The Book of Swords

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  The men exchanged a glance. Then Crane took the left, Gilchrist the right, and they twisted without hesitation. Rather than simply falling open, the strongbox seemed to bloom. The intricate filigree of the cube’s four sides came unlocked and peeled outward onto the floor like the petals of a mechanical flower, revealing a simple mesh cage, and inside that cage…

  “My lexicon fails me,” Crane said. “Gilchrist?”

  Gilchrist only shook his head.

  “Fucking beauty, isn’t it,” Merin said. “I peeked earlier.” Her mouth twisted. “I can see why you went to the trouble.”

  The crown was a heavy ring of unblemished gold that turned fiery in the lamplight, veined with new silver and set with gemstones the color of a sparkling clear sea.

  “The Thule clan’s last link to the ancient kings,” Crane murmured. “Far older than the elected Dogues. Older than Colgrid or even Brask.” He yanked a work glove over his hand and removed the crown gently, so gently, as if it might shatter under his fingers. Gilchrist’s eyes were fixed to it as it revolved gleaming in the light.

  “Miraculous,” Crane said. “To be in such condition. After so many years.” His gaze hardened as he looked up. “You realize we have no compulsion to stay now that you’ve solved our toy for us. We could leave you and Riker to the fates.”

  “I realize, yeah.” Merin managed half a smile. “But I figured you would want to see it through. Just to see how it all ends.” She looked from the crown to the splayed-open strongbox. “And if things go to shit tonight, I wanted to make sure I’d held up my end of the bargain.”

  —

  News of the factory break-in diffused through Colgrid over the course of the day; Gilchrist and Crane heard snatches of it both times they left the concealment of the shop to buy twine, resin, gunpowder. They never removed their filter masks, and they took circuitous routes back to Merin’s to ensure they weren’t followed. By the time night fell, a stiff wind was building in the streets, enough to shift part of the smog. It flapped at their clothes as they made their way to the Corner of the Four Angels.

  Gilchrist circled the block to ensure none of Riker’s men were lying in wait, then the three of them stepped into the sculptures’ shadow. They were angels in the style of Brask, harsh and inhuman with geometric faces, archaic script carved into their spindly limbs and spread wings. In the gusting wind, they seemed ready to take flight. Merin climbed up to spread the resin in the crook of a stone elbow. Crane paced out the distance.

  It wasn’t long before the tap-tap-tap of a strutter echoed up the cobblestone. They took their positions: Crane stood loose and insolent, Gilchrist and Merin spread their feet and clasped their hands behind their backs, a military stance to keep Riker guessing. Gilchrist was massaging his hands in slow patterns, keeping his fingers warm and ready, but Merin’s were clenched white.

  A silhouette hulked through the gloom, then Riker strode into view, a phosphor lantern clutched in his massive hand like a ball of witch’s fire, illuminating the sharklike teeth of his filter mask. The strutter’s driver followed him like a shadow, dressed in a long black jacket with the shape of a musket bulging underneath.

  “Mr. Riker,” Crane greeted. “You’ve failed to follow instructions. Do you not recall the consequences?”

  Riker halted five steps away from them, a gap that his long arms could close in an instant, and planted his feet. The tips of his boots were sharp and pointed toward them like knives. He surveyed them in silence through the lenses of his mask, then passed the lantern backward to his driver.

  “Nobody burns three barrels of the pure shit,” he said. “Not even a lunatic.”

  “You seem quite convinced of their value,” Crane said. “And yet they were so poorly secured. Removing them was child’s play, frankly.”

  “You think it was clever.” Even through the mask, Riker’s thin voice was taut with anger. “Using the children.”

  “Clearly you think the same.”

  “Everyone in Colgrid knows better than to steal from me,” Riker said. “That means you’re not from here. Means you don’t know winter. If those children stay on the street, they’ll all be frozen fucking corpses in a couple months.”

  “You keep them chained,” Gilchrist said, speaking for the first time.

  “At night. Better that than have another one climb into a boiler.” Riker tapped a gnarled finger against his ornate mask. “Half the little shits are addled in the head right out the womb, from their mothers breathing the smog. They won’t last outside.”

  “They left,” Gilchrist said. “First chance they had.”

  “You didn’t do them a fucking favor,” Riker snapped. “I feed them. I keep them off the shiver. Out of the whorehouses. The ones with any sense will come back to the factory. The others will freeze.”

  Crane cleared his throat. “We digress,” he said. “Fortunately for you, Mr. Riker, the shiver we stole was not our primary target. Our reconnaissance was flawed, you see.” He paused. “We were told there might be ichor.”

  Riker didn’t react.

  “We are opportunists, of course, so we took what we found,” Crane continued. “But as you ascertained, we are not from Colgrid. Our buyers lie farther south, and receive shiver through more established channels. They want ichor for the fighting pits in Vira and Lensa. That was what we intended to steal. Now we are open to an exchange.”

  “You’d trade my own shit back to me.” Through the mask, Riker’s laugh was a dead thing. “You do have some fucking balls on you.”

  Crane managed a careless shrug. “Assuming you do have ichor. And that you’ve tested it.”

  Riker regarded them for a long minute through his lenses. “How’d you get the barrels out?”

  “With considerable difficulty,” Crane said. “The method is irrelevant.”

  Another long pause, then Riker spoke. “I have ichor. As a curiosity. There’s not a market for it up here.”

  Merin twitched; reined it in. Riker didn’t seem to notice.

  “Then I propose a deal: your shiver for your ichor. And if our buyers approve of your product, we might be able to establish a standing arrangement lucrative for all parties.” Crane’s voice hardened. “But we’ve encountered many would-be vendors returning from the New World, and their product is invariably a crude stimulant mixture that lacks the…specific ferocity of true ichor.”

  Riker cocked his head to the side for a moment. “It’s real,” he said. “Gave it to a few mad beggars. One killed the other and fucked his corpse raw for an hour or so. I put him down as it wore off. More merciful than his having to remember it.”

  Merin was so still she might have been a statue herself. Crane drew a breath through his mask. “How marvelous,” he said. “Though you would have been better served testing it on a more stable individual.”

  “Those are hard to come by in Colgrid.” Riker waved a dismissive hand. “Half this fucking city is mad. But there was one other trial, yeah. When I first got my hands on the stuff. I cut some wastrel’s shiver with it and sent him home to his woman.”

  The words drifted on the cold air. The angels seemed to bend forward, blank faces awaiting revelation.

  “Did he know it was tainted?” Crane asked softly. “One must always be wary of the placebo response.”

  “He didn’t,” Riker said. “And when it came on, she shot him in the head. Clever cunt must have been waiting for an excuse to do that.”

  Merin ripped her filter mask down; the sudden motion triggered a flurry as the strutter driver drew her weapon, dropping the phosphor lantern. It smashed, painting a tableau in a burst of pale green: Crane had stepped back, Gilchrist’s blade was out, the driver was aiming at Merin’s chest…

  Riker peered at her. His flat laugh was contemptuous. “The clever cunt. The locksmith.”

  Merin had one hand still behind her back. The other trembled at her side as she spoke. “You know my fucking name.”

  “I forgot it,” Riker said. “But
I remember you needed a lesson.”

  Merin’s face was twisted, half anger, half anguish. “You wanted me dead.”

  Riker looked at Crane and Gilchrist again, then back to Merin. “No,” he said coldly. “The beggars got a full dose. Your Petro got barely a trace. He would have fucked you good and hard. Roughed you a bit. Came to his senses and wondered where he’d gotten a spine all of a sudden.”

  Behind her back, Merin pulled the twine that wrapped around her fist and stretched like spiderweb to the sculptures looming over them.

  “All you had to do was take your lesson,” Riker said. “Maybe you would’ve even liked it.”

  The crack of the concealed musket was deafening. Riker sank; Gilchrist lunged over him. A second crack, splitting the night air and sending shards of stone flying from an angel’s ruined face. Gilchrist drove his quick-knife through the driver’s arm and the smoking musket spun away in the dark. Then Riker was on his feet again, despite a ragged hole punched through his thigh, and his silence was more terrifying than anything else as he hurtled at Merin.

  Crane leapt from the side but Riker swatted him away; Merin was backpedaling as Riker’s fist glanced her jaw, snapping her head back. She crumpled to the cobblestone. Gilchrist was tangled with the driver, who was keening and bleeding as she scrabbled for the dropped gun. Riker swung at Merin again, enough force behind it to shatter her face, and Merin slid a metal shell from under her coat and thrust it up like a shield.

  Riker’s hand caught in the mechanism. He made to pull back, and—

  “Don’t fucking move,” Merin said, thick through a syrup of blood. “Or you’ll lose it. Feel the spikes?”

  Riker didn’t move. Merin got slowly to her feet, still holding her end of the skull-crusher. Crane picked himself up. Gilchrist joined them, delivering a last kick to the strutter driver. He had the musket in hand, first wiping blood off the grip with the edge of his shirt, then loading the second ball.

  “You can have the fucking shiver,” Riker said, not taking his eyes off his trapped hand. “And I’ll get you the ichor, too. For your southern buyers.”

  “Oh, we have our sights set on far more exotic locales than Vira and Lensa,” Crane said, mildly apologetic. “We are bound for the New World once more, you see. Funded by a certain object worth more than all the ichor you could supply.” He massaged his chest where Riker’s blow had landed. “As for the shiver, it’s currently piled in the bottom of your factory’s third smokestack.”

  Gilchrist placed the loaded musket in Merin’s free hand. He hesitated. “Do what you want,” he said. “But remember there’s always a worse man.”

  “Our ship awaits us,” Crane said. “We bid you farewell, Madam Merin. Mr. Riker. The hospitality of your fair city was very…” He trailed off, wrapping his coat more tightly around himself.

  “You ever need another dead box opened,” Merin said vaguely. She held the musket trained on Riker’s forehead. Her hand was perfectly steady.

  Gilchrist pried the other musket from its hiding place and disassembled it with three smooth motions. Then he and Crane departed, plunging back into the winding streets, retrieving their things from a particular alley before heading toward the docks. Both of them listening for the sound of a final gunshot.

  —

  The strongbox sat between them on the rail, shifting precariously as the ship began to move. The crown’s gemstones had been hidden in various boots, pockets, and pouches, while the crown itself resided inside Crane’s wide-brimmed hat. Now the box was empty and stuck halfway open, a bat unsure of whether to unfurl its wings.

  “Think she did him?” Gilchrist asked.

  Crane cocked his head to the side, contemplating. “I heard no third report,” he said. “Though it’s possible she marched him to a more secluded location first.”

  Gilchrist was silent for a moment. “Skadi’s tattoo, that was from the factory. But she had older marks on her, too. Scars. From her mother, she said.” He grimaced. “Maybe Riker was right about the children. And I only freed them to freeze to death. Maybe in the end I’m worse than he was.”

  “We are all composed of light and darkness, Gilchrist,” Crane said. “Which in turn renders us all the same muddled gray as we stumble toward our respective graves. Better to not meditate long on such matters.” He retrieved the bag of shiver he’d scooped from the top of Riker’s barrel and tapped a fat white trail onto the back of his hand. “The design of this box is remarkable. I imagine we could resell it.”

  Gilchrist shook his head. “Not worth finding a fence. We’re rich enough as is.”

  “Indeed.” Crane snorted, rubbed his nose. “It’s time we started making arrangements for our passage across the ocean. The New World awaits our return. The infamous Crane and Gilchrist, seeking further fortunes, battling the fates…”

  Gilchrist said nothing. Then he reached forward and pushed the strongbox off the edge of the rail. The winds caught its delicate mechanisms, wrenching it fully open, and it settled on the dark slushy water like a metal flower. Crane fell into uneasy silence, stroking his bruised collarbone, as they watched it sink.

  ⬩  ⬩  ⬩

  Here’s a daring raid on a cursed, monster-haunted island by as odd and mismatched a trio of treasure hunters as ever rowed themselves hopefully ashore—only to find that they have no idea at all what they’re getting themselves into. If they had, they might have rowed back again just as quickly…

  Elizabeth Bear was born in Connecticut, and now lives in South Hadley, Massachusetts. She won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 2005, and in 2008 took home a Hugo Award for her short story “Tideline,” which also won her the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award (shared with David Moles). In 2009, she won another Hugo Award for her novelette “Shoggoths in Bloom.” Her short work has appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Subterranean, SCI FICTION, Interzone, The Third Alternative, Strange Horizons, On Spec, and elsewhere, and has been collected in The Chains That You Refuse and Shoggoths in Bloom. She is the author of the five-volume New Amsterdam fantasy series, the three-volume Jenny Casey SF series, the five-volume Promethean Age series, the three-volume Jacob’s Ladder series, the three-volume Edda of Burdens series, and the three-volume Eternal Sky series, as well as three novels in collaboration with Sarah Monette. Her other books include the novels Carnival and Undertow. Her most recent book is an acclaimed novel, Karen Memory.

  ⬩  ⬩  ⬩

  “I am a servant of King Pale Empire,” Doctor Lady Lzi muttered to herself, salt water stinging her lips. “My life at his command.”

  Brave words. They did not quiet the churning inside her, but her discomfort did not matter. Only the brave words mattered, and her will to see them through.

  Lzi told herself it was enough, that this will would see her through to the treasure she sought, and further yet. She held a long, oiled-silk package high and dry as she turned back in the warm surf to watch the metal man heave himself, streaming, from the aquamarine waters of the lagoon. He slogged up the slope beneath breakers rendered gentle by the curving arms of land beyond. The metal man—his kind were a sort of Wizard’s servant common in the far West, called a Gage—had a mirrored carapace that glittered between his tattered homespun rags like the surface of the water: blindingly.

  Behind him, a veiled man in a long red woolen jacket held a scimitar, a pistol, and a powder horn aloft as he sloshed awkwardly through the sea, waves tugging at the skirts of his coat. He was a Dead Man, a member of an elite—and disbanded—military sect from the distant and exotic West. Right now, ill clad for the heat and the ocean, he looked ridiculous.

  Afloat on the deeper water, the Auspicious Voyage unfurled her bright patchwork wings and heeled her green hull into a slow turn. The plucky little vessel slid toward the gap where the lagoon’s arms did not quite complete their embrace of the harbor. She took with her three hands, a ship’s cat, and the landing party’s immediate chance of escape from this reputedly cursed island.
Even royal orders would not entice the captain to keep her in this harbor while awaiting the return of Lzi and her party.

  They could signal with a fire in the morning if they were successful. And if not, well. At least it was a pretty place to die and a useful cause for dying in.

  Birds wheeled and flickered overhead. A heavy throb briefly filled the air, an almost-mechanical baritone drone. A black fin sliced the water like a razor, then was gone. Lzi sighed to herself, and wondered if she had made a terrible mistake. True, her feet were on the sand and she hadn’t been afflicted with Isolation Island’s purported royal death curse yet, but there was water yet foaming around her thighs. Maybe the eaten-alive-by-maggots part wouldn’t kick in until she was properly beached.

  Or maybe the blessing of her royal mission was enough to protect her. And maybe even the mercenaries, too. She had only hope—and the store of sorcery promised by her honorific.

  Determination chilled in her belly. She turned her back on the sea and the splashing mercenaries and marched through the water to the dark gray beach, so different from the pink coral sand of most of the Banner Isles. Each roll of the sea sucked sand from under her, as if the waves themselves warned her away. She forced herself not to hesitate as she stepped from the surf: waiting wouldn’t alter anything.

  When the solid, wet sand compacted under her bare toes, though, she still held her breath. And…didn’t die. Didn’t sense the gathering magic of a triggered hex, either, which was a good sign. She paused just above the tide line and turned back. While she waited for the mercenaries, she unwrapped her long knife and wrapped the silk around her waist as a sash, then stuck the knife in its scabbard through the sash, where she could reach it easily.

  By the time she was done, the Dead Man had also gained the beach. The Gage was still heaving himself forward step by sucking step, his great weight a tremendous handicap.

  Lzi threw back her head and laughed. “Well, here I am! Foot upon the sand, and no sign of warbles yet, you cowards!”