it wasn't for that business with His Excellency the Ambassador ... well, water under the bridge."

  "Usually the royal family is better about hiding such things," the Head of the Privy Council said.

  The Chief Assistant nodded. "Quite so. Have you ever considered that when a Royal goes lunatic, it's usually a sort of, well, specific madness? For instance, do you know why the former king and queen put their daughter in a convent at age thirteen?"

  The Head of the Privy Council scowled. "It was said that they wanted her to be raised away from palace intrigue."

  "Rubbish. The real reason was because the princess asked what those two dogs in the courtyard were doing, and her parents became hysterical; she was packed off to the convent that very night. Or consider her great-grandfather, Omor III. He believed that the stones of the palace were eavesdropping on him. Some lathwork and plaster, a few well-placed tapestries, and he was perfectly fine. Ruled well for over fifty years. Yet the fog around Queen Mei's brain doesn't seem to obey any strictures whatsoever."

  "Have you consulted the Royal Magician?"

  The Chief Assistant made a rude gesture. "That charlatan? I asked him what we should do about the queen's illness. You know what the old fool said? He said that there was nothing wrong with her! I'm afraid he's gone senile."

  "Quite," said the Head of the Privy Council.

  His terseness could perhaps be explained by the sudden presence of the Queen, who chose that moment to come skipping through the gardens with a garland of wilted morning-glories around her head. She was stark naked otherwise. Being experienced courtiers, the two men just bowed and pretended not to notice.

  "Good morning, Your Majesty," they said practically in unison.

  "How do you like my dress, ducks?"

  "Quite becoming, Majesty," said the Chief Assistant. Which was true enough. Unlike many in her bloodline, Queen Mei's heredity agreed with her. Except, again, for the "barking mad" part.

  "You think so? Then I shall wear it at my wedding," she said.

  The Chief Assistant exchanged glances with the Head of the Privy Council. "Wedding, your Majesty?" again, nearly in unison. Still, being individuals of a sort, they never quite managed a true unity of speech, but that didn't seem to matter.

  "You didn't know? We sent out the invitations ages ago. Of course you two are invited, never doubt it!"

  "Thank you, Majesty," said the Head of the Privy Council, on his own this time. "Might one inquire when the joyous event is to occur?"

  "A week next. On Whitsunday."

  "We shall clear our schedules, of course," said the Chief Assistant. "As the message containing the details has apparently gone astray, might one also inquire who is to be the lucky groom?"

  The queen frowned then. "That's the only strange thing about it," she said. "I don't know who he is. Isn't that odd? Still, he is coming and there is much to do. My bouquet, for a start. I need more flowers!" The queen began plucking stems at random from both sides of the path, ignoring both thorns and briars even while her hands began to bleed.

  The two men withdrew to a discreet distance.

  "She's coherent enough," the Head of the Privy Council said, "considering that she's speaking pure nonsense."

  "She thinks she's getting married," said the Chief Assistant thoughtfully. "This might be the solution to our dilemma."

  "How so?"

  "The management of the kingdom is in good hands as it is. Yet we have a Queen now. At some point she's going to be making decisions and asking people to do impossible things that will, nevertheless, be treason to disobey."

  "That's only sense," said the Head of the Privy Council.

  "Further, the Council cannot take that authority away from the Crown, even if she is barking mad
. That would be treason as well."

  "I never suggested such a thing!" the Head of the Privy Council said. Granted, he had thought about it, but he had never suggested it.

  "So you see our dilemma?"

  "Of course I do!" said the Head of the Privy Council. "What I don't see is how the Queen's delusions of a wedding have anything to do with solving it."

  "Simple, Your Grace: We have a real wedding."

  The older man blinked. "We what?"

  "Think about it. Her Majesty is currently the only living member of the royal family. For the stability of the kingdom, she simply must produce an heir."

  "Well, yes. Preferably several," the Head of the Privy Council conceded. "In due course."

  "We don't have that luxury. Word of Her Majesty's condition will soon spread. What sort of suitors will she attract then?"

  "The same sort as before," the older man said dryly. "Penniless second and third sons, greedy princes, ambitious monarchs intent on absorbing our ancient kingdom into their own territories. We'll be lucky to end up as a sixteenth sinister on someone else's coat of arms." He stopped because the Chief Assistant was nodding vigorously.

  "Precisely so," the younger man said. "In her present condition, the Queen is incapable of sorting the wheat from the chaff. Unless we look at this situation as more than simply a problem—it is also an opportunity. I'm almost certain that Her Majesty sent no invitations. So we send our own. Have the Privy Council draw up a list of eligible men of good character, and these and only these will be in the palace on Whitsunday. As they will be the only men permitted to be present, the Queen is sure to pick one of them."

  "In her current state, she's just as likely to marry the Archbishop's podium," the Head of the Privy Council said.

  The Chief Assistant dismissed that. "Even the Queen, sane or otherwise, cannot overrule the church on a point of theology, and the marriage between a human woman and a lectern is currently not sanctified. I admit my plan has no guarantees, Your Grace, and certainly will not solve all our problems. If this works, however, it will ensure that at least one person on the throne is sane, plus create the reasonable chance of an heir. That would be a vast improvement, no?"

  "Yes," the Head of the Privy Council said. "Very well. I shall present your plan to the Council."

  His Grace quickly did so, and as the Council had no ideas of their own, they agreed. Nor was it a great surprise that all the eligible bachelors in the Privy Council put their own names on the guest list, as well as that of the Chief Assistant. After that, likely candidates were more sparse, but the Privy Council did manage to put together a respectable list, to the number of two hundred and three men of reasonable standing and at least passable character, most of whom, like the Queen herself, awaited the coming Whitsunday with great anticipation.

  "TELL ME AGAIN why this gown won't do?" The Queen was admiring herself in the full length mirror in her chambers. The Royal Magician sat patiently on a stool in the corner. He neither ogled nor pointedly didn't ogle, even though the Queen was still stark naked.

  "Because it's not a gown, Majesty. It's your own bare flesh."

  "Well," she said, "I admit it is a bit form-fitting."

  "Being your own skin, that stands to reason."

  The Queen sighed. "I'm not so good with reason these days, Magician. I mean, everything makes perfect sense when I do it, but later I begin to wonder. For instance, I knew this gown was just too comfortable. Even the prettiest, best-fitting dress pinches somewhere. Still, the Head of the Privy Council and the Chief Assistant both liked it."

  "I'd question their eyesight otherwise," the Magician said. "They are both good men at heart, Majesty. Even if they don't listen very well. So. Why don't you wear the white gown with the yellow brocade? It belonged to your mother. It might need to be taken in a bit for you, but I think it would look splendid."

  The Queen frowned but held up the dress in question so that she could examine it against her skin using the mirror. "It's very nice," she said finally. "Not quite so well-fitted as the one I'm wearing, but I do like the colors. Do you really think I should wear this or just have the one I'm wearing now dyed to match?"

  "Definitely your mother's dress," he said. "You have many seamstresses, but the best dyers are in Aljin, and that's more than a week's travel. You'd never get the dress back in time."

  "I suppose," said Queen Mei. "I'm fortunate to have your counsel, Magician. You're so wise. Is that because you're... archetypecast?"

  "Archetypical, Majesty," the Magician corrected politely. "And yes, I think so."

  "What does that mean, anyway?"

  "It means that I have a role to play. We all do. It just so happens that mine is to at least appear to be wise and to do my best to make sure things turn out as they're supposed to."

  "Who decides how things are 'supposed to turn out'?"

  "No one. Or perhaps everyone."

  She sighed. "I don't understand, but I guess that's because I'm barking mad."

  The old man's smile was not unkind. "Actually, no, Your Majesty. No one really understands this, and I do not exclude myself. I merely realize that some things are not to be understood—they are to be acknowledged. Just as we sometimes recognize the roles we play even as we play them."

  The Queen looked pleased. "That means I must have a role, too! Do you know what it is?"

  "For a start, to get married on Whitsunday."

  The Queen looked less pleased. "That does sound like fun, but it doesn't really seem very important."

  The Magician smiled again. "Majesty, in this instance it is the most important role of all. The future of our country depends on it."

  "Very well. Did you attend to the invitations?"

  "Yes, I did send out the invitation, Majesty."

  "Invitation? You meant invitations, didn't you? As in 'more than one'? I mean, I know I'm barking mad and all, but shouldn't there have been more?"

  "I sent the one that mattered. Trust me, Majesty— There will be plenty of guests."

  "Well, if you're sure." She pulled the dress aside to gaze at her own reflection again wistfully. "Pity about the dyers, though."

  THE TRAVELER, a handsome, roguish fellow, entered Lucosa the day before Whitsunday. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence that both the Head of the Privy Council and the Chief Assistant happened to be visiting their respective tailors for fittings on that same day. Perhaps there are no coincidences. Whatever conclusion one draws, the fact remains that they were present, with their haughty attendants, and the Traveler cheerfully greeted them there.

  "Good day to you, gentlemen," he said.

  "I am a Duke," corrected the Head of the Privy Council.

  "And I am a knight, the son of an earl," said the Chief Assistant. Their attendants, as was proper, did not speak, but to a man they fixed the Traveler with Looks of Disapproval.

  "Well, then it was clearly wrong of me to refer to either of you as a gentleman, and I apologize," the Traveler said. "Rather, then, Your Grace and Good Sir Knight."

  "That's better," said the Chief Assistant as he eyed the youth with some distaste. The Traveler's face and clothes were dirty, his dark hair unkempt, and his brown traveling cloak tattered and worn. "What business do you have with us, fellow?"

  "I merely wished to ask what time the Queen's wedding was to take place tomorrow, as you two fine personages seemed the sort who might know. The invitation was a bit vague."

  "Wedding?" The Chief Assistant frowned.

  "Invitation?" The Head of the Privy Council frowned even more.

  "Frankly," said the Traveler, "I'm as surprised as you are. I have not been in Lucosa, so far as I can recall, since the year of my birth. I have no friends or family here that I know of, and yet," he said, fumbling inside a pouch in his belt. "Ah, here it is."

  The youth held up the paper so that both could see. "It says only the date, which is tomorrow. Not even the name of the groom. I do not know why I should have been invited but saw no reason to foreg
o the experience. I've never been to a Royal Wedding before."

  The two men just studied the document in silence for a few moments.

  "That's not like ours," the Head of the Privy Council said finally.

  "No. This one actually has the Queen's seal," the Chief Assistant replied. "Pray, young man," he asked. "How did you come by this?"

  "Odd about that—a red hawk dropped it on me. In broad daylight. At first I thought the wretched bird had dropped something more odious, but that did not turn out to be the case."

  "I don't like where this is going," muttered the Head of the Privy Council.

  "You said you had no family here?" asked the Chief Assistant.

  "Well, not that I know of, you understand," the Traveler said. "I don't remember much before my time on the road."

  "Uncertain origins," said the Head of the Privy Council, nodding, though he was talking to the Chief Assistant, and his tone was pure "I told you so."

  "I suppose you've traveled far and wide, seen all sorts of things?" the Chief Assistant asked the younger man.

  The Traveler's face lit up like a beacon. "Oh, yes. From the South Islands to the frozen north, the burning west, and the sultry east. I have met such people, tasted such food, seen such wonders, experienced such marvels... Even if your esteemed selves were content to listen, we'd miss the wedding entirely merely recounting half of it."

  "And now you're here, by Royal Invitation, a penniless, homeless nobody," said the Chief Assistant.

  "I'd be insulted," the Traveler said, "had not every word you had just muttered been the absolute truth. As I said, it puzzled me as well."

  "Oh, I'm not puzzled," the Chief Assistant said. "Clearly there is a Destiny upon you. Wouldn't you agree?" He turned to the Head of the Privy Council for confirmation.

  "Extensive travels? Obscure origins? Animal messengers? Do you even need to ask?" confirmed the older man.

  The Traveler frowned. "What sort of Destiny?"

  "Something involving the Queen, I fancy," said the Chief Assistant. "But don't let that concern you just now. You are here by Royal Invitation, but the wedding is not until tomorrow. As faithful servants of the Queen, we certainly cannot let you sleep on the streets."