The Wicked Years Complete Collection

by Gregory Maguire

  Liir waited. “What?” said Trism.

  “I’m not leaving without the broom. I’ve promised myself that.”

  “No reason you shouldn’t have it back. But we’ll have to hurry.” Trism fitted a key into the only other door opening off the landing.

  “Wait here,” he said. “Inside is the stuff of nightmares.”

  Liir followed him in regardless. In their treason the two men were bound together, at least for the night, and Liir didn’t want to lose sight of his accomplice.

  The sloped ceiling suggested the long narrow room was a shed appended to the basilica. Probably built low so as not to interfere with the colored windows giving into the sacred space above, Liir thought. Unheated at this hour, the room reeked with the juices of pickling agents and tanning acids.

  Trism used a quickflint to light a portable oil lamp. “Keep your eyes down, if you’re going to follow me in here,” he muttered, shielding the light from the glass chimney with one hand. “The broom is in the far cupboard, and I’ll have to fiddle with the lock.” He hurried between tall slanted tables on which some sort of piecework was in progress.

  “How much danger are we in?” asked Liir.

  “You mean in the next five minutes, or for the rest of our short, sorry lives? The answer’s the same: lots.”

  The small light went with Trism toward the cupboard. In the returning shadows, Liir moved nervously and disturbed a pile of wooden hoops about a foot across. They clattered to the floor. “Shhh, if you possibly can,” called Trism in a hoarse whisper.

  Picking up the materials, Liir listened to the sounds. The dragons below, snorting and nickering, and their wings like vast bellows pumping. The jangle of Trism’s key ring, heavy old iron skeletons throttling against the glassy tinkle of smaller jewel case keys. The snap and thrust of a lock being pulled back, and then the rustle of dried sedge and straw. The broom. Elphie’s broom. Again.

  He had to see it, as Trism turned; he looked up in something like love. Trism had the Witch’s cape looped ungainly over one arm, and the broom under his elbow, as he fiddled to close the closet again and lock its door. Then he turned, and held the light up so he could see his way back to Liir. He was smiling. So, too, in a sense, were the semblance of faces that sprung out of the shadows on the inside wall of the chamber. Ten or twelve or so, plates of face: creepy voodoo stuff, Liir thought at first. The scraped faces, repaired with catgut twine where needed, were strung with rawhide cord inside beech-wood hoops like the ones Liir had upset.

  “Shhh, will you shush?” said Trism. “I told you not to look.”

  8

  SOME MOMENTS LATER, when at Liir’s insistence they had finished removing the dozen remnants of human countenance, and had stored them in two satchels, Trism said, “If you’re really serious about leaving a note claiming responsibility, now’s the time to do it. Can you manage ink and a pen?”

  “I know how to write,” said Liir. “I didn’t go to St. Prowd’s, but I can write.”

  “Shut up. I mean, are your muscles shaking too much to control the nib?”

  He had to work at it. The third parchment was good enough to serve.

  I abducted your craven dragonmaster and aborted his evil work. He will pay for his offenses against lonely travelers.

  Signed, Liir son of Elphaba

  “Son of Elphaba?” said Trism. “Not the Elphaba?” He looked at Liir with a new respect, or maybe it was outright disbelief. Or dawning horror?

  “Probably not,” said Liir, “but if no one can prove it so, it’s equally hard to disprove, isn’t it?”

  Trism looked at the note again. “Is craven overdoing it a bit?”

  “Let’s go.”

  “I hope this is only rhetoric, that I’ll pay for my offenses.”

  “You will pay, Trism. You will. We all do. You’ll pay, but you won’t pay me.” He clutched the broom. “You’ve already paid me.”

  As they hurried away, the noise rose. The poisoned dragons were falling into fits, roaring, throwing themselves against the walls of their stables. The basilica above shook with it.

  9

  THEY DIDN’T DARE present themselves at an inn or a hotel at that hour of the night, and all of the gates of the City were closed. After skulking about in the fog, they eventually hopped a fence in one of the City’s small private cemeteries, and found a lean-to used for wheelbarrows and digging supplies. The mist turned to a thunderous rain, sheeted with weird winter lightning. There, under the cape, they huddled for warmth, and shuddered. Just before they fell asleep, Liir murmured, “No humming, now.”

  They rose before dawn. Trism had enough coin in his pocket to buy them milky tea and a few cream biscuits from the first street vendor. They argued about the best way to leave the City without detection, but their bravery had subsided. They chose Shiz Gate because the welfare of the Emerald City and the northern province of Gillikin were the most tightly entwined, and the traffic there the heaviest.

  Providence provides: that’s why it’s called providence. They shambled through Shiz Gate by helping an old merchant whose wagon had suffered a split wheel on the cobbles. The sentries at Shiz Gate paid them little mind, deep in gossip of their own about the attack on the basilica the night before. Word of it was abroad already.

  Once through, they abandoned the hapless old man in his search for a wheelwright, and ambled north until they came to a high road looping back. Hatless, in civilian clothes, they meandered westward, the gleaming profile of the Emerald City always at their left shoulders. The sun rose, shone for a while, and then became cloaked in cloud. By nightfall they’d reached the outskirts of Westgate. Liir wanted to keep on toward the Shale Shallows, until he could recognize one of the tracks that led southeast through the oakhair forest, between the great lakes, and back toward Apple Press Farm.

  But their limbs, by now, would go no farther, so they counted up their coin. As night fell, colder than the one before, they presented themselves at the door of a ramshackle tavern and inn on the main Kellswater Road. A sign reading WELCOME ARMS dangled on a broken hinge from the lamppost. The Gillikin River ran close by, gurglingly, and bare willows hung over it like ghostly harps.

  “Oh, there’s not much by way of rooms tonight, only two,” said the matron, a tall spindly older woman whose unkempt grey hair spilled from her bonnet. “The locals shivareed a new married couple last night, don’t you know, so the best room is a mess. I wouldn’t put my own disgusting mother in there. They’ll pay, that lot, but meanwhile I’m shy of chambers. I don’t want to give you the big room, as I often have a party arriving from the City an hour after the close of gates, don’t you know, and they pay government rates. Very nice little sinecure for a widow on her own. But up top a’that there’s a space not much used. No fireplace, mind, but I’ll gift you with extra blankets. You’re young and hot and you won’t notice.”

  She rustled them a supper, buckled mutton with a side of tadmuck, stringy and dried out but warm enough to satisfy. Perhaps a bit lonely, she poured them drinks of yellow wine, and kept them company through the first bottle and the second. But then there were horses in the yard, and she stirred herself to her feet, yawning. “It’s the trade I was hoping for, so if it’s all the same to you, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to a good slumber if you please.”

  They found their way. The flight of steps led only to their chamber. The small room was an architectural afterthought, the result of a failed attempt at dignity, a mansarded cap on the larger guest dormitory below. Cold, indeed. More a storage space with a feather bed in it than a chamber for guests. A tall round-topped, gabled window was set in the middle of each slanting wall.

  Liir sat down, weighted with fatigue and a little tipsy, on the edge of a trunk. The thing was felted with dust. They shouldn’t have to pay a penny for this attic.

  Trism left to wash in the sink on the landing. Liir stared at shadows, seeing nothing. The smell, the sight, the notion of killing dragons—and what would Elphaba have thoug
ht of that?

  But he wasn’t Elphaba; most days he was barely Liir.

  He’d gone to get the broom, only, so he could fly for the Birds, ambassador for them. Then they would pay him by looking for Nor—or so they said. How could he identify her? He didn’t even know what she looked like after all this time.

  Then, he’d done more. He’d murdered the herd of dragons. The Birds would be able to fly free now. He wouldn’t need to fly with them or for them: he’d removed the deterrence.

  Trism came back. “Asleep sitting up?” Water slicked down the blond hairs on his thighs. He didn’t smell sweet and soapy, just less sour. His green tunic, unbuttoned at the neck and released from the belted leggings, was long enough to preserve modesty and serve as a nightshirt. “I think our dame has got the custom she hoped for, by the sound of it. More bottles opening downstairs. Hope they don’t keep us awake; they’ll be sleeping right under us.”

  Ratty brocaded drapes, dating from no later than the days of the Ozma Regent, hung thickly on either side of the windows. Liir regarded the four separate glimpses of night: night north, south, east, and west.

  “Come to bed,” said Trism. “It’s freezing.”

  Liir didn’t answer.

  “Come on. Why not?”

  “The moonlight,” he said at last. “It’s so—seeing.”

  “Well, I’m not going to go to sleep until you lie down. Do you think I’m going to turn my back so you can stick a knife in me? I remember that line: he will pay for his offenses.”

  “That was theatrical.” Liir shuddered. “It’s the moon, I guess,” he said.

  Trism got up and moved across the floor, huffing in irritation. “Paranoia. Very attractive. No one can see in windows this high, Liir. But we’ll block the moon for you, then.” The sills of the windows were three feet from the floor, and the columnar bulk of the heavy drapes rose six feet higher than that. Trism said, “Move, you,” and nudged Liir off the trunk, which he dragged to the first window. From there Trism climbed to the windowsill, his clean bare feet pawing in the grit and dust for purchase.

  He reached up. The curtains hadn’t been shifted in decades, and they resisted. He grunted. The light of the moon fell on his ear tips, his lifting shoulders as his fingers just grazed the center of the curtain rod and walked their way east and west toward the edges of the drapes.

  “Oh, company,” he said. “Those horses in the yard—five of them. They’ve got the Emperor’s caparisons. This is a soldiers’ sleepery.”

  “Welcome Arms. I suppose it figures.” Liir came up behind to look. As Trism stretched, the shirttail lifted above his shapely rear. Liir reached out and settled his hands there, to support Trism should he fall, for the ledge was shallow and Trism’s balance precarious. Trism made a sound in his throat.

  He managed to dislodge the first volute of brocade an inch or two, and a colony of blue moths, the size of penny blossoms just going by, issued forth and settled upon them both. A thousand pinches without fingers.

  The brocade shifted some more. The drapes were cut from an old tapestry design. Once pink and yellow and rose, it was now the color of dirt and ash, but the ravaged faces of society charmers still peered out through threaded expressions. Moths are the death of brocade potentates and hostesses, pavilions and rose arbors and islands in some impossible sea. Moths eat such faces alive. The faces of living humans they merely explore, and the peninsulas of their forearms, and the promontories of their breastbones, and the shallows of their tympanic chests, which when heard close up thunder too loudly for moths to notice.

  “Right,” whispered Trism hoarsely.

  “Come on,” Liir answered. “We have to be quiet. Maybe these soldiers aren’t looking for us. Maybe she’s too drunk to remember we’re here. There’s no way out, anyway. Not till they’re asleep, at least.”

  “We could jump out the window into the river.”

  “Too late for that; we’ve already jumped. Anyway, I’m going to jump you now. Come on, to bed. It’s just the next part of history, right? If we’re going to be found, we might as well be found out.”

  10

  DESPITE THEIR EXHAUSTION, they hardly slept. They clung to each other, making the least possible noise, and when it got too much to bear they buried their faces in pillows. Spent, at least briefly, they dozed, and Liir’s last thought was: sleeping with the talent. A dragon mesmerist, of all things—what magic a body is—all that you couldn’t know about the world packed up tightly in the flesh lying on your breast.

  All the things Ansonby and Burny had known about—not about girls, but about people—how they felt when they were closer than clothes could ever be. How secret, still: how still, and secret. But a connection nonetheless, dared and decided: a new way of knowing, new burning letters falling through the air—and the words that could be spelled weren’t all disastrous.

  At last, in the deadest part of the night, they crept back into their clothes and braved the staircase. From the larder they nicked a hock of ham, and from the pasture by the river’s edge they nicked two horses. Trism’s way with dragons, it seemed, had suggested to him a language for comforting horses, too.

  They led the horses away by the river’s edge, where the noise of the water would afford the best cover. A mile out, Trism showed Liir how to climb into the saddle. Liir had never ridden before. “I’m not sure tonight’s the best night for this lesson,” he said. “Ow.”

  “It’s the next part of history. Now, where are we going?”

  “Are we going together?”

  “We seem to be. For now, anyway.”

  Liir shrugged. “We’ve got to cross the Gillikin River and keep Kellswater on our right. South through the oakhair forest.” As far as Apple Press Farm, he thought, but he didn’t want to say that yet.

  “I don’t know these parts, but if we’re crossing the river, let’s not wait for a bridge. We’ll ford it here where we can, and confound the soldiers if they come looking for their rides.”

  The moon was nearly down, but there was enough light for the horses to pick their way safely across the water. They gained the far bank, which rose to a prominence. Looking back, the fellows could see the Welcome Arms they’d abandoned. From here, with its smaller second story, it looked like a lopsided old boot.

  “The Boot of the Apostle,” said Liir.

  “The Apostle only wears sandals, to judge by the graphics advertising that exhibit. That Apostle Muscle exhibit.”

  They rode till dawn, though at a safely slow pace, keeping to well-worn tracks. Gradually the sky lightened, cheerless and without bold character, the look of molasses dissolving in milk. They hoped a wind would arise to shift the scratchy snow and cloak their tracks, but it didn’t.

  By the time they could see their own breath in the cold dawn, they had reached the edge of the Shale Shallows. They could begin to move faster. They were now apparent to each other again, though in the daylight it was harder to meet one another’s eyes. They didn’t talk much.

  Siege

  1

  SISTER APOTHECAIRE WAS drying her hair with a towel when Sister Doctor rushed into the ablutory. “He’s back,” she said.

  Sister Apothecaire did not need to ask who he was. “With the girl?”

  “No. With a boy. Well, a young man, I mean.”

  “Do up my veil snap, will you, Sister? I’m hurrying.”

  Along the stairs, they met Sister Cook. “Famished the both, malnourished the one, perhaps, though I’m not a doctor, being only the cook,” she reported. “They’re both deeply into their third helping of sausage and beans. The Superior Maunt is waiting in her chamber.”

  Indeed she was. Her hands were composed upon her lap, and her eyes closed in prayer. “Forgive me, sisters,” she said when they came forward. “Obligation before devotion, I know. Won’t you sit down?”

  “We hear that Liir is back,” said Sister Doctor. “We should like the chance to see him.”

  “To inspect him. To meet with him.”<
br />
  The Superior Maunt raised her eyebrows. Sister Apothecaire blushed. “I merely meant that it would be useful in our professional practice to know what the cause of his peculiar ailments actually was. Likewise we are quite in the dark as to the treatment Candle applied that helped him to recover so.”

  “Of course,” said the Superior Maunt. “And I’m eager to know as well. But I have other responsibilities this morning. The unexpected arrivals are breaking their fast in the refectory, I believe, but I have made an appointment to counsel our other guest in the small chapel. I don’t believe I should break my appointment with her. So you will conduct the interview jointly and report to me.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  She dismissed them, but then called after, “Sisters.”

  They turned.

  “In women of your age and station, it is unseemly to pelt so. The young men will not have left.”

  “Pardon us,” said Sister Doctor. “But of course the last time we hoped to find him, he had left.”

  “He hasn’t asked as much yet, but I believe he’s requesting sanctuary,” said the Superior Maunt. “I’m afraid he won’t be leaving very soon. You have time. Practice continence in your expression of enthusiasm.”

  “Yes. Indeed. Quite.”

  “You may go.”

  They stood there. “Go!” repeated the Superior Maunt wearily.

  She closed her eyes again, but this time not in prayer. The new winter was approaching. Another winter in the mauntery of Saint Glinda. Fires that would not warm her papery skin. Fruit that would grow mealy in the larder. Increased agitation among the maunts, for when there was less work in the gardens there was more gossip and bitchery in the sewing compound. There would be new leaks to repair, and ague would knock a few of the old ones into the grave. She wondered if it would be her turn.

  She couldn’t hope for this. She didn’t hope for it. But the rewards of the winter season seemed richer in her childhood memories, back before she had these tiresome women to govern—the silly affectations of Lurlinemas, which even professed maunts in their strictness remembered with pleasure—the spectacle of sunlight staining birch shadows into the snow like laundry blueing—the way snow fell up as well as down, if the wind had its way—of course, the way birds returned, stitching the spring back into place by virtue of melody.