The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2014 (Volume 5)

by Kaaron Warren

  Disraeli paused. “Why, yes. It was very hush-hush. I believe she thought it would damage her public image as a strong, independent woman, or some such. That it was not common knowledge in your family surprises me, though.” He nodded that they should continue. “Your grandfather was born inside wedlock, Mister Fisher, and that is why we need you.”

  They reached the gallery’s end, and stood before an arched double door. Disraeli twisted the handle one half turn, then paused. “You have not been in the presence of royalty, have you, Mister Fisher? Please try and remain calm.” He twisted, pushed and stepped through.

  The room seemed cramped after the scale of the gallery. Tall windows on the right-hand wall allowed anaemic light to fall in, highlighting the shadows rather than illuminating the room. A hearth, set but unlit, dominated the far wall. A rug of complex patterns and hunting animals covered most of the floor, and in its centre, on a stick-thin chair, sat the Queen.

  She wore her customary black, and faced the windows, showing them her profile. Her head tilted slightly back, mouth and eyes open and unmoving. Fisher wondered if she had heard their entrance. If she had, there was no sign, but even so Disraeli placed his palms together and gave a short bow.

  “Your Supreme Majesty, may I present Officer Fisher?”

  There was no response.

  Stuttering, Fisher said, “It is an honour, your Majesty.”

  “You are welcome here, Martin Fisher.” The words were cold and layered, and seemed to enter his head without touching his ears.

  He blinked, but her Majesty had not moved, offering only the same still profile. “I . . . Thank you, Ma’am.”

  “You are confused. That is to be expected. Come stand before us, where we can see you in the light.”

  He looked at Disraeli, who nodded, and edged around towards the windows.

  Halfway through his circuit he stopped, took a quick breath, and swallowed the scream clawing up his throat.

  He stood obliquely to her, enough to see that she sat as one would expect any other person to sit—straight-backed, hands crossed on her lap. But he could not take another step, save at his sanity’s risk.

  Mottled grey tentacles fingered through the Queen’ hair. One tip protruded from her bun, waving as if it were a snake’s tongue tasting the air. Another was plastered across her forehead, curling around her face, framing it. The narrow end was feeling around inside her open mouth. Within that insane vision, he spotted a pallid inflation at the other side of her head, something slick, which rose and fell like a breathing sack. Nothing on Earth could have compelled him to move even one inch further, but he forced himself to stand his ground.

  “Do not be alarmed, Martin Fisher. We are aware of how we appear, but we are in no discomfort.”

  “I am—” he glanced at Disraeli, who nodded “—gladdened to hear so, Ma’am.”

  “You are a good subject, Martin Fisher. You do much which promotes the stability of our Empire. We ask of you another task.”

  “Of course, your Majesty.”

  “Benjamin Disraeli?”

  “Your Majesty.” Disraeli walked over with another bow. “What Her Most Ancient and Imperial Majesty requires, Mister Fisher, is an envoy to France. Since the misunderstanding with our last ambassador, France has refused to meet with anyone of royal blood. Their reactions to our attempts at contact range from the hostile to the downright violent. However, we believe they would accept you as a messenger for the crown.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Indeed. You see, your great-grandfather was French, a gentleman by the name of Michele Doriole, the younger son of a landowner from Anjou. The marriage was performed and consummated in France. However, your great-grandmother returned to England pregnant with your grandfather while Monsieur Doriole, for reasons unknown, remained in France and slipped beyond our records.”

  “This would allow me entry to the country?”

  “Yes. Your heritage gives you a favourable light in the eyes of the Directorate. We have already made enquiries in that regard.”

  Fisher’s eye’s flicked between Disraeli and the Queen. Did he dare entertain the thoughts threatening to creep into his mind? Would they be able to hear them? His gaze shifted to the thing attached to Victoria’s face. He could not think of it and her as a single being the way Disraeli apparently could. He could almost feet it extending those tentacles towards him, invisible and knowing, reaching into his mind.

  He closed off the thought before it could take root. “I would be honoured, your Majesty.”

  “We are pleased to hear so, Martin Fisher.” The layered voice was all around him. He fought an urge to look behind himself.

  “Excellent.” Disraeli clapped his hands together. “Travel arrangements are already in place, Mister Fisher. You will depart tonight. An airship has been refurbished for this purpose. The speed is beneficial, and it will show to our neighbours that we are more willing to be adaptable than they give us credit for.”

  An airship! Fisher suppressed a smile. He would be out of the country in a day. He could run, vanish, never be heard of again.

  The door he’d entered through opened up. In came a servant in the royal livery, holding a silver tray. “We have a range of proposals we wish you to deliver to the French Directorate,” the Prime Minister said. The servant approached. The tray bore a bulging folder tied with a red ribbon, and a small, wooden box. “You won’t be negotiating, simply delivering the package to their hands. You will find a top sheet with a brief description of the salient points, so you can converse over the main topics if need be, but you are not to promise anything beyond what is laid out in the documents. And there is this.” Disraeli took the box, holding it at the corners by his fingertips, and, almost reverentially, lifted it up to the light.

  An inch and a half square, it resembled a thruppenny snuff box. It looked a little odd, however. The wood was dark brown, almost black, with a smoothness which suggested age rather than polish. There were no discernible grooves to hint at a lid.

  “What is it?”

  “You will be staying in the Paris Residence with Monsieur Eugène Spuller, the minister for foreign affairs. At some point in your stay, you must deposit this in his chamber.”

  Fisher looked closer at the box. “Why?”

  “That is something you do not need to know,” Disraeli said, and offered it to him.

  “And what do I do afterwards?” As he took it he felt its weight shifting, as if it held liquid.

  “Nothing whatsoever. Just place it in the room, preferably somewhere unnoticeable. Mention it to no-one, complete your task, and return home.”

  He lifted it to the light, holding it as the Prime Minister had.

  “You need not be so delicate, Mister Fisher,” Disraeli said.

  “Martin Fisher is observing the reverence owed,” the Queen’s voice said, inside his head. “Complete this task, Martin Fisher, and you will be rewarded. We will not forget your service. We never forget.”

  * * *

  It was the first time Fisher had been on an airship. It was more turbulent than he anticipated, the gondola swung heavily below the balloon as the winds buffeted the ship across the Channel.

  At first, he had been disappointed to be travelling at night. It would have been nice to see England from the air. From up here, he could have pretended it was still the country he grew up in. Instead he screwed his eyes closed and forced an image of the match seller into his mind. This was no longer his home, and he would be damned if he would have a part in its future. He kept his eyes closed, only opening them as the sun dawned, when the pilot finally announced their descent.

  Where London sprawled, Paris seemed to have grown organically out from a central point, like tree roots. Where London was smothered in perpetual fog, the air here was clear, showing every building and every person walking its streets in fine contrast. As his ship slipped towards the airdocks at Montmatre, the strength of the French army stood to attention, arranged in regimented
blocks, ready to greet his delegation of one.

  The airship was directed to dock at the lowest port in the tower, and he felt sure this was to give him more time to gaze over the France’s might. At the lift’s exit, he was met with a corridor of bayonets. Entire regiments bordered a red carpet at the dock’s entrance, leading him to his host. The walk took several minutes, past row after row of stone-faced soldiers resplendent in sky blue.

  But he kept his gaze on the end of the carpet. At first, he thought they were two small fortresses, strangely rounded against the angular architecture of the city, lined with crenulations and spiked with long-barrelled rifles. It was not until he saw the immense cannons that he realised what he was looking at.

  “Earthmovers,” he whispered. The silent threat France had held against Britain for nearly a century, there for him to see. Two of them. He wished he had time to look more closely, to see how they had negotiated the winding streets of Paris, but he was at the carpet’s end, facing a smiling man with an outstretched hand.

  “Monsieur Fisher?”

  “I am, sir.” He took the hand, shaking firmly. “And you would be Monsieur Spuller.”

  “Just so. Welcome to France.” Spuller opened his arms—in essence a welcome, but with a sweep which took in the armed forces surrounding them. Fisher took heart at the power of the country he intended to call on for asylum.

  * * *

  Fisher allowed the rest of the morning to unfold as it would, and Spuller seemed to take pleasure in acting the guide. The minister showed him each regiment on the airdock grounds, one after the other, and then took him on a walking tour of the streets.

  It was disconcerting at first, seeing so many people out and about, smiling and talking openly. He heard unrestrained laughter for the first time in a year, and struggled to keep the tears from his eyes.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Monsieur?” It was not the first time Spuller had asked.

  “Very much so, sir. There is something I would like to know, however. Were those Earthmovers I saw before?”

  Spuller looked blank for a moment, then laughed. “Les Trembleterres? Indeed, you are quite correct. They have been brought out of retirement. There has been much advancement in weaponry since they were last used. You understand, Monsieur Fisher, your Empress has not shown the best of faith in her dealings with Europe, and we must move to defend ourselves.”

  “Very understandable, sir. However, I would suggest that perhaps attacks from the air would be more effective.” He stopped and looked into his host’s eyes. His words were treason. Aiding a foreign power, even through intelligence, was a capital crime. Spuller could not have missed his intent, and Fisher was elated to see a twinkle in the man’s eye.

  “We had thought so too. Have no fear in that regard. The privateers of the Alps have aligned themselves with our cause. Should it come to it, we will dominate the skies as we will the land.”

  The pirates of the Swiss Alps! Hope flared. If France had truly managed to unite the unruly air captains under a common cause, they would be able to bomb England into submission. Up there, in the sky, They had no reach. Fisher felt a smile steal over him.

  “Ah, but look at the time, Monsieur. You must be famished! Let us retire to my residence, where we can speak privately.”

  “I would like that very much, sir.”

  * * *

  Dinner was luxury itself. Beef in a delicate sauce, served with vegetables cooked in way he’d never known was possible, washed down with a heady red wine. Fisher found himself in pleasant company. The group consisted of Monsieur Spuller and his charming wife, along with two Generals—introduced as Henri de Bonne and Laurent de Chaillou—and a Captain Johann Schneider, who did not wear the blue uniform of the Generals.

  They sat around the dinner table, behind empty plates and full glasses. Madame Spuller had retired to another room, and Fisher allowed himself to relax in an easy atmosphere he’d forgotten could exist. General de Bonne was finishing the tale of a smuggler band he had once chased, and had everyone belly-laughing at how his troops had marched past the same barn three times without realising the men they hunted were inside.

  Spuller seemed particularly taken by the tale, more than once begging the General to stop while he wiped a tear from his eye. “Please, General, you will make me cry!”

  Fisher noted that Captain Schneider had not joined in with the laughter. “You did not enjoy the General’s story, sir?”

  Schneider offered him a brief smile. “I have heard it before, Monsieur.”

  “Yes, our General is a famous story teller,” said Spuller. He collected himself. “I am afraid we must speak of more sober things, Monsieurs.” He placed his hand on the file Fisher had presented earlier. “I have yet to read your proposals, Monsieur Fisher. However, I believe I can guess with some accuracy what they will be, and I am afraid we will not be able to accept them.”

  Fisher had come to the same realisation during the day, and welcomed it. He had made up his mind. All that was left was finding the correct way in which to make his request. “The Queen will be saddened to hear that, sir.”

  “And will it be you who delivers this sad news?” asked Captain Schneider.

  Fisher found himself disliking the way Schneider had leaned in as he spoke. The Captain had remained distant through the evening, up ‘til now. “Perhaps,” he said. “What will your role be, Captain?”

  “Oh, nothing grand. I am a delegate for the other captains in Switzerland.”

  “Captain Schneider is here as spokesman for the allied Swiss air captains, Monsieur Fisher,” said Spuller.

  Fisher felt a sudden warmth towards the Swiss man. “Then I must express my honour at meeting you, sir. You head a formidable force. And perhaps this is an opportune time to ask you something, monsieur Spuller. You see . . . ”

  Without conscious awareness of reason, he turned to back Schneider, as all the other eyes around the table were on him. The Swiss Captain opened his mouth. There, in the darkness, he saw something move, too thin, too grey to be a tongue. It darted forward quickly, barely protruding from his lips, and flapped briefly in the air as if to taste it. Captain Schneider’s mouth closed, and it was gone—taking with it Fisher’s moment, his body heat, and all the hope he had left in the world.

  “Oui, monsieur?” said Spuller.

  “Er.” Fisher could not take his eyes from Schneider, who smiled in a way that made him shiver. “Er, where . . . Where is your toilet, sir?”

  * * *

  Fisher rolled the box over in his hands, feeling the cold emanate from it in clammy waves. He still did not see what it could be, but he understood that it would tip the balance of history. He closed his eyes, and sighed. He had been a fool to think he could run. He knew now with absolute certainty that his kind were no longer masters of their own destiny. One man could not hope to stand in Their way. God help him—any god left—he dared not face them as an enemy.

  He realised that he’d been standing outside Spuller’s bed chamber for too long. The others would come and look for him soon. He twisted the handle, both relieved and revolted that it wasn’t locked, and walked in. He purposefully avoided looking at the hints of female occupancy—the scarves hanging from the hat stand, the tiny perfume bottles on the dresser—and walked to the bed. As carefully as he dared, placed the box on the floor and pushed it beneath.

  Disgusted with himself, he turned and left, pausing at the door as he heard something hollow, something wooden, tip onto floorboards. He did not want to look. He wanted nothing more than to close the door, go home, and slip into a sleep from which, if there was any mercy left in the world, he would never wake up. But something beyond his control, some base human urge to know, turned him. Beneath the bed the box lay in two halves. The hollow sides were open to the world. A viscous slick led away into the shadows beneath the bed.

  * * *

  The alliance with France was greeted with cheers across London. Street parties were allowed as France reopened
its embassy in Knightsbridge. Whitehall took the opportunity to announce the joint Anglo-French war on Spain and Prussia, while Austria-Hungary ended its policy of neutrality to join the alliance, after a visit from a French delegation.

  Martin Fisher rested his head on the inn’s faithful table, gently rattling the empty bottles surrounding him. The Queen had been true to her word. She had offered him anything he wanted, and he had asked to be free. He walked from the Palace no longer an Officer of the Agency. He bore no delusions. His liberty was nothing more than a thinly-draped disguise. It was less than a day before he saw the bare-faced man in the street, standing within a flag-waving crowd, watching him with an awful patience.

  They would come for him, and he found that he no longer cared.

  Escapement

  Stephanie Gunn

  In the darkness, three things are constant:

  The ticking of my clockwork Heart.

  The twenty-two scars that encircle my right forearm.

  The one hundred and four small, straight scars on my legs.

  Each one of these scars, circle and line alike, was made by a Mother, her crescent knife cold as she made the practiced cut, her fingers colder as she rubbed ash into the new wound to ensure a keloid scar.

  The scars on my arm mark the number of sun cycles I have survived. The scars on my legs, the moon cycles I have failed.

  I sit here in the darkness, run my fingers over my arms, my legs, counting the scars that mark off my life. Listen to the ticking of my Heart.

  I wait.

  * * *

  I was born with smooth planes of bone where my eyes should have been. I should have died, the way so many other babes born in the outer City die at birth. I did not. Even at a day old, the Mothers said, I appeared to see, my not-eyes following them as they moved around the room. Later, when I learned to walk, I never stumbled, even when they deliberately placed obstacles in my path.