Misspelled

by Julie E. Czerneda

  I shook my head. ‘‘I come from a long line of cleaners.’’

  ‘‘I come from a long line of sounds.’’ He walked around to the passenger side door, steady gaze never leaving my face. ‘‘You never know until you try.’’

  We stared at one another over the roof of the car. Smiled, eventually.

  Then we sniffed the air and looked back down the road just in time to see a shadow dart behind a tree.

  ‘‘I thought he’d stay at the house.’’ Jamie looked everywhere but at me. ‘‘The simple ones don’t like to stray from their point of origination.’’

  ‘‘Unless, say, they have another ex-demon to follow.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’

  ‘‘Oh, my mistake.’’ I got into the car and put the key in the ignition, moving slowly so as to flake as little as possible. ‘‘He can sleep in your room.’’

  ‘‘Be that way.’’ Jamie got in beside me. Laid his head against the seatback. Yawned. ‘‘This could be the start of . . .’’ He smiled. ‘‘. . . something special.’’

  I pulled away from the curb. Checked the rearview mirror in time to see a shadow flit into the street and give chase. ‘‘I thought you were going to say something else.’’

  ‘‘I know.’’ Jamie closed his eyes. ‘‘I’m full of surprises.’’

  ‘‘Tell me.’’ I turned on the radio and settled in for the drive back to our office.

  Narrator: A happy homeowner is a joy indeed. As for our housecleaner? Caro may have misspelled the situation at first, but she did come away with an ex-demon assistant and demonic pet. Nothing like a full household.

  KRISTINE SMITH was born in Buffalo, New York, has lived in Florida and Ohio, and now resides in northern Illinois. Scientist by day and writer by night and weekend, she is the author of four science fiction novels featuring Jani Kilian, a documents examiner who deals with crime and political intrigue in far-future Chicago. In 2001, she was awarded the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. The fifth book in the Jani Kilian series, Endgame, was released in 2007.

  Eye of the Beholder

  Kevin G. Maclean

  Narrator: Behold a queen with a problem. A queen with a problem she expects to be fixed, no matter who, or what, must get the job done. By royal command, you see, there will be magic.

  "I want you to understand, gentlemen, the precarious position in which you find yourselves," Prince Consort Bertrand said.

  The three priests wisely stayed silent, though the leader nodded slightly to indicate understanding.

  ‘‘The queen is furious.’’

  This time all three nodded.

  ‘‘Seven years ago, she came to the Temple of the God with Two Faces with a simple request—that her unborn child should be ‘as white as the snow and as red as the rose.’ Most people would have understood this as a request that the child be beautiful . . .’’

  ‘‘It is a sign of most extreme divine favor, Majesty,’’ said the priest on the left. The other two stared at him in horror.

  ‘‘What? To be an albino with a strawberry birth-mark covering the whole of the right-hand side of her face? Do you have any idea what your typical seven-year -old makes of that? She is my daughter. And she is the heir to the throne. In ten years, gentlemen, she is going to be thinking of marriage.’’

  ‘‘The mark was quite hard to see for the year Princess Dual was black, Majesty,’’ put in the priest on the right.

  ‘‘What did you just call her? It better have been Jewel, not what I thought I just heard, because if you give me any good reason to suspect that you have not been acting entirely faithfully to the commission Her Majesty gave you, or contrary to my daughter’s best interests—well, let us just say that so far I have protected you from the queen’s wrath and that I love my daughter.’’

  The prince sat for a moment, his face unreadable, though his left hand gently and automatically checked his sword was loose in its scabbard. Then he sighed, and the priests could breathe again. ‘‘No, gentlemen, I want my daughter to look at least halfway normal. And the queen still wants her to be beautiful. In fact, she paid you a great deal of money once, and more since, to ensure Jewel would be beautiful, and, to put it bluntly, she isn’t beautiful, she’s scary. And when she isn’t scary, she’s ugly. Every time you try to fix the problem, she’s different, but a new problem appears.’’

  The High Priest began, ‘‘We have a new—’’ but stopped under the prince’s withering gaze.

  ‘‘Are you prepared to bet your life, and that of every member of your order, that this new spell will work to the queen’s satisfaction? Because that is precisely what you would be doing.’’

  The High Priest didn’t have to think about it long. ‘‘Err . . . no.’’

  ‘‘Well, take it from me, the most pleasant part of what she has planned for you if you aggravate her again will be the ravens tugging on your entrails. Stay out of her way.’’

  The priests stood in white-faced silence.

  The prince continued, ‘‘She has lost faith in your ability to set things right. To quote her very words, ‘Those two-faced priests of that two-faced god are worse than useless. Find someone who can and will do the job.’ And so, gentlemen, I shall.’’

  ‘‘Not the witches?’’ gasped the priest on the left.

  ‘‘No. Her Royal Majesty has no wish to be beholden to the worshipers of the Triple Goddess, even if she thought they could do the job.’’

  ‘‘Dealing with Hell always has too high a cost, Majesty, ’’ the High Priest cautioned.

  ‘‘Just how stupid do you think we are?’’ the prince snapped. He held up his hand. ‘‘Wait! As you value your lives, do not answer that.’’ His aide took the opportunity to slip a document where the hand had rested. ‘‘Gentlemen, Her Royal Majesty has been both patient and generous for seven years and has seen no progress. Consequently, it would be an act of prudence to offer to pay for someone else to do the job. Have I made myself perfectly clear? Ask now, because any misunderstanding could be fatal for you.’’

  ‘‘Yes, Highness. Perfectly clear. But where will you find such a powerful mage?’’

  ‘‘Faery, gentlemen,’’ the prince said. ‘‘I am sending an emissary to Faery.’’ He waved them away. ‘‘I have taken the liberty of arranging a guided tour of the torture chamber for you. Pay close attention. If you manage things right, you may never see such a thing again. Go on, shoo! The guards will escort you.’’

  Beth was sure she had made a mistake. No, that wasn’t right. She’d made lots of them. First, she should have let Josie get her own clothes down out of the trees. Second, she should never have told her mother what she was about. Third, she should have told everyone concerned to keep their mouths shut—no, that would never have worked . . .

  She was startled out of her reverie of self-recrimination by the arrival of yet another interrogator. This one bore himself with the unmistakable air of a military man, and one of high rank. He was accompanied by a finely dressed man who poured a glass of wine for him before retiring to a side table with the rest of the wine and the remaining glasses. Beth noted with amusement that this flunky wasted no time pouring wine for himself and getting comfortable.

  The officer cleared his throat. ‘‘I am General Robert Longley. You are Beth Hawkins, from the village of Grimley-on-Tyde.’’

  Beth, of course, had heard of him, but since the last half dozen interrogations had all been conducted by men who held the power of life and death over her, she was no more frightened by this one. She nodded in acknowledgment.

  ‘‘This will hopefully be the last interview for you. Lying or attempting to mislead us at this stage will be construed as treason. Any changes in your story will not be held against you. We just want the truth.’’

  ‘‘I understand, sir. But to tell the truth, I’ve been questioned so long and so hard that I’m no longer sure what some parts of the truth are.’’ This brought a scowl from the
general and an understanding smile from the flunky.

  ‘‘How about you just tell us your story, and tell us which bits you’re sure of, and which bits you aren’t?’’

  ‘‘Well, sir, me and a bunch of the village girls went down to the swimming hole, and after we undressed, Josie insisted on putting a religious medallion on top of her clothes. I forget which god’s it was, but she insisted it would protect her clothes.’’

  ‘‘And you argued over this?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir, and eventually I told her that if she upset the Fae, whatever they did would be her own damned fault, beggin’-your-pardon-sir, and let her do it.’’

  ‘‘What made you think it would upset the Fae?’’

  ‘‘Well, my gran’s ma used to say that openly displaying any religious symbol in the woods was a bit like carrying the Pretender’s flag into a royal castle. They just could not let it pass.’’

  ‘‘And this grandmother’s mother, she was something of an authority on the Fae?’’

  ‘‘Oh, aye, sir. Friends with some of them, she claimed, as much as mortal can be friend with Fae. Strange, she said they were, and uncanny.’’

  ‘‘And she taught you about them?’’

  ‘‘No, sir. She died just before I was born. But Ma talked about her a lot. And I’ve worked out a fair bit for myself.’’

  ‘‘Why was none of this in the reports?’’ The general’s voice was low and terse, straining not to shout in angry frustration at his absent subordinates.

  ‘‘No one asked, sir,’’ Beth said. ‘‘They kept telling me just to answer the questions, but they wouldn’t ask the right ones. They seemed much more interested in hearing about the Puck catching us naked in the swimming hole, and what Josie did when she found her knickers flying like a flag from the top of a pine tree.’’

  The general closed his eyes in despair. ‘‘I see. And the milk and whiskey?’’

  ‘‘An apology, sir, and a bribe to get the Puck to bring her clothes back. He may be terrible mischievous, but there’s no real harm in him.’’

  ‘‘You’ve had frequent dealings with the Fae, then?’’

  ‘‘Oh, not that frequent, sir. Maybe twice a year, someone’s cow will get lost, and I’ll talk to the Fae and give them a gift, and next day the cow will show up. That sort of thing. It’s dangerous to have too much to do with them.’’

  ‘‘But you do know how to contact them?’’

  ‘‘Oh, that’s easy enough, though they can be tricksy and wild. Just a matter of etiquette. It’s not like they’re scarce, y’know.’’

  There was an awkward silence.

  Finally, the silence got too much for Beth, and she said slowly, ‘‘You didn’t know?’’ Then it came to her. ‘‘Of course you wouldn’t. You’ve never been out of a town without your weapons and armor and a great host of men scaring away even the boldest of beasties. No wonder they never let you see them.’’

  There was a rustle of silk as the flunky stood. He strolled across and perched himself on the edge of the table and quietly poured her a glass of wine. ‘‘I think, general, that we may have found our emissary.’’ He smiled at her.

  ‘‘I think, Highness, that you may well be right.’’

  To her credit, Beth did not faint.

  She could have said no to the general, with his duty and honor. She could have said no to the prince, with his offers of honors and wealth. She could even have said no to the queen, with her tears and her threats. But she hadn’t been able to say no to a sad-eyed little girl, so she cursed herself for a fool.

  And there she sat in the woods, under a great, spreading oak, with a small untouched cup of good whiskey in front of her and another set out for an unknown guest who hadn’t arrived yet. A small donkey grazed nearby, hitched to a traveling pack and its saddlebags. She had been able to talk the queen out of sending a full entourage but not out of equipping her and providing a donkey laden half with traveling supplies and half with the Prince Consort’s best whiskey. She’d tried to explain it was too much—that the Fae weren’t drunks—but to no avail.

  The crack of a twig announced the arrival of a guest. Politely, she turned her head toward the distraction, then looked back. The cup opposite was untouched, but a quarter of hers was gone.

  ‘‘Oh, it’s you, Puck,’’ she said.

  A peeved-looking Puck showed himself and picked up the cup again. He tasted it again carefully, and pulled a face. ‘‘Arr, your great-grandmother’s was better. And how did you know it was me, anyways?’’

  ‘‘Anyone else would have taken this one,’’ she said, and leaned over to pick up the untouched cup.

  ‘‘It’s the curse of all Pucks,’’ he said, woebegone. ‘‘Too much cleverness and the compulsion to show it.’’

  ‘‘Well then,’’ she said and raised her cup to him. ‘‘To all Pucks everywhere—may their cleverness never fail them.’’

  ‘‘I’ll drink to that,’’ cried the Puck, leaping to his feet with cup still in hand, and never spilling a drop.

  ‘‘Of course you will,’’ she said. ‘‘You’ll drink to any bloody thing.’’

  He clutched at his heart melodramatically. ‘‘You wound me, mistress. I may be overly fond of strong drink, but I am not such a tosspot as that.’’

  She smiled fondly. ‘‘No, you’re not, but you have to admit it was funny.’’ She leaned over and topped up his cup.

  ‘‘Could it be, mistress, that you are trying to out-clever a Puck?’’ The Puck appeared unsure whether or not to be offended.

  Beth carefully hid her smile. ‘‘Nay, never, for that were foolhardy indeed, and doomed to certain failure.’’

  Honor satisfied, the Puck perched himself on a great gnarly root and attended to the whiskey.

  After about three cups, Beth broached the real reason for her visit.

  ‘‘You want to what?’’

  ‘‘I want,’’ she repeated slowly and patiently, ‘‘to talk to a Faery mage powerful enough to sort out what those priests have done to Princess Jewel.’’ She topped up his cup again. ‘‘Do they exist?’’

  ‘‘Oh, they exist all right!’’ The Puck was too disturbed to even think about the whiskey. ‘‘And tell me, lassie, how long have you been hankering after death or something worse?’’

  ‘‘Worse?’’

  ‘‘They are a strange and uncanny lot, yon mages. And they all have a whimsical sense of humor and no regard for others. There’s no telling what they might do to you. I saw one poor mortal turned into a fish.’’ He shuddered.

  ‘‘And what was so terrible about that?’’

  ‘‘He left him like that for thirty years, and wouldn’t let him die, or get near water.’’ He closed his eyes in horror. ‘‘The mage was just amusing himself. Nothing personal about it at all.’’ The Puck looked at her slyly. ‘‘Still want to talk to one?’’

  ‘‘I don’t really have a choice.’’

  ‘‘Then on your own head be it!’’ He made a single pass across her field of view with his right hand. ‘‘Sleep now!’’

  She slept.

  Beth came awake with a start. The Puck was still sitting facing her. ‘‘How long was I asleep?’’

  ‘‘Who can say? An instant? A moment? Forever?’’ He gave an enigmatic smile. ‘‘Ask me not when, but where, for you, my lass, are now in Faery.’’

  ‘‘It doesn’t look any different.’’

  ‘‘Can ye no see it? Look closer.’’

  And she could see. There was a difference, something subtle in the way the light danced perhaps, a life in the wind, an awareness that even the trees might be sentient, or the rocks . . . Or maybe it was just her that was different . . .

  The Puck stood. ‘‘Night comes,’’ he said. ‘‘We had best be getting you somewhere out of reach of the nightwalkers.’’

  ‘‘Nightwalkers?’’

  ‘‘You know what a nightmare is?’’ He waited for her nod. ‘‘Here, they’re real.’’

&
nbsp; Suddenly it seemed like a very good idea to be moving. She packed quickly and followed the Puck.

  It was evening when they reached the palace: an alabaster edifice, elegant and rather smaller than Beth had expected.

  ‘‘Who lives here?’’

  ‘‘The Duke of the Western Marches. He’s an elven sorcerer, your best bet for getting your princess fixed.’’

  ‘‘Is he powerful enough to do the job?’’

  ‘‘He’s one of the great lords of Faery. The question is not can he help but will he. Catching his interest could be tricky. He has about as much care for the concerns of mortals as you do for the cares of ants.’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ Beth said, chastened. She fastened the donkey’s lead rope to a small tree outside of the garden perimeter. ‘‘Will he be safe here?’’

  ‘‘For the meantime. I’ll see to moving him later.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’ She strode through a gap in the boundary hedge. ‘‘Even the garden is perfect.’’

  ‘‘No horse shit in the courtyard neither,’’ said the Puck. ‘‘Me, I like things a little more natural.’’

  The guards paid them no attention, but the same could not be said of the courtiers inside, as all eyes followed them as they approached the duke. They stopped at a respectful distance and waited.

  Eventually, the duke finished his other business and turned his attention to them. ‘‘Well, Puck, what have you brought me this time?’’

  ‘‘An emissary, Your Grace, from a queen in the mortal realms.’’

  The duke snorted. ‘‘And what do they want this time? A sword to carve them an empire? The Key to All Knowledge? Or mayhap just a charm to smite their enemies with the Itching Pox?’’ The wide gray eyes fixed on her and she trembled like a rabbit transfixed by a polecat. ‘‘Well? Speak up, girl!’’