Asimov's SF, August 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

"I must be insane to agree, but—very well,” he said. “But promise me you'll be careful, that you'll keep watch for this man at all times."

  She nodded. His words reminded her of something, but it took a long time before she realized what it was. Her parents had scolded her in just that way, half caring and half angry. She felt her own anger then, at him, for reminding her of them.

  But in one way he was nothing like her parents: he wanted to teach her new things, to impart to her the knowledge of Al-Andulus. He brought her books in English, though most of them were too hard for her to read. And he talked to her after work, a little every day: about the order of the planets and the names of some of the stars, the rules of a strange and wonderful system called algebra, how to put a poem together.

  She found that he was given to long philosophical musings, something he had learned at the university he'd spoken of. “Muslims, you know, we lived in desert countries, mostly,” he said one day. “And then we came here, to Al-Andulus, and we fell in love with its water, with the richness of its soil. The first thing we did was create pools and fountains, so we could see that water always. And then we built walls, courtyards, to keep out the desert, and planted our date palms and orange trees. The imams say that paradise, the place we go to when we die, is a walled garden. But it seems to me that this is paradise here, paradise on earth, blasphemy though it is to say so.

  "It's funny, though,” he went on. “It's the Christians who have put up the most important wall of all, a wall between our two countries. So no one can ever escape from Léon, no one can come here and see that a different way of life is possible. And now they're fighting us at the border, more and more of them. They say we've grown weak here, spending all our time making fountains and gardens. And perhaps they're right. Perhaps we should listen to them. Allah knows King Philip of Léon wants to start a war—he's said so often enough."

  * * * *

  One day, while Tip was leafing through a book on architecture, Ibn Suleiman came into the room, looking worried. “I managed to see the caliph today,” he said. “He'd never heard anything about a Japanese homunculus. I made him go out into the garden with me, but it was gone by then. But who took it? Was it the people Lawton is working for, whoever they are? I asked him to question Lawton, but he says he can't, that the man is his guest. And relations with England are delicate right now, and he can't treat Lawton as an enemy, no matter what he is planning—especially if no one can vouch for our story."

  "So what do we do now?” Tip asked.

  "The caliph did allow me to do one thing—he said I could question the brass head, to find out how many times Lawton has left the palace. He's gone outside a total of nine times. But even that, the caliph says, is not necessarily suspicious—perhaps the man simply wants to see the beauties of Cordoba."

  Tip laughed harshly. The idea of Lawton enjoying the beauty of anything was ridiculous.

  "Are you being careful?” Ibn Suleiman asked. “He hasn't seen you here, has he?"

  "No,” Tip said. “Never."

  * * * *

  The day after that Tip and Ibn Suleiman reached the last layer of clockwork in the torso. As they brought it out Tip saw crude notches scored in the gearwork. “Look at that!” she said, excited.

  Ibn Suleiman took a monocle from a pocket somewhere and put it in his eye. “The homunculi rebelled against their tasks in the morning, isn't that what you said?"

  "That's right,” she said. “Just after we started up for the day."

  "So someone probably went into the manufactory the night before and made these notches. And the homunculi followed the program this person made for them."

  "A program to do what? To throw things?"

  "I think—” They fitted the gears back inside the arms, moved the arms around. “Yes. Look."

  "But who? Who made these notches?"

  "Could it have been Lawton?"

  Tip laughed. “Him? He wouldn't know how. But maybe he opened the manufactory late at night, let someone in."

  "Maybe,” Ibn Suleiman said. He took off the monocle, straightened up, and looked at Tip. “Well, we're finished here. We've answered the caliph's questions. I'll go tell him."

  He left the workshop. Tip watched him go with a kind of despair. If they were finished that meant that Queen Elizabeth would call them back to England, that she would have to leave Al-Andulus. And what would happen when they all got on the airship together? Would Lawton try to kill her again? She saw him pushing her over the side of the basket, saw herself plummeting down to earth. . . Her stomach contracted in fear.

  Well, if she was about to leave Al-Andulus, she would take one last look around, maybe even try to see the caliph and tell him about Lawton. She went to the door of the workshop and peered outside. Lawton was nowhere in sight, but she could see Ibn Suleiman heading away from her, and she set off after him.

  She hung back as they went through the corridors, not wanting him to see her and send her away. A door guarded by two homunculi stood along the corridor; it opened just after he passed it, and to her horror Lawton stepped outside. He looked up and down the hallway and she jumped back around a corner just in time, her heart pounding.

  What was he doing? She peered around the corner and saw him stuff a sheaf of papers into his shirt. Why didn't the homunculi stop him? But they stood by the door as still as statues, doing nothing.

  He headed away from her, and when the corridors branched he took a different direction from Ibn Suleiman. She went after him cautiously, keeping him in sight.

  He took several more turns, until she became thoroughly lost. He walked with confidence, though, as if he knew exactly where he was going. Finally they went around a corner, and she saw they were near the room with the brass head.

  Lawton was going to leave the palace. And then what? Was he meeting someone? Would he give away his stolen papers?

  Who, though? What if he worked for Queen Elizabeth? Maybe she had given him an assignment, just as she had given Tip one—only his was to steal the Arabs’ secrets. And in that case she, Tip, was interfering in the business of state. Shouldn't she just let him go?

  She shook her head. She was not going to let him get away with it. Anyway, he had tried to kill her—he could not be up to anything good.

  Lawton had come to the room with the arched doorway leading outside. The brass head spoke, and he said his name curtly. The door opened and then closed behind him.

  Tip followed and gave her name to the head. When the door opened again she saw that Lawton was hurrying now, almost running, that he had reached the lion fountain and was halfway to the gate.

  She ran after him. He was far ahead of her now, and she forced her legs to move faster. Once he stepped outside, she knew, he could easily get lost in the crowds.

  A mechanical horse stood near the fountain. Without stopping to think she jumped on its back and turned the peg in its neck. It lurched forward awkwardly, clattering against the footpath. Lawton looked back, then put on a burst of speed.

  He came to the gate and opened it. She followed him through it, into the street outside. The horse continued straight out into the road, and as she looked up she saw a steam-car headed directly toward her. She fumbled for another peg and turned it, and the horse veered to the right just in time.

  She looked around for Lawton, saw him pushing his way through the crowd. She reached for the first peg and dialed it up as far as it could go. The horse bolted; people scattered out of its way. She clung hard to its back to keep from being thrown off. Sharp metal bit into her arms and legs.

  One of the long open steam-cars headed toward them, and Lawton slowed. He tried to jump on but missed the pole. A man holding onto a pole reached down to him, and at the last moment Lawton passed up his papers.

  Now what? Should she follow Lawton or the man in the open car? She was upon them before she could decide. She turned the second peg quickly and the horse crashed into Lawton and knocked him down. The steam-car drove off.

&nbs
p; She started after the car, knowing that she couldn't possibly catch up with it, that it was going far too fast. “Stop!” someone shouted behind her.

  She looked back. Another mechanical horse was coming up behind her, ridden by a man in red and gold, the caliph's colors. “He's getting away!” she said, stopping the horse. “He—Master Lawton—he gave the man in that car something, some papers, and he's getting away!"

  A steam-car pulled up next to them, and the caliph's man called something to the driver in rapid Arabic. The car hurried down the road.

  "Now then,” the caliph's man said. “What happened here?"

  * * * *

  Tip sat on cushions in what was probably the only bare room in the palace, watching the caliph's men interrogate Lawton. A man translated everything into English; one of the interrogators had said they would have a good many questions for her later. Caliph Ismail himself sat to the side, saying nothing.

  "Why did you steal those papers?” one of the men asked.

  "What papers?” Lawton said. “I didn't steal any papers."

  "We have a witness who says that you did."

  "Tip?” Lawton tried to laugh but it sounded false, even to her. They had been questioning him for several hours now, and he was starting to tire. “He's—what? Ten, eleven? Are you going to take the word of a child?"

  "He saw you come out of the Hall of Records, carrying something."

  "Nonsense. I was nowhere near that room."

  "What room is that? How do you know where it is?"

  "I—I have no idea. I mean I wasn't anywhere near any room with records in it. Why would I be?"

  "Why? So you could give information to someone."

  "To who?"

  "To that man you handed the papers to. And Tip wasn't the only one to see that—we have other witnesses."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "No? We captured him, you know, your accomplice. And he had some very interesting things to say about you."

  Lawton turned pale. “I don't believe you,” he said finally. “Why didn't you tell me this before? You're bluffing."

  "Not at all. We know it all now, everything you're trying to hide from us. We just want you to say it—the caliph will be more lenient if you confess."

  Lawton turned to Caliph Ismail, who sat impassively. “I—well, suppose I did give some papers to someone. What would happen to me?"

  The caliph said nothing. “Look, I needed money,” Lawton went on. “It's all your fault, anyway. If you hadn't invented those—those damnable devices I'd still be working as a cobbler. I'd have apprentices, and—and the respect of my fellows, and enough money to take a wife and settle down. . . ."

  "And who offered you that money?"

  "Spain. The Spanish."

  "Spain!” another man said. “What on Earth did they want?"

  "I thought you knew,” Lawton said spitefully.

  "Tell us."

  "What everyone wants. The secrets of your engines. I found some diagrams in the Hall of Records that looked right and I took them."

  "Ask him,” Tip said. Everyone turned to look at her. “Why was he talking to that Japanese homunculus?"

  "The Spanish wanted to know how the homunculi worked,” Lawton said. The translator spoke rapidly behind him. “No one can get inside yours without destroying them, so they bought some from the Japanese. They learned a lot, enough to figure out how to open yours, and how to make them rebel. And then later I had to work out how to get past the homunculi at the Hall of Records, and they helped me with that."

  "Did you let the Spanish into the manufactory?” Tip asked.

  Lawton said nothing.

  "You did, didn't you? And then you tried to blame me for it, just ‘cause I tried to stop them monkeys. Why did the Spanish want to make them rebel, anyway?"

  "I don't know. They told me very little."

  "Why did you want to kill me?"

  "You saw me with the Japanese homunculus. I thought you might become suspicious."

  "Suspicious! I got suspicious when you tried to kill me!"

  "Very well,” Caliph Ismail said. Everyone turned to him. “We've questioned him enough for now. Take him away."

  "No,” Lawton said. Two men pulled him roughly to his feet. “No, you promised . . . What are you doing? What will you do to me?"

  "I don't know yet,” the caliph said. “We haven't finished talking to you, though."

  The men took Lawton outside. He continued calling out, his cries growing fainter and fainter as they took him away.

  "What will you do with him?” the man next to the caliph asked—Tip had heard him called the vizier.

  Caliph Ismail sighed. “I truly haven't decided. Right now I'd like to put him to death, but Queen Elizabeth might object—he's an English subject, after all. I'll have to talk to her, see what she wants."

  "I agree—you should have him killed,” the vizier said. “You're too lenient sometimes."

  "But is it good to take a man's life, the life Allah gave him?” The vizier said nothing, and Ismail went on. “Still, no one should think they can steal our secrets."

  He looked at Tip. She felt as if he saw deeply into her, knew how her parents had died, how she had cried for days, how hunger had driven her to look for work. But he said only, “Did you know anything about this? Were you working with that man?"

  "No, Your Majesty!"

  "Why did you help us, then?"

  She stopped, realizing she didn't know. Even when she thought Lawton might be working for Elizabeth, she had gone after him. She had thrown her lot in with Al-Andulus for good, she saw, had taken the side of philosophy and reason over superstition. Even though they locked up their women—but she was not free in England either, she had had to disguise herself in both countries.

  She couldn't think how to explain it, though. “I—I like your devices,” she said.

  Caliph Ismail laughed. “Well, we didn't get his accomplices after all—we were bluffing about that. And it looks like he took something important—the plans for some very powerful weapons. They're going to invade us, the Spanish, and I don't know if we'll be ready for them.” He turned to the vizier. “You did warn me, my old friend. You said we should have been building an army, instead of listening to music and studying the stars and reciting poetry."

  "I said we could do both."

  "Yes. And we should have. Well, we'll have some time, until they learn to build those terrible weapons. I still don't understand why this man Lawton destroyed his own manufactory, though."

  "It's obvious, now that we know who was working against us,” the vizier said. “The Spanish wanted to cause a rift between us and the English, so that if they went to war with us the English wouldn't help us, wouldn't jump at the chance to fight against their old enemy Spain. And when that didn't work, when the English sent people here to find out what went wrong, they were able to send along their own man, someone who could spy for them."

  "Well,” the caliph said. He clapped his hands. “It's time we got to work. I want to know how that man got past the homunculi at the Hall of Records. They're supposed to protect us against spies like him. You, Tip—is that your name? Take the homunculi to the workshop and start looking into it. And I think we'll have to buy our own homunculi from Japan and see what their engines look like."

  "Yes, Your Majesty,” Tip said. She stood and bowed, then hurried away.

  Ibn Suleiman was waiting for her outside the door. “What happened?” he asked. “They wouldn't let me inside, and you were there for so long . . ."

  She told him what had occurred with Lawton and the stolen papers, speaking so rapidly that several times he had to stop her and ask her to repeat herself.

  "He called someone on a speaking tube, I bet, Lawton did, to tell them when to come and pick up the papers he stole—"

  Ibn Suleiman was no longer listening. “He stole plans to make weapons, you said?” he asked. “And gave them to Spain?"

  Tip nodded.


  "They've wanted to conquer us for a long time,” Ibn Suleiman said. “Nine hundred years, almost, ever since we first came here.” He shook his head. “There's going to be war, I'm afraid. And this time, with all their weapons and money, they might win. They can buy mercenaries as easily as they bought knowledge. And if Japan comes in on their side—"

  "Then what?"

  "I don't know. We hear stories from people who've escaped from Léon, that they torture people, or burn them at the stake if they don't convert to Christianity."

  "So? You'll be Christian then. What difference does it make?"

  He looked at her, and for the first time she understood that he was frightened. She had never seen him afraid of anything, and it frightened her as well. “Well, it makes a difference to us,” he said.

  "But why?” Tip said, feeling the familiar frustration whenever she didn't understand something. “Why do you want to keep worshipping your moon god?"

  "What? Where did you hear that? We pray to Allah, the one God, the same as you Christians do."

  Tip hadn't worshipped anything in a long time, and she didn't think she believed in God. But Ibn Suleiman wasn't finished. “But it's more than just worship,” he said. “It's—it's how we are here, our way of life. I told you. They'll burn our books, and then our people too, those who don't agree with them, Muslims and Jews—"

  "What's a Jew?” Tip asked.

  Ibn Suleiman looked at her in amazement. “They're people of another religion, another way of worshipping God. Do you truly have no Jews in England?"

  Tip sighed with relief. From the talk of the man in the English delegation she had imagined some kind of monster, eight feet tall, with one horn and one eye.

  Ibn Suleiman seemed to realize he had frightened her, though not the reason for it. “Don't worry—you'll be long gone by the time war starts. Your queen will order you back to England."

  "I ain't going,” Tip said. “There's things I have to learn here."

  Ibn Suleiman shook his head. “It'll be far too dangerous. They'll want every man to fight, probably."

  "I don't care. They can't make me go back. I'll hide somewhere—I'm good at hiding."