Down These Strange Streets

by George R. R. Martin; Gardner Dozois

  She turned and followed the priests who were carrying away the body of Mushezib. I followed her, watching her wing-shaped cape shimmer in the morning sunlight. The cape was very sheer and supple, capturing the outline of her swaying buttocks. As soon as we were all in the street, the gate was pulled shut and men set to work repairing the broken lock. The priestess and her retinue departed. The murmuring crowd gradually dispersed.

  ANTIPATER WANTED TO SEE THE ZIGGURAT. DARIUS, EAGER TO GET AWAY from the haunted temple, offered to show it to him, and I followed along. The visit took up much of the day. Antipater needed to rest before ascending to each successive tier, and without an astrologer to accompany us, we had to wait in line a long time to reach the uppermost platform.

  From time to time, as we walked alongside the massive, crumbling walls, I surreptitiously pulled out the little tile I had taken from Mushezib’s hat. I was curious to see from what section of the ziggurat he had taken it. But though there were a number of places where bits of glazed tile remained, I could see no tiles that seemed to match exactly the deep, midnight-blue shade of the specimen I held in the palm of my hand.

  An idea began to form in my mind, and other ideas began to revolve around it—rather as the stars revolve around the earth, I thought, and appropriately so, for at the center of these ideas was Mushezib the astrologer and his fate.

  As we toured the city that day, I followed my companions in such a cloud that Antipater worried I was still dazed by the blow to my head. I told him not to worry, and explained that I was merely thinking.

  “Daydreaming about that priestess of Ishtar, I’ll wager!” said Darius with a laugh.

  “As a matter of a fact, I may need to see her again,” I said thoughtfully.

  “Indeed!” Darius gave me a leer, then offered to show us the sacred precinct where the priestess resided. I took care to remember the location, so that I could find my way back.

  We did not return to the inn until dusk. I wanted to have another look at the ruined temple, despite the priestess’s warning, but I feared to go there after nightfall. Besides, I doubted that I could find what I was looking for in darkness.

  The next morning, I woke early. While Antipater still snored, I slipped into my clothes and crept quietly down the stairs. I passed the open door to the kitchen next to the common room and saw, with some relief, that the innkeeper and his wife were already at work preparing breakfast.

  Without a sound, I left the inn and hurried up the street. The gate was again securely locked, but I found the place where I had scaled the wall before. I climbed to the top, hesitated for just a moment, then scrambled over and dropped to the courtyard.

  The dim morning light cast long shadows. I felt a quiver of dread. Every now and then, amid the shadows, I imagined I saw a movement, and I gave a start. But I was determined to do what I had come to do. My heart pounding, I walked all over the courtyard, paying special attention to the wall of the vacant tavern and also to the ground along the river wall, looking for any place where the earth might have been disturbed recently. It was not long before I found such a spot.

  I knelt amid the uprooted weeds and began to dig.

  THE SUN HAD RISEN CONSIDERABLY BEFORE I RETURNED TO THE INN.

  “Gordianus! Where in Hades have you been?” cried Antipater. The other guests had all gone out for the day. Only Antipater and Darius were in the common room. “I’ve been terribly worried about you—”

  He fell silent when he saw the company of armed men who entered the inn behind me, followed by the priestess of Ishtar.

  Alarmed by the rumble of stamping feet, the innkeeper rushed into the room. His face turned pale. “What’s this?” he cried.

  Moving quickly, some of the men surrounded the innkeeper and seized his brawny arms. Others stormed the kitchen. A moment later they dragged the innkeeper’s wife into the room, shrieking and cursing in Egyptian.

  I sighed with relief. Until that moment, I had not been entirely certain of the accusation I had made against the innkeeper and his wife, but the looks on their faces assured me of their guilt.

  The rest of the armed company dispersed to search the premises, beginning with the innkeeper’s private quarters. Within moments, one of the men returned with a small but ornately decorated wooden box, which he opened for the inspection of the priestess. I peered over the man’s shoulder. The box was filled with cosmetics and compounds and unguents, but the colors and textures were not of any common sort; this was the kit of someone who practiced disguise as a profession—an actor or street mime.

  The most famous mime troupes, as even a Roman knew, came from Alexandria—as did the innkeeper’s wife.

  “Take your hands off that, you swine!” she cried, breaking free of the guard who held her and rushing at the man who held the box. He blanched at the sight of her and started back. So did I, for even without the horrifying makeup, the face of the hideous lemur I had seen in the courtyard of the temple was suddenly before me, and I heard again the shriek that had made my blood run cold.

  Like a charging rhinoceros, she rushed headlong at the priestess, who stood her ground. I braced myself for the spectacle of the impact—then watched as the priestess raised her ceremonial goad and swung it, backhanded, with all her might, striking the innkeeper’s wife squarely across the face. With a squeal that stabbed at my eardrums, the innkeeper’s wife flailed and tumbled to one side, upsetting a great many small tables and chairs.

  The guards swarmed over her and, after a considerable struggle, restrained her.

  One of the men who had been searching the premises entered the room, stepping past the commotion to show something to the priestess. In his hand he held a lovely specimen of a glazed tile. Its color was midnight blue.

  Gazing at the shambles of the common room, Antipater turned to me and blinked. “Gordianus—please explain!”

  MUCH LATER THAT DAY, IN THE TAVERN OF ANOTHER ESTABLISHMENT—FOR the inn where we had been staying was no longer open for business—Antipater, Darius, and I raised three cups brimming with Babylonian beer and drank a toast to the departed Mushezib.

  “Explain it all to me again,” said Darius. He seemed unable to grasp that the lemur that had haunted the old temple had never been a lemur at all, so strong was his superstitious dread of the place.

  I lubricated my throat with another swallow of beer, then proceeded. “At some point—we don’t know exactly how or when, but not too long ago—the innkeeper or his wife went digging around the ruined temple grounds. Literally digging, I mean. And what should they discover, but a previously unknown cache of ancient glazed bricks, undoubtedly from the longdemolished wall of Nebuchadnezzar that used to run along the riverfront, where a newer, plainer wall now stands. They knew at once that those bricks must be worth a fortune. But their discovery was located in an old temple precinct; the land itself is common property and not for sale, and any artifacts or treasure found there would almost certainly belong to the priesthood of Ishtar. The innkeeper clearly had no right to the bricks, but he intended to get his hands on them nonetheless. The best way to do that, he decided, was to purchase the derelict property adjacent to the temple, from which he and his wife could gain access to the courtyard and the buried bricks without being observed. But negotiating to buy that property was taking time, and the innkeeper was fearful that someone else might go nosing about and find those buried bricks. The old tales about the place being haunted gave him a perfect way to frighten others away. The innkeeper’s wife took on the task of playing the lemur. As we now know, in her younger days, she was part of an Egyptian mime troupe. She’s an intimidating woman to start with; with the right makeup, and calling on her skills as an actress, she could be truly terrifying, as I experienced for myself. But the lemur didn’t frighten everyone away; at least one man must have dared to enter the courtyard a few nights ago, perhaps out of simple curiosity, and he was the first to die.”

  “Was it the innkeeper’s wife who broke the first victim’s neck?” a
sked Antipater.

  “She’s probably strong enough, and we’ve seen what she’s capable of doing when roused, but her husband confessed to the killing. Those brawny arms of his are quite capable of breaking any man’s neck.”

  “And Mushezib? What was the astrologer doing in the courtyard in the middle of the night?” said Darius.

  “I think it wasn’t until after we all went to bed that night that Mushezib’s thoughts led him to the same conclusion I reached, a day later. He had no belief in a lemur; what, then, had I actually seen? Perhaps someone pretending to be a lemur—but why? In the middle of the night, Mushezib broke the lock on the gate, slipped inside, and started snooping around. He even did a bit of digging, and found this, which he slipped under his hat.” I held up the little tile. “If I’d seen his hands, and the dirt that must have been on his fingers, I might have realized the truth sooner, but his arms were folded beneath him, and the body was carried off by the priests before I could take a closer look.”

  “You were looking mostly at the priestess of Ishtar, I think,” said Darius.

  I cleared my throat. “Anyway, the innkeeper must have come upon Mushezib, there in the courtyard. There was a struggle—I heard Mushezib scream, but I thought I was dreaming—and the innkeeper broke his neck. As he had done with his previous victim, he left the body on the temple steps as a warning, and there we found poor Mushezib the next day.

  “It wasn’t until we went to the ziggurat, and I was unable to find any tiles that matched the one in Mushezib’s hat, that I began to think he must have found that tile elsewhere. It occurred to me that he might have found it on the old temple grounds—and the rest of the tale unfolded in my mind. Early this morning I stole into the courtyard and found the spot where the bricks are buried. I also discovered a concealed and crudely made opening in the wall of the vacant building next to the temple. I went at once to the priestess of Ishtar to tell her of my suspicions. She gathered some armed men and followed me back to the inn. Along with the tiles the innkeeper had already dug up, the priestess’s men also found a secret passage the innkeeper had made between his private quarters and the vacant building next door, which, as I had discovered, had its own concealed access to the temple courtyard, also made by the innkeeper. That was how he and his wife managed to enter the courtyard even when the gate was locked. By passing through the vacant building, the so-called lemur could appear and disappear—and the killer was able to surprise his victims and then vanish, never stepping into the street.”

  “What will become of that murderous innkeeper and his monster of a wife?” asked Antipater.

  “The priestess says they must pay for their crimes with their lives.”

  “And what will become of all those lovely bricks?” asked Darius, his eyes twinkling at the thought of so much loot.

  “The priesthood of Ishtar has claimed them. I imagine they’re digging them up even now,” I said.

  “Too bad you didn’t get to claim those bricks.” Darius sighed. “You know, I hate to speak of such a thing, but not since the first day have I been given a single coin for the many excellent favors I have rendered to my new friends.”

  I laughed. “Never fear, Darius, you will be paid for your services!” I patted the heavy coin purse at my waist. That afternoon, after the arrest of the innkeeper and his wife, I had been called back to the sacred precinct of Ishtar for a private interview with the priestess. She warmly praised my perspicacity, and insisted that I accept a very generous reward.

  Darius looked at the money bag, then raised an eyebrow. “Was that the only reward she gave you, young Roman?”

  Antipater also looked at me intently.

  My face turned hot. Was I blushing? “As a matter of fact, it was not,” I said, but of whatever else took place between the priestess and me that afternoon, I chose to say no more.

  PAIN AND SUFFERING

  by S. M. Stirling

  Considered by many to be the natural heir to Harry Turtledove’s title of King of the Alternate History Novel, fast-rising science fiction star S. M. Stirling is the bestselling author of the Island in the Sea of Time trilogy (Island in the Sea of Time, Against the Tide of Years, On the Ocean of Eternity), in which Nantucket comes unstuck in time and is cast back to the year 1250, and the Draka series (including Marching through Georgia, Under the Yoke, The Stone Dogs, and Drakon , plus an anthology of Draka stories by other hands and edited by Stirling, Drakas!), in which Tories fleeing the American Revolution set up a militant society in South Africa and eventually end up conquering most of the earth. He’s also produced the five-volume Fifth Millennium series and the seven-volume General series (with David Drake), as well as stand-alone novels such as Conquistador , The Peshawar Lancers, and The Sky People. Stirling has also written novels in collaboration with Raymond F. Feist, Jerry Pournelle, Holly Lisle, Shirley Meier, Karen Wehrstein, and Star Trek actor James Doohan, as well as contributing to the Babylon 5, T2, Brainship, War World, and Man-Kzin Warseries. His short fiction has been collected in Ice, Iron and Gold. Stirling’s New York Times bestselling Emberverse postapocalyptic series (which is related to the Island in the Sea of Time novels) consists of the trilogy Dies the Fire, The Protector’s War, and A Meeting at Corvallis, and the subsequent sequels The Sunrise Lands, The Scourge of God, The Sword of the Lady, The High King of Montival, and The Tears of the Sun. He has also written the Lords of Creation novels, The Sky People and In the Courts of the Crimson Kings. His most recent work, the Shadowspawn series, consists of A Taint in the Blood and The Council of Shadows. Born in France and raised in Europe, Africa, and Canada, he now lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

  In the suspenseful story that follows, he takes us along with an ordinary cop who finds himself trying to deal with a most unordinary criminal—one of extraordinary abilities, in fact, who seems impossible to beat.

  I

  DREAM.

  Eric Salvador always knew it was a dream; he just couldn’t affect it or get out of it or do anything except watch and smell and taste and feel an overwhelming sick dread as it unfolded. There hadn’t really been a burned-out MRAP at the end of the village street by the mosque. That had been somewhere else, that little shithole outside Kandahar he’d seen on his first tour, and it had only been there one day. It was a composite of all the bads, building up to the Big Bad itself.

  A couple of other things are right for the day, he thought.

  The way Olsen flicked the little Raven surveillance drone into the air, and the buzz of its engine as it climbed to circle above them, and the dopy little smiley-face button with fangs he’d glued to the nose of the Corps’ thirty-five-thousand-dollar toy airplane. He’d tried to put little fake Hellfire missiles under the wings too, and Gunny had torn him a new asshole about it. The way the translator was sweating and his eyes were flicking here and there, you wondered if it was just the heat or generalized fear or if he knew something he wasn’t saying.

  Christ, I’ve had this fucking nightmare so many times I’m starting to sound like a movie critic.

  Smith always went into the door of the compound the same way, the way he really had. Regulation, the two of them plastered on either side, Jackson taking out the lock on the gate with a doorknocker round, whump-boom, the warped old planks smacking inward as the slug blew the rusty lock into the courtyard, Smith following, his M-4 tucked into his shoulder and Jackson on his heels.

  The explosion was always silent. Silent, slo-mo, the flames leaking around the fragments of wood and the two men flying and just enough time to realize Oh, shit, this is a bad one before a giant’s hand picked him up and threw him backward until there was the impact and the pain.

  Only this time was different. This time something walked out of the fire to where he lay with the broken ends of his ribs grating under the body armor that had saved his life.

  The shape twisted and its wrongness made him want to scream out the bloody foam in his lungs, but the eyes were flecked yellow. And the voice slithered into his ears:


  “Who’s been a naughty boy, then?”

  He began to sink into the dry dusty earth, and it flowed into his mouth and nose and eyes, the dust of ages and of empires.

  “Naughty!”

  “Christ!”

  He lay panting in the darkness, smelling his own sweat and waiting to be sure he was awake—sometimes he dreamed he was, and then the whole thing started cycling through his head again. It was blurring away already, details fracturing like sunlight through a drop of water. His hand groped for the cigarettes on the bedside, and then he remembered he’d stopped.

  “Go back to sleep,” he told himself. “Dreaming’s no worse than remembering, anyway.”

  Christ.

  THE FIRE DEPARTMENT WERE TURNING OFF THEIR HOSES; DANK STEAM ROSE into the night, and chilly water dripped from the buildings to either side where they’d sprayed to keep the flames from spreading; there was a blank wall across the street. It was high-desert winter, cold, dry, moonlight visible on the white peaks of the Sangres floating off to the north.

  “So what made it burn down, hey?” Salvador asked the investigator from the fire marshal’s office.

  “Arson,” she said to the detective. “And it burned up.”

  “Yeah, arson. Some specifics would be nice, Alice,” he said.

  “That’s the thing. I can’t find any reason it should have burned. None of the usual indicators. It just did.”

  “Very much.”

  He ducked under the yellow police tape, a stocky man of thirty or so with a mustache and a blue jowl who’d put on a few pounds lately, not many, not enough to hide his hard outlines, with his coarse black hair still in a highand-tight. There was a deep scar across one olive cheek, and he rubbed at it with a thumb; it hurt a little sometimes, where the flying metal of the IED had cracked the bone. The scar ran down under his mustache, giving a bit of a quirk to his mouth.