Fearsome Journeys (The New Solaris Book of Fantasy)

by Jonathan Strahan

  “Excellent. No one makes it better than she.” He set his bag on one of the empty tables.

  “It’s done!” Sponda called from the kitchen. She came out bearing a platter on which sat a caramel hummock, the top sunken, the crust glazed and crackling along the edges. The steam smelled like a summer’s day.

  “That,” Ian said proudly, “is our Pond.” He picked up a knife and a large spoon. “Watch close now. This is the best part.” He sliced into the pudding, revealing a whole lemon in the center and releasing a glorious oozing stream of golden syrup. It flowed until it had formed a pool of rich sauce that filled the platter like a moat. “See?” he said. “Now it’s an island in its own pond. Doctor?”

  “Please.”

  Ian cut a generous slice and ladled the sauce over it.

  “George?”

  “What? Oh, yes, thank you.”

  When everyone had been served, Sponda said. “What do you think, Da?”

  “The crust is splendid—our good suet—and oh, my dear, the sauce! Lemon and sugar and sweet butter. It may be the best you’ve ever made.”

  Sponda clapped her hands in delight. “Do you really think so?”

  Natto dug in eagerly. “Oh my god,” he said, true reverence in his voice. “This is—this is—it’s spectacular.”

  The doctor took a bite. “Is that butter I taste?”

  “What else could it be?” Sponda laughed.

  “I thought you said it was scarce.” Natto scraped his fork through the last of his sauce.

  “It is,” Sponda replied with that odd, twitching smile. “But we make do.”

  “You do, indeed,” said the doctor. He smiled at her, then pushed his empty plate aside. “Now, Ian, about that foot?”

  Natto sat patiently while Ian’s foot was examined. It didn’t look any different than an ordinary foot. Dirtier, maybe. But the doctor tutted and poked, then dug into his bag for a jar of salve.

  “Thanks. What do I owe you?”

  “Let me see, with the salve, it’s,” he tapped a finger on his beard. “Twenty silver crowns.”

  “I have it right here.” Ian pulled a cloth bag from his pocket.

  “Twenty crowns!” Natto blurted.

  “That’s the usual rate,” the doctor said. “I see that you’re surprised. I imagine a doctor’s visit is much, much more in the capital.”

  Natto had no idea. He’d never been to a doctor in his life. And a good thing, too. It cost a bloody fortune.

  “George has a bit of a problem, if you don’t mind,” Ian said.

  “Certainly.” The doctor turned to Natto. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I—it—never mind.” He would just have to wait until he got to the capital. A doctor’s visit might cost more there, but it wouldn’t matter. He’d be able to afford it.

  “Don’t be daft, lad,” Ian said. “You need help. You—” he looked at Natto and snapped his fingers. “Ah. I think I understand. Excuse us for a moment.” He pointed to the door. “George?”

  Natto hesitated, then followed him out into the street, pulling his neckerchief up as he did.

  “You get used to it,” Ian said. He leaned against the wall of the building and lit his pipe. “Are you short of funds, lad?” he asked in a kindly voice.

  “At the moment. I just need to get back to the capital. I’ll see my own doctor there,” he lied.

  “You won’t make to sunrise, as fast as that’s spreading.”

  “What!”

  Ian shook his head, slowly and sadly. “George, you seem like a good fellow. Let me ask the doctor to put your treatment on my account.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “It’s a sorry world when you can’t rely on the kindness of strangers.”

  Foolish old man, Natto thought. “Thank you,” he said aloud.

  “’Course I’d need some collateral,” Ian continued. “We may be country folk, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “What sort?”

  “That mare of yours is a fine animal and I could use another horse until the loan’s repaid.”

  “That seems reasonable.” Hah. Natto laughed to himself. He’d get the salve or ointment or tincture, whatever it was, and be saddled and gone hours before first light.

  “Good. Now what about the rest?”

  “Rest? What do you mean?”

  “Well, around here, horses aren’t so dear. Ten crowns is a good price. But that leaves another ten unaccounted.”

  Natto’s brain raced. What else did he have to offer? He came up empty, just as his bladder reminded him that it was not. He stepped toward the stable. “The ale,” he said.

  “Oh, me as well. It’s the only bad part about drinking, I say.”

  They did their business over the straw. Ian looked over and sucked air through his teeth in a startled hiss. “Good god, lad. You didn’t tell me it was that far along. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

  Natto heard a squeak come out of his mouth. “It could kill me?”

  “Aye and it’s an ugly, painful way to go.” Ian buttoned up. “You need what the doctor has.” He put an arm around Natto’s waist. “Tell you what. Get help, and I’ll find a way to let you work off the other ten crowns.”

  Here? Not on your life, Natto thought, then reconsidered. He had no intention of paying the man back, so it didn’t matter if it was ten, twenty, or fifty crowns. As soon as he had the medicine, he’d scamper. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left town owing money. “Yes, thank you. You’re very generous.”

  “Good lad.”

  The doctor sat alone when they returned. “Sponda’s in the kitchen,” he said. “It’s just as well. She told me what she knows, but it’s nothing a woman needs to see.”

  “I’d like to put George’s treatment onto my account,” Ian said.

  “I can do that.” The doctor hesitated. “But, Ian, I must warn you. If Sponda is correct, the curative costs much more than a common gout-salve.”

  “I understand,” Ian said. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Natto moaned. If he got in too deep, Ian might come after him. No. He smiled. Ian would come after Petin. Natto sat down and held out his hands.

  “His johnson, too,” Ian added. “Black as night.”

  “I see,” said the doctor. “Blue urine?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Just since this morning,” Natto said.

  “That’s good. If you’d waited until tomorrow, there would have been nothing I could do.” The doctor opened his bag and took out an amber bottle with a cork stopper, then laid a mortar and pestle on the table. “How much do you know about medicine, Mr. Petin?”

  “Not much.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll explain it in layman’s terms.” He clasped his hands behind him. “You see, the four humors of the body are each governed by a particular mineral compound.” He stopped and looked at Natto. “Understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “Fine. Now a blood disorder calls for iron. Lungs react to salt, and the stomach and intestines to charcoal. The bladder—and its related organs—respond only to calcium.” He paused in his recitation. “Still with me?”

  Natto shrugged.

  “However, when it comes to a specialized ailment such as your own, the minerals themselves also become more specific. The only known cure is a compound of crystallized calcium carbonate, powdered and dissolved in an acetic elixir.”

  “And you have all that?” Natto asked. His head spun with every word.

  “This is the elixir.” He held up the amber bottle. “It’s a formula of my own devising. Extremely difficult to distil in the proper proportions.”

  “You’re a lucky man,” Ian said. “He’s one of the few doctors in the realm that keeps a supply on hand.”

  Natto felt anything but lucky. “What about the other part? The calcium bit?”

  “In a separate vial,” the doctor said. He rummaged in his bag, pulling out
bottles and jars, frowning more and more. “Oh dear,” he said. “It appears to have fallen out on the ride here.”

  “What?” Natto said in a panic. “Then how will you—?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to improvise.” He tapped his beard again. “It doesn’t need to be laboratory grade,” he muttered. “I suppose any pearl would do.”

  “Pearl?” Natto’s mouth was suddenly dry.

  “Yes.” He picked up the mortar and pestle. “I crush it in here, then add it to the elixir.”

  “Crush?”

  “Crush, pulverize, grind up.” The doctor waved his hand. “For that component, technique is largely irrelevant.” He placed the mortar on the table. “Once you down the mixture, you’ll be completely cured in twenty-four hours’ time.”

  “I changed my mind. I’ll just wait and see what happens.”

  “Mr. Petin. Do you not understand the gravity of your condition? Waiting is simply not an option.”

  Natto sat very still for a long time. Without the pearl, he had nothing. But even he had to admit that nothing was better than dead. With a deep, painful sigh he reached into his coat pocket and—

  His pocket was empty. He tried the other one. Empty as well. With a great, gulping sob he laid his head on the table.

  “Now, now, lad,” Ian said, patting his shoulder. “It’s not as bad as that. If you need a pearl to save your life, well, I couldn’t look myself in the eye if I just stood by.”

  Natto raised his head.

  “It’s been in my family for—for a while now. I was saving it for my Sponda as a wedding present, but—” he smiled. “I think she’ll understand.” From the pocket of his trousers he pulled out a small black leather box and handed it to the doctor. “Will this do?”

  Natto gasped as the man opened the box and rolled the gooseberry-sized pearl out onto his hand. “Perfectly,” he said. He dropped it into the mortar with a delicate plink and before Natto could say a word, crushed it into powder with a few deft motions.

  “No. No. No.” Natto moaned, but it was too late.

  The doctor opened the amber bottle and tipped in the powder. The mixture fizzed and bubbled over the glass lip before settling. “There you are,” he said. “Drink up.”

  Natto drank. The vile, acrid liquid burned his throat and when he belched, a few seconds later, it stank of fish and turpentine.

  “Have some ale,” Ian said. “To wash the taste out. And don’t you worry about the pearl. It was a family treasure, but I can add it to the rest you owe me.” He patted Natto on the shoulder. “Rendering is a fine profession. You’ll work your tab off in no time at all.”

  WHEN THE SOPORIFIC that Anna had added to the elixir had taken effect, and the man who called himself Petin lay snoring and drooling on the table, the others retired to the kitchen.

  “I thought that went well,” Ian said. “I picked his pocket clean as a whistle. He never felt a thing. ’Course he was a bit distracted.” He cut himself a slice of Pond. “What was the black stuff?”

  “Silver nitrate. Sponda wiped it on his tankard.” Anna peeled off her beard, and began to remove the bits of spirit gum beneath. “It’s one of my brother Roger’s favorite pranks. Invisible until light hits it, then the stain lasts a good long while.” She set the metal canister on the table. “I’ll leave it with you, in case he needs another dose.”

  “Does it make the blue, too?”

  “No, that’s methylene. That you dissolve in his ale.” She gave him the jar.

  Ian looked at the chemicals, then sighed. “I can’t believe you’ll be gone in an hour,” he said to Sponda.

  “We have to take the horses before he wakes up.”

  “I know, but I’ll miss you, girl. Every day.”

  “Me too, Da.” She gave him a long hug. “But I’m not leaving you all alone. Now you’ll have an assistant to keep you company.”

  “What do they say about small favors?” He kissed her cheek. “How long will you be in the capital, do you think?”

  “Weeks,” Sponda said. “Maybe months. We’ll have to see what happens.”

  “This stuff of yours, you really think it might win the prize?”

  “It has every chance,” Anna said. “Even you couldn’t tell the difference in the Pond tonight.”

  “That wasn’t butter?”

  “It was not,” she smiled.

  “I’ll be swoggled. That was really your—” he stopped. “What are you going to call it?”

  Anna patted her journal. “I’ve thought of dozens of possible names. The one I like best is a variation on the Latin word for ‘pearl.’”

  “Because of the way the suet fat looks when it melts?”

  “Exactly. So I’m calling it margarone.”

  “That’s a pretty fancy word for fake butter,” he said.

  Sponda laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”

  SHAGGY DOG BRIDGE:

  A BLACK COMPANY STORY

  GLEN COOK

  TO PARAPHRASE A bit player named Rusty, “Shit happens. Sometimes no matter how much you dog-gnaw the bone you don’t get it to make no sense, ‘specially the who done what why.”

  So it was with the shaggy dog bridge.

  THE GREENS AND grays around and below me had become perilously hypnotic. Then a buccaneer deer fly snagged a big-ass bite just west of my Adam’s apple.

  I let go the rope to take a swipe. Naturally, I missed the agile little buzzard.

  Better lucky than smart, sometimes. My lifeline caught me. I stood on my head on a hundred feet of air while the guys up top lowered away. The dickheads on the stone shelf below grinned but tucked the needle in the trick bag for later.

  I lack the born-again haughteur of a cat. No way could I manage a pretense of deliberate intent.

  “Hold still.” One-Eye smeared something stinky on the bug bite. “That will kill any eggs.”

  “Admirable caution,” I grumbled. We had yet to see the botfly horror in these parts, but the people hunting us would deploy them gleefully if they had some and could get them to bite Black Company guys exclusively.

  Eight men crowded the ledge. More would follow me down. At the narrow end Rusty told Robin, “I ain’t carrying that dumbass crab catcher out’n here, he gets hisself hurt.”

  Rusty was a FNG, with us only six months. He had no hope of becoming a Fucking Old Guy. He was an asshole and a bully. His type never prospers with us.

  First aid complete, One-Eye faced the view.

  “Sure is something. So much green.” The Rip. To the left it was a thousand feet more to the bottom. To the right, cliff collapses had choked the canyon partially, so long ago that heavy forest cloaked the fill.

  One-Eye gave his filthy black hat a quarter turn, ‘To confuse the enemy,’ and said, “Something ain’t right, Croaker. I smell something gone off.”

  His wizard’s sniffer was why Elmo had brought him along.

  BEFORE HUMANITY BEGAN counting time, and maybe before there was any humanity to count it, something weird smacked the living shit out of this end of the world. Maybe a god swung a cosmic cleaver. Maybe some natural force acted up. Whatever, a knife-edge wound slashed the earth for seven hundred miles, across the grain, through mountains and forests, swamps and plains, often more than a thousand feet deep, never more than an eighth of a mile wide. It drained lakes and shifted rivers. Our side, the west, boasted hundreds of square miles of dense hardwood forest on rounded mountains with deep valleys between. Tough traveling. From what I could see the east side was exactly the same.

  We were on the run. Bad people were after us, in no special hurry. We were nuisances. They had bigger fish in the pan, like overrunning the unconquered civilized world. They pushed just hard enough to keep us from wriggling loose.

  We had been herded here, to be pinned against the Rip. We would cross only if we abandoned our wagons, animals, equipment, our crippled and sick. First, though, we had to find a way down this side, then up the other.

  Rusty belonge
d to a faction disgruntled because the feeble and dying were sucking up resources that could be better used to keep him chubby.

  Whittle said, “I gettin’ weak-kneed in the ’membrance, some, but seems like dere was you all graveyard sick jes’ las’ spring. De buzzards was roostin’ on your shoulders.” Whittle whittled while he talked. He could lure some peculiar folk art out of plain dead wood.

  Robin caught Rusty’s wrist. Whittle was not just a master at finding hideous things hidden inside chunks of wood. He was a master at letting out the ugly stuff inside people.

  Elmo declaimed, “Gentlemen, save it for our enemies.”

  We had plenty, including several Taken.

  One-Eye went into a trance, for sure smelling something not right.

  I exchanged looks with Robin. The boy was Rusty’s favorite victim… and his only excuse for a friend.

  Some relationships answer only to their own secret logic.

  Robin showed a flash of private pain. He knew there was a pool. How long would Rusty last?

  Rusty shook him off.

  Whittle rose from his couch of broken granite. “First news you know, you goin’ to be blessed to fine out what pain an’ sufferin’ is all about.”

  Elmo interposed himself. “That’s it. Knock it off.”

  Whittle leaned around him. “First time you wink loud.” He jerked a thumb toward some crows above the far side of the gorge.

  One-Eye blurted, “It’s all illusion!”

  Elmo snapped, “What is?” He was on edge. If we did not find an out soon our next all-Company assembly would happen at the bottom of a shallow mass grave. The Rip left no room to run. Unless…

  Elmo was convinced that the ‘unless’ was his to create.

  Escape was sure to be expensive. We would take nothing but personal weapons and what we could carry or wear. It would become pure march or die.

  Whisper, the Taken managing the hunters, was enjoying the cat and mouse. We had messed her up for years. But she had us now.

  One-Eye, always drowning in showers of self-delusion, suddenly wanted to call shenanigans.