Beneath Ceaseless Skies #173

by Marissa Lingen

  Yelen closed his eyes. Tirene wondered if he was going to fall asleep right there, leaning against her door, and never make it to his own room. After a long moment, when she was thinking about taking off her boots and crawling into bed, Yelen muttered, “The sun didn’t work. It’s got to be some magic light. Or a metaphor for something.”

  “We don’t know any magic,” Tirene said. “We’d better hope it’s a metaphor.”

  “Light of truth?”

  “We kept facing her down with that,” said Yelen. “She did not care. Serene indifferrrnn...”

  “Are you awake?”

  “Yes. Definnnn...”

  “Yelen!”

  His head jerked up. “I’m awake.”

  “You should stand up and go sleep in the bed we paid for.”

  He got to his feet sheepishly. “A metaphor. We will hope for a metaphor in the morning.”

  Tirene was so relieved not to smell roses upon waking that she almost found it difficult to care whether they would be able to find magic or metaphor to get rid of the shadow lady. This pleasant sensation was dispelled halfway through her breakfast of oat cakes, maple syrup, and berries, when the shadow lady swept into the sunny taproom.

  “Oh good,” she muttered.

  “Good morning to you, too,” said the shadow lady, sliding into the seat next to her.

  “What do you eat?” said Tirene. “Shall we order you up a breakfast? These are lovely oat cakes. Infinitely better than rose-scented jackrabbits. Is that your usual diet?”

  “I eat truth,” said the shadow lady.

  “No,” said Tirene. “You don’t. The truth sticks around regardless of you. You saw how it did. So what are we to do with you? Must we resort to further threats to the shadow horse? I don’t like threatening horses, even insubstantial ones.”

  The shadow lady just sat there. “When your father tried to get a rose for you, and you had to go to the castle of the Beast—”

  “That is not my father,” said Tirene.

  “But it is.”

  “Stop, or you will not enjoy the result.”

  The shadow lady stopped but did not seem daunted.

  Tirene finished her breakfast and went to the marketplace to buy pomanders. They were not, apparently, in great fashion for the fine ladies of the city to carry—she was not sure, upon reflection, that the city had fine ladies at all—and so she had to work with the perfumers to make approximations, after she had bought out their stock.

  The shadow lady waited outside, lying to passersby about what the round, scent-bearing objects on their chains would do, what diseases they would cure and what magic they would bear, why Tirene needed them and who had sent her for them.

  When Tirene stomped out of the shop and shouted, “They are to dispel the stench of the rose hills!”, everyone stared at her and moved away in the street.

  The shadow lady smiled. “I eat truth.”

  “Why do you want to eat mine? Go eat someone else’s truth,” said Tirene, making her way back towards the inn with set, determined shoulders, as if there was a head wind. There was not.

  “You were the one who set out into the rose hills.”

  “And I will again,” said Tirene.

  The shadow lady drew close to her, giving her a face full of shadows, drowning out the city around them, noise and smells and all, until there was nothing but shadows and roses. “And what will you give them, on the other side of the hills?”

  Tirene tried to reach out for something to hold onto, but there was nothing. The world shook and spun. “What will I—?”

  “Will you tell them that you vomited and faltered, in the hills? That you didn’t know what to do in the city? Will you tell them that you had no magic to face down simple, direct lies? That the truth and sunlight were not enough?”

  “Yes,” said Tirene, and then louder, “Yes! Of course, what else should I tell them? That I was a hero, that I fought off an army of manticores, that I won the regard of a duke and a prince and a grand vizier but I alone managed to escape a swarm of mist dragons to tell the tale? Yes. I will take the clove pomanders and this handful of mercenaries back to the house of my father, and I will give them the truth.”

  The shadow lady stepped back, and Tirene could see the city again. “See, you can do it if you like,” said the shadow lady. “It might have been nicer. It would have been more fun. But I’ll come with you anyway.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” growled Tirene. She thrust the pomander full of cloves into the shadows, but though her hand disappeared, the shadow lady did not react.

  Yelen had not spent all their coin on mercenaries, and the shadow lady did not interfere with the contracts, merely watched as though they were a curious foreign custom. “I don’t know what we’re to do with her,” Tirene said, speaking freely. “Even cloves in her belly did nothing.”

  “You clove her belly?”

  “Cloves. The scent balls. They—”

  “Why should you do anything with me?” the shadow lady said.

  Yelen regarded her wearily. “Why indeed. She might bring us dash. She might annoy our enemies.”

  Tirene remembered an old story her father had told. “The horse might fly.”

  So Tirene and Yelen’s mercenary troop rode forth with a shadow at its side and pomanders around each neck, not proof against the stench of the rose hills but armed as best they could be.

  Tirene did not feel victorious as they approached home, though her mission was as complete as it could be. She felt only tired, and glancing over at the shadow lady as they rode did nothing to rest her.

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Yelen. “What if it’s not only her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if—” He looked around the rose hills. “What if it’s the place? What if it generates them? What if there’ll be more of them trailing behind us when we reach home? What if we’re bringing a whole army of them into the city? Each mercenary side by side with a shadow?”

  Tirene squared her shoulders. “I went out to find something to change the balance for Mother and Father, Yelen.”

  “A shadow army is not what you meant.”

  “They’re not organized enough to be an army.”

  “Is that going to be enough?”

  Tirene gave him a long, weary look over her pomander. “The first day we set out, I had a question for you. If your answer has changed, we can turn back, just as we could have turned back then: have you got any better ideas?”

  Yelen nodded curtly. “Maybe.”

  Tirene gestured sarcastically in backhanded circles for him to continue.

  “A troop of shadows loosed on the city would certainly bring chaos to our enemies, if the shadows behave anything like her.”

  Tirene looked at their unwanted companion riding beside them, looked back at Yelen, and began to laugh as loud as her exhaustion would allow. “Oh, my lands!” she choked. “Shadow soldiers in the midst of enemy troops. They’ll be trying to scale a wall, and they’ll find a shadow offering them the power of flight in exchange for—in exchange for what? I don’t even know. Or offering that they can become the Long-Lost Prince with the Seven-League Boots, if they betray their sergeant, or— Earth and sky, it’s too much! The stories they will tell, the choices they’ll offer—”

  Yelen nodded. “It’s worse than sabotage—or better—because we couldn’t control it if we tried. There’s no way the houses besieging your parents will be able to retain control if we show up with the likes of her, in force. And at least some of the enemy are likely to say yes where we said no, and who can even guess where that will lead—”

  “Ghosts,” Tirene finished for him. “Nearly every soldier tale is a haunting. The shadows will be offering them the reality of their familiar ghosts. Some of them will take that reality and run with it, or run away with it. Or the Land of Plenty, every private a king out beyond the hills. There’ll be no keeping ranks if anyone catches wind of a shadow with that tale. And shadows
know all the tales, don’t they, lady?”

  The shadow lady looked at them blandly. “Would I do something like that? I, your faithful companion? I, who have ridden with you through these hills? Would I cause such trouble in the streets of your home?” There was the hint of wry fluttering of eyelashes in the shadows of her face, something about it that suggested a sardonic quirk of mouth.

  Tirene giggled, coughed, tried to get control of herself. She hiccuped and relapsed into laughter, clinging to her bewildered horse’s mane for support. The long light of the end of the day cast shadows all around them, and she fancied she could feel them coalescing into a more maddening tale of victory than she had ever heard told, as their horses’ feet left the rose hills.

  Copyright © 2015 Marissa Lingen

  Read Comments on this Story on the BCS Website

  Marissa Lingen lives in the Minneapolis area with two large men and one small dog. Her work has appeared in Tor.com, Lightspeed, Apex, and multiple times previously in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, among others.

  Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies

  THE PUNCTUALITY MACHINE, OR, A STEAMPUNK LIBRETTO

  by Bill Powell

  SETTING: The Arcadian hamlet of Fork-in-the-Heigh, many miles from London, on the eve of historic havoc.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  WHITLOCK CARTWRIGHT (a Young Inventor-cum-Geometry-Tutor, Chronically Late)

  LADY CADENCE (a Young Beauty, Apparently Devoted to Geometry)

  JACQUENETTE (Personal Automaton to Lady Cadence. French. Mobility Somewhat Restricted by the Hose Providing her Steam Power.)

  VILLAGER 1 (a Villager)

  CHORUS of Villagers (Other Villagers)

  VRIL (a Charismatic Potentate of Extremely Alien Origin)

  CHORUS of Vrillians (Vril’s Devoted Vassals)

  First produced at the Opera Comique, London, on 1 April 1882.

  * * *

  ACT 1

  SCENE 1

  (WHITLOCK CARTWRIGHT, wearing his least-patched TWEED, rushes onto the empty stage at L. before the closed curtain. Panting, he consults a hissing, steam-powered POCKETWATCH.)

  WHITLOCK (aside): Ha! A full ninety-seven seconds remain at my disposal. For once, I shall honour Lady Cadence with the punctuality befitting a fortnightly tutor in the Euclidean arts, particularly one who dares to harbour a passion so presumptuous that I dare not breathe it aloud, alone though I be in an antiquated alley of this charming but rusticated hamlet. (He approaches the CENTRE of the curtain.) Now I need only cross our sole plaza, which is, of course, perpetually deserted.

  (The CURTAIN opens.)

  (Scene: The central PLAZA of the hamlet Fork-in-the-Heigh. The VILLAGE CLOCK shows TWO minutes to TEN. A MOB of arguing VILLAGERS fills the entire PLAZA, completely OBSTRUCTING WHITLOCK’s path to the TOWN HOUSE of LADY CADENCE, which stands on the far side of the plaza at R. of stage.)

  WHITLOCK: Brass tacks! What’s all this?

  VILLAGER 1: (slaps WHITLOCK’s face) Watch your language, sirrah! Though I suppose even a man of science can be forgiven a smidgen of profanity, given the morning’s outrageous events.

  WHITLOCK: What events? Never mind, I’ve no time! (He attempts to push past, but the VILLAGERS lock ARMS around him in CONCENTRIC CIRCLES. As they GYRATE with WHITLOCK as their unwilling MAYPOLE, VILLAGER 1 addresses them ALL in SONG.)

  SONG—VILLAGERS

  (emphatic, even thumping)

  VILLAGER 1:

  What’s all this? How remiss! What a social abyss!

  Our enamoured inventor in ignorant bliss!

  VILLAGERS:

  A momentous event he has managed to miss!

  We’ll ensure he remains here as we reminisce.

  VILLAGER 1:

  For in this very place, from the reaches of Space,

  We have coolly conferred with an alien race!

  VILLAGERS:

  Yes, in this very place, with a grin on our face,

  We have cravenly cringed to an alien race.

  WHITLOCK: (speaks) I say, did you call me enamoured? How dare you imply—

  VILLAGER 1:

  (sings) I confess, these are news I expected to stun,

  But I solemnly swear by the nose of a nun,

  It’s the truth, or my name isn’t ‘VILLAGER 1’.

  VILLAGERS:

  It’s the truth! (Though he wishes the name were undone.

  What kind of a mother would saddle her son

  with a grave appellation like ‘VILLAGER 1’?)

  VILLAGER 1’s MOTHER: (popping up at the back of the crowd) Me!

  WHITLOCK: (to VILLAGER 1) Why on Earth should I be stunned by an ‘alien race’? A few foreigners on holiday—

  VILLAGER 1: Foreigners? These ‘foreigners’ ain’t from Earth at all! Why, in this very place, among our very own fields (now much tramplified), we have entertained and intervened a star vessel from another world.

  WHITLOCK: What?

  (The VILLAGE CLOCK begins to gong TEN O’CLOCK. LADY CADENCE opens her front door, but WHITLOCK, his back to her, babbles on.)

  WHITLOCK: How could a vessel voyage across the gulf of Space? And why ever would it disembark at the hamlet of Fork-in-the-Heigh? Why not London? Paris? Anywhere?

  (The VILLAGERS scowl and mutter in OFFENCE.)

  VILLAGER 1: Well, sir, it seems they hadn’t your Baedeker to plan their tour. They just landed, that’s all, and after we’d made their acquaintance, we considered it prudential to return them starward.

  WHITLOCK: You sent them away? Imagine what wonders they might have bequeathed us! What advancements in knowledge! Instrumentation! Evening dress! (He spares a rueful GLANCE for his doubtful TWEED.) How could you? Brass—

  LADY CADENCE: Mr. Cartwright.

  WHITLOCK: Lady Cadence!

  (The VILLAGERS scatter with murmurs of ‘Fine day, Your Ladyship’, ‘Beg pardon, Your Ladyship’, ‘Do avert your eyes from my plebeian squalor, Your Ladyship’, etc.)

  LADY CADENCE: Once again, Mr. Cartwright, you have preferred the company of your contraptions to my own.

  WHITLOCK: I beg your indulgence! I had come unto the very gates of the paradise of promptitude when I found myself entangled, nay, ambushed, by the greatest discovery of our age!

  LADY CADENCE: Kindly spare us your elaborate excuses.

  SONG—LADY CADENCE, WHITLOCK

  (quick and strident)

  LADY CADENCE:

  Every man with rationality,

  Must acknowledge the centrality

  And immerse his personality

  In the joy of punctuality!

  WHITLOCK:

  But a tragic street fatality,

  Or a passing principality,

  Or the slightest technicality

  Can obstruct one’s—

  LADY CADENCE: Enough! Mr. Cartwright, I shall no longer require your services.

  WHITLOCK: But, Lady Cartwright—I mean—Lady Cadence—

  LADY CADENCE: How can I learn the intervals of Geometry from a man so consistently unfamiliar with the intervals of the clock? Good day, Mr. Cartwright.

  (JACQUENETTE, personal automaton to LADY CADENCE and dressed in the latest French fashion, appears at the door. At her back, the HOSE providing her STEAM POWER emerges modestly from a pink satin FLOUNCE above her BUSTLE.)

  JACQUENETTE: (with a small, unintentional HISS of STEAM) Milady!

  (LADY CADENCE silences her with a gesture.)

  WHITLOCK: (deflated) Good day. (He stumbles away towards L. of stage.)

  JACQUENETTE: Ah! What a scene to arouse the sympathy! If only my eyes had the ducts of tears!

  (LADY CADENCE turns her back to the retreating WHITLOCK, SIGHS, and CLASPS her HANDS.)

  LADY CADENCE: (slowly) If he only knew.

  SONG—LADY CADENCE

  (slow and lilting)

  LADY CADENCE:

  His discovery’s long overdue

  Of the passions so deep and so true

  That within me abide and accrue—
/>
  Alas, if he only knew!

  With the feminine diligence due,

  I have offered him clue after clue.

  JACQUENETTE:

  Then milady, do tell him what’s true!

  LADY CADENCE:

  I say! Let the man pursue!

  (LADY CADENCE sighs, glides down her steps into the deserted plaza, and PINES at R. of stage. JACQUENETTE loops her excess HOSE over one arm and follows.)

  JACQUENETTE:

  (still singing) Perhaps he thinks your sympathy

  Is only geometric?

  LADY CADENCE:

  He can’t believe I care for Math

  So useless and eccentric.

  JACQUENETTE:

  Perhaps he fears your firm farewell

  Is meant to be forever?

  LADY CADENCE:

  Not true! He knows he must pursue

  And win me by endeavour!

  (WHITLOCK, meanwhile, at far L. of stage, rests an ELBOW on an abandoned PITCHFORK STALL marked ‘SOUVENIRS’. He sings.)

  WHITLOCK:

  There’s no deed that I doubt I would do—

  I’d acquire a minor tattoo!

  I’d consume a bucolic fondue!

  Alas, she would still eschew.

  (As he CONTINUES to SING, JACQUENETTE turns sharply and STRIDES towards him, to the full length of her HOSE. The MUSIC swells.)