Beneath Ceaseless Skies #61 Read online

  Zen. This wasn’t her fault, but she had handed him over to them as easily as if he were a project to be passed off. Even if it wasn’t her fault, she let it happen, she knew it would happen. Sorry, my arse.

  He struck the wall by his head, making a counterpoint to the banging. This wasn’t even his job. If he’d had a chance to do his God-damned job, this wouldn’t have happened. And now, now they’d chucked him in a cell, in conditions that the entire jurisprudence branch of the Society would have condemned, only this didn’t count because thaumic leaks were so God-damned dangerous, because they were afraid he might be dangerous—

  “Maybe I am,” he said aloud, and the music in his head swelled in response, becoming a wordless chorus. He turned to the werglass eye, staring it down, daring whoever was watching to look back at him. “Maybe I am.”

  The banging paused, long enough for the silence to ring in his ears, then started up again. Drawing on memories of the Amicaldo operas, the old stories, the accidents he’d seen and the memory of Peabody’s blank stare, Izzy turned to face the door. Dangerous, am I. I’ll see just how dangerous I am, I’ll get out of here and show them why you do not lock someone up like this, and then... then I’ll find Zen.

  He chuckled, the sound unnaturally loud in the empty room, and raised his hands, fanning them out as if to throw the shadow of a bird on the wall. The chorus in his head rose to a climax, a burning harmony that dwarfed any he’d ever heard, and he called on whatever the vapor had given him, called it to come forth through him.

  The door didn’t move.

  The door didn’t burst into flame, either.

  In fact, nothing happened but the music in his head receding, complete and resolved. Izzy lowered his hands slowly, the anger draining off him and leaving him cold and sweat-soaked.

  Nothing. He’d broken, and he’d attacked, and there was nothing in him to attack with. No infusion at all.

  He wasn’t Tutivillus after all; he was Fumato, the clown, the charlatan. Ignoring the banging, he curled in the corner and pressed his hands against his eyes until the sparks stopped.

  * * *

  Someone—maybe Zen—had arranged for a cot and a basin of hot water for him the next morning, and though he felt as if his bones had aged a dozen years, he managed to wash off and bring himself back to some semblance of normality. A pair of guards, possibly the same ones who’d dragged him away, escorted him back to the main hall.

  Quint took one look at him as he arrived at the cordon and let out a long, low whistle. “Yer had a rough time of it.”

  “I know.” He picked up the papers from his cot, mentally thanking whoever’d given them back. “It didn’t do any good.”

  “They must have figured yeh were hiding it. I’d always thought that was what they tested for most.” He shuffled the cards again and laid them out in clock-face solitaire. “But see, yeh’ll get out now. Me, I’ve got a temper, I’m happy to show them that, so they see I can’t hide a thing.”

  Get out now. Sodden and useless and too late for the opera. Not that it even mattered any more. He stacked up his papers and straightened up as a familiar figure emerged from beside the quiescent trundler automaton. “Thanks, for what it’s worth.”

  Quint grinned. “Just get t’coils fixed, Weskit. Want t’get back to work, me, and if yer half as good with ‘em as with t’cards, we’ll not have a break like that again.”

  It took Izzy a moment to realize this was actually a vote of confidence, but he nodded. “Thanks. Where’s Frank?”

  Quint’s hands stilled on the cards. “Ah,” he said, not looking up.

  “Izzy!” Zen hurried up to him. For a moment Izzy saw her through the same filter that had descended over his vision in the cell, the haze of anger and desire that had made her just a thing to crave.

  But this was only Zen, though, his friend, a real person. Someone with whom to talk practical thaumics and mock new papers and share bitterleaf tea on train rides. Not a thing. Zen. His friend, and if he chose to believe what she’d said, maybe... but that could wait.

  “Izzy, I’m so sorry,” she said, and for just a moment he thought it was an apology for the time in the cell, before remembering his other friend. Frank.

  * * *

  Frank’s last request—written out by Zen, at his asking, and signed with a straggling X—had been for Izzy to take care of his belongings. Zen brought him in a rented carriage to the boarding house, driving as carefully as if he was made of glass. Which, he supposed, he was.

  “You’ll be all right?” she asked, hopping down from the driver’s seat. “I’ll find a place to stable this, but if you think you’ll be a while I can come back—”

  “I’ll be all right,” he echoed, not looking at her.

  The little room where Frank had lived for the past forty years was scrupulously clean, the bed made up neat and straight, the next day’s clothes folded on the chair. Izzy carefully put them away in the dresser, as if he were packing up for another assignment. A pipe and tobacco rested on the table, along with a pen and inkwell, the ink nearly dry.

  Izzy touched the pen, noting its worn nib, then frowned. Frank had signed the last request with an X, even as the fog in his lungs had taken his last breath. And he’d never written anything—even when their names were taken every night, he had Quint or Izzy sign for him, claiming that his chickenscratches weren’t readable.

  But there had been the sound of a pen from the far side of the cloth, night after night....

  Aside from the furniture and the faded patchwork quilt, there was little color to the room, save for a number of newspaper advertisements pasted up across from the window. They weren’t pictures, though; most were simple offerings of the Amicaldo broadsheets; a few were scraps of music themselves. Pinned next to each, in a long line going all the way from one wall with the next, was a line of Quarantine Verification Certificates, the oldest so faded he could barely read the date, the newest maybe eight months old.

  So many... and so many times in quarantine, but never into decontamination. Izzy stared at them, then at the pages below. Each certificate corresponded with a page of scribbled music.

  Like trophies. Or examples. Or warnings.

  Could tha do it? Keep it so hid tha’d forget tha had it?

  It hadn’t been a rhetorical question.

  Izzy set down the file of pages he’d written out in quarantine, then, shakily, turned one over. Here were the diagrams he’d worked out, the new plans, the notes on how to fix the compressor coil... and interleaved among them, shuffled in at the last moment from all the stolen paper, were straggling staves of music.

  “Amicaldo,” Izzy said softly. Only Amicaldo had never existed. Not really. It had been Frank... and Frank had only composed after quarantine.

  Could be, once t’ thaum had been kept in so long, ‘d change, be not so bad when it came out.

  He turned over the page, reading the score... and here, here was the spot where Frank had gone back and changed it. Where Izzy had insisted he’d gotten it wrong. An ascending tri-tone, followed by the solo voice breaking away... Faintly, in the back of his mind, he heard the music again, this time separated out into parts. There were no words as yet, but this... this was an opera, an unfinished opera.

  He turned the pages back over. Yes. Frank had written in a title, a name out of the history books. King Renard, who’d died in a last stand against his own alchemages, the last of the magician-kings.

  But after all, it wasn’t the story that mattered. Only the music.

  So that’s how ‘t sounds. Wondered, I did.

  The door creaked open. Zen hesitated at the threshold, still in her work clothes, the same as he remembered from train journeys and long days. “I got worried,” she said. “If you need me to come back....”

  “No,” he said, packing up the pages, adding the ones from Frank’s desk, written on the backs of broadsheets or memos or grocery bags. There was enough here for a last work, a last masterpiece, even, but it was unfi
nished. And Frank had kept working, kept hoping for one last accident, one last exposure. “No, this will be fine. Just help me take these down, and we can be off.”

  She looked at him askance. “You’re sure? I mean... there’s another production of Tutivillus, and if you really wanted I could probably get us in.”

  “No need,” he said, met her eyes, and smiled. “There’ll be another opera.”

  Copyright © 2010 Margaret Ronald

  Read Comments on this Story in the BCS Forums

  Margaret Ronald’s fiction has appeared in such venues as Fantasy Magazine, Strange Horizons, Realms of Fantasy, and Clarkesworld Magazine. Her stories have appeared four times in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, including “A Serpent in the Gears” in BCS #34 and “The Guilt Child” in BCS #52, set in the same world as “Recapitulation in Steam.” Soul Hunt, the third novel in her urban fantasy series and the sequel to Spiral Hunt, and Wild Hunt, was recently released by Eos Books. Originally from rural Indiana, she now lives outside Boston. Visit her website at mronald.wordpress.com.

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  MAMAFIELD

  by Corie Ralston

  Mama holds us close, long roots circled deep.

  Safe with me, she sprays. Her scents hang just a moment then float thin with breeze.

  I’m at edge of mamacircle, so I see him best. Leaver, I breathe.

  Don’t say the name, Mama warns.

  He’s just a black speck under far trees, so I open all eyes upstalk to see better.

  The speck moves into full sun, and I see he has strong roots furrowing earth and a big full sunhead.

  We pull close in to mamacenter.

  Why’s he back? Sister Third asks.

  Where’d he go? Brother Second sprays.

  Why’d he leave? a new bud asks. She hasn’t heard the story.

  Mama stays quiet. She scents sadness and fear.

  My roots find a rock deep down and grip it tight. I only know Leaver through storytime. Evil Leaver. Betrayer. He talks to birds. He leaves Mama. But now he’s back.

  * * *

  Leaver takes his time. His roots dig strong, raise long high furrows. His stalk sways forward, back, forward.

  Sunsoak time is over. Bug scents fade. Still he closes in. I see sky lights when he’s close enough to scent.

  Hello. Like he hasn’t been gone so long. Like he didn’t hurt Mama so bad.

  We hold scents tight.

  His sunhead is wide, leaves browned at the tips, like he’s soaked too long.

  He moves closer. New bud squeezes stalk eyes shut.

  But Leaver doesn’t scent angry or mean. He scents excitement.

  Long trip, he scents, and then he sprays something new. I don’t know what it means. It hints adventure.

  So many new soils, he sprays. I’ll story.

  Mama won’t let him story, no chance, I think.

  High steep hills full of stone, he scents. Water rushing in rivers impossible to cross.

  Why then? Mama’s scents are ringed with tension.

  The wonder! His scent is thick. The huge wide land. Beautiful deep soils, perfect for seeds.

  No one leaves mamafield, Mama scents. No one leaves Mama.

  Mamafield depletes, Leaver scents.

  What he says is true. I can feel it at the edge of mamacircle. The soil is better further out. More food, more worms.

  Mamafield is always home, she scents. She makes Leaver sound wrong.

  Will run out someday.

  Someday is never.

  Someday is sooner than tomorrow.

  You spoke to birds! I’ve never smelled such anger from Mama.

  Leaver doesn’t answer. He migrates his eyes away, starts digging outcircle.

  You leave! Mama sprays thick in the air. You leave now.

  We pull roots away from Leaver. He pulls outcircle and even further. He moves until I can’t scent him anymore. Sun dips below edge of mamafield, so I close stalk eyes. Maybe he stops, maybe he goes.

  What is his story? We crowd close, fill the dirt of his passage. What did he do?

  He leaves home. He leaves mamacenter.

  But we know there’s more to the story.

  He talks to birds.

  Everyone is so still I can smell the hopping of a night bug.

  Tell, whispers new bud. Tell, tell.

  I feel Mama’s roots around my own, guarding, protecting.

  Even from start, even when a bud, Leaver moves further from Mama than Mama wants. Leaver digs deeper, Leaver argues when Mama says sleep. Leaver argues when Mama says soak. Then, one day, birds attack.

  My new leaves curl inward at talk of birds.

  Evil birds, Mama scents. Birds dive down straight from sun, dig claws into stalk, pull seeds from fruit. Fruits broken open and bleeding. All those seeds. All gone.

  My sunhead shrinks down.

  All those seeds, all dead. The sad from Mama is so thick. But Leaver, he talks to evil birds. We all breathe it in: disbelief, anger, outrage.

  How does he talk, Mama?

  He talks with vibrating leaves, pushing air. She scents disgust. Leaver is so low, so vulgar.

  And then he abandons. I give him his name: Leaver. And I have you beautiful, good children, my last seeds. You do not leave. You do not betray.

  Leaver must go! Second sprays.

  Send him back to his bird friends. Third scents pure anger.

  You tell him, Mama scents to me. You are oldest, first seed.

  * * *

  I finally scent Leaver at far edge of mamafield, past where I have ever dug. I don’t feel safe so far outcircle, but he’s traveled alone for years. He’s been so far outside we wouldn’t even scent his death. And that’s what he deserves.

  The sun is full gone, so I move slowly, keep eyes closed. No need to waste energy for Leaver. I feel nightcat brush my stalk and I hold still until it’s gone.

  When I get close, Leaver scents before I can tell him Mama says leave.

  I find field, he sprays. Perfect beautiful field. Earth soft and deep without stones. Worms plenty.

  Why do you talk to birds? I scent angry. Birds are enemies.

  First I follow birds because I try to get seeds back for Mama.

  Talk with vibrating leaves. I make sure to attach disgust to the scents.

  How else?

  Mama is right. Leaver is evil, like birds. Impossible to win argument with Leaver.

  Birds don’t understand, Leaver scents. I vibrate leaves to push air. But birds don’t talk back.

  You don’t get seeds back, I scent.

  I follow birds. I follow and follow. I travel over many hills. I grow weak, my stalk thin, no time for soaking. But I lose them, the birds. They fly too fast.

  Birds are evil, I scent.

  One day I find new bud, he scents. New bud from seed. Seed dropped from birds. This new bud is our brother.

  Not possible. Now he lies. Brothers and sisters grow only with Mama.

  But Leaver goes on. His scent is true. He is my new brother. I help him out of shade into full sun.

  Why is new brother not here?

  World is big, he scents. Many fields.

  I don’t understand. And then I do.

  Other mamafields? I scent.

  Little brother follows me. We find another mamafield.

  Other Mamas. I do not believe. There is only one Mama.

  You know what else?

  I don’t want to know what else, but he goes on.

  Anyone can flower.

  It’s too much. It’s too wild, too strange. How can it be true? Everyone can flower? Seeds can travel far and become new buds without Mama.

  You can flower, he scents.

  No one flowers but Mama.

  You could make flowers and collect pollen.

  No.

  But something inside me scents: yes.

  You could make new buds.

  No.

  I think about little flowers. I think about the sweet sme
ll of pollen and how it sticks to my leaves. I’ve dreamed of little flowers along my stalk, but I’ve never told Mama.

  Leaver sniffs for my reply, but I don’t have one.

  My own flowers, I think. My own seeds, my own buds.

  Leaver pulls his inward roots in, his outward roots out.

  Where do you go? I scent. I’ve forgotten for a moment, so strange are his stories.

  I leave, he scents. That’s what Mama wants, true?

  It’s night, I scent. But he keeps moving.

  Wait.

  He stops digging.

  I’ll talk to Mama. Maybe she wants to hear his crazy story. Mama will make sense of it. I’ll talk to Mama in morning.

  * * *

  My eyes are open when the first good ray falls on world’s edge. I want to go incircle, but still I wait until the grasses release their first scents.

  I move in through my brothers and sisters, touching roots gently to wake.

  What is it? Brother Fifth scents.

  Does Leaver leave? scents Sister Fourth.

  It’s all right, I tell them. I talk with Mama.

  Mama’s eyes are open when I reach center. Does Leaver leave?

  Soon, I scent.

  That’s what Leaver does, she scents. Because Leaver doesn’t love Mama.

  Leaver says some things. He says he follows birds that day. He sees birds drop seeds. He sees new brother. From dropped seed.

  How many seeds destroyed that day? She doesn’t wait for my answer. Fruit torn apart. Seeds drying and dying on mamafield. I can barely understand the words for the pain attached.

  It’s all right, Mama. I scent comfort. Leaver says new brother lives. Maybe other seeds live.

  No brothers and sisters grow without Mama.

  Leaver says new brother found new field.

  No field without Mama.

  I can go look. I don’t tell her about other Mamas and how Leaver said anyone can flower. I think of traveling up and down the far hills. I think of tasting new soils and seeing new skies.

  I’m thinking of all those new smells so I don’t realize at first that Mama has not answered.