by Baen Books
Table of Contents
Eleutherios by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Seven Miles by T.C. McCarthy
To Spec by Charles E. Gannon
Skyspark by Ryk E. Spoor i. Worldshake
ii. Questions.
iii. Mysteries.
iv. Answers.
The Krumhorn and Misericorde by Dave Freer
Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden by Wen Spencer
Haunts of Guilty Minds by John Lambshead
The Lamplighter Legacy by Patrick O’Sullivan
Dog's Body by Sarah A. Hoyt
The Sorcerer of Daigawa by Jon F. Merz
Sweothi City by Larry Correia
Out of True by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Mars Farts by Ben Bova
The Virgin of Hertogenbosch by David Drake
Murder on the Hochflieger Ost by Frank Chadwick
Baen Books
Free Stories 2013
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Eleutherios © 2013 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Seven Miles © 2013 by T.C. McCarthy
To Spec © 2013 by Charles E. Gannon
Skyspark © 2013 by Ryk E. Spoor
The Krumhorn and Misericorde © 2013 by Dave Freer
Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden © 2013 by Wen Spencer
Haunts of Guilty Minds © 2013 by John Lambshead
The Lamplighter Legacy © 2013 by Patrick O’Sullivan
Dog's Body © 2013 by Sarah A. Hoyt
The Sorcerer of Daigawa © 2013 by Jon F. Merz
Sweothi City © 2013 by Larry Correia
Out of True © 2013 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Mars Farts © 2013 by Ben Bova
The Virgin of Hertogenbosch © 2013 by David Drake
Murder on the Hochflieger Ost © 2013 by Frank Chadwick
A Baen Book Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
eISBN: 978-1-62579-095-8
Eleutherios
by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
It had been many years since the organ had last given voice. Friar Julian had been a younger man—though by no means a young man—then, and had wept to hear the majesty brought forth by his fingers.
Godsmere Abbey had been great, then, before the punishments visited by earth and air. Now it, like the city surrounding, was . . . not quite a ruin. Just . . . very much less than it once had been.
Though it no longer worked, Friar Julian cared for the organ, still, waxing the wood, polishing the bright-work, dusting the keys, the bench, the pedals. As the organist, it had been his duty to care for the organ. Duty did not stop simply because the organ was broken.
Indeed, it was all of his duty, now: the care and keeping of odd objects—some whole, some broken, others too strange to know—and odd people in similar states of being. The odd people brought the odd objects, for the glory of the gods and their consorts, and the Abbey sheltered both, as best it might.
It seemed fitting.
Before the earthquake, before the Great Storm, Godsmere Abbey had the patronage of the wealthy, and the high. Witness the walls: titanium-laced granite that withstood the quake damage-free—saving some very small cracks and fissures; the roof-tiles which had denied wind and rain; the rows of carven couches in the nave—why, the organ itself!
They were gone now—the high, the wealthy, and the wise. Gone from the city of Collinswood, and from the planet of Fimbul, too; gone to some other, less contentious place, where they might be comfortably safe.
In the meantime, there was no lack of work for those few friars who remained of the once-populous spiritual community of Godsmere. With loss and want, their tasks had become simpler—care for the sick, feed the hungry, nurture the feeble; and curate the collection of artifacts that filled the North Transept, and spilled into the South.
From time to time, the Abbey accepted boarders, though a far different class than had previously leased the courtyard-facing rooms, seeking tranquility in the simplicity of their surroundings, and the sloughing off, for a time, at least, the cares that weighed their spirits.
A bell rang, reverberating along the stone walls: the call to the mid-morning petition.
Friar Julian passed the dust cloth over the organ's face one more time before tucking the cloth into the organist's bench.
"I will come again," he promised it, softly, as he always did.
Then, he turned and hurried down the steps, out of the organ niche, to join his brothers in faith in giving thanks to the gods and their consorts for the dual gifts of life and conscience.
#
Later in the day, another bell rang, signaling a petitioner at the narthex. Friar Anton stood ostiary this day, and it was he who came to Friar Julian in the kitchen, to say that two city constables awaited him in the nave.
Friar Julian took off his apron, and nodded to Layman Voon, who was peeling vegetables.
"Please," he said, "call another to finish here for me. I may be some time, and the meal should not be delayed."
"Yes, Friar," Layman Voon said, and reached for the counter-side mic, to call for Layman Met, which was scarcely a surprise. Voon and Met had vowed themselves to each other in the eyes, and with the blessings of, the gods and their consorts, and worked together whenever it was possible.
Friar Julian and Friar Anton walked together along the back hallway.
"How many?" asked Friar Julian.
"One only," replied Anton.
That was mixed news. They had been without for some number of months, and while one was certainly better than none, two—or even four—would have been very welcome, indeed.
On the other hand, it was true that supplies were low in these weeks between the last planting and the first harvests, and one would put less strain upon them than four. Unless . . .
"In what state?" Friar Julian asked.
"Whole." Anton was a man of few words.
Friar Julian nodded, relieved that there would be no call upon their dangerously depleted medical supplies.
They came to the nave door. Anton passed on to his post at the narthex, and the great, formal entrance, while Julian opened an inner, passed through it into the clergy room, and thence, by another door, into the nave itself.
Three men stood in the central aisle, among the rows of gilt and scarlet couches. Two wore the dirt-resistant duty suits of the city constabulary. Out of courtesy, they had raised their visors, allowing Father Julian sight of two hard, lean faces that might have belonged to brothers.
The third man was shorter, stocky; dressed in the post-disaster motley of a city-dweller. His hair was black and unruly, his face round and brown. Black eyes snapped beneath fierce black eyebrows. An equally fierce, and shaggy, black mustache adorned his upper lip.
He held his arms awkwardly before him, crossed at the wrist. Friar Julian could see the sullen gleam of the binder beneath one frayed blue sleeve. He turned his head at Friar Julian's approach, and the cleric saw a line of dried blood on the man's neck.
"Just one today, Fadder," called the policeman on the prisoner's right. "He's a sly 'un, though."
Friar Julian stopped, and tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his robe.
"Is he violent?" he asked, eying the man's sturdy build. "We are a house of peace."
"Violent? Not him! Caught 'im coming outta Trindle's Yard after hours, wida baga merch on his shoulder. Problem is, nuthin' caught 'im going in, and t'snoops was all up and workin'. 'Spector wants a vestigation, so you got a gues
t."
"There's something strange with his ID, too," said the other policeman, sternly. "Citizens Office is looking into that."
"But violent—nothin' like!" The first policeman took up the tale once more. "He ran, sure he did—who wouldn't? Nothin' to be ashamed of, us catching 'im. And he's smart, too—aincha?"
He dug an elbow into the prisoner's side. It might as well have been a breath of wind, for all the attention the man gave it. The policeman looked back to Friar Julian.
"We put the chip in, then stood back, like we do, so he could make a run fer it and get The Lesson. 'Cept this guy, he don't run! Smart, see? We hadda walk away from 'im 'til he dropped off the meter and got the zap." He looked at the prisoner.
"Gotta have The Lesson, man. That's regs."
The prisoner stared at him, mouth hidden beneath his mustache.
"Not very talkative," the second policeman said, and opened one of his many belt pouches.
"The judge says board for two weeks," he said. "If the investigation goes longer, we'll re-up in two-week increments. If it goes shorter, the next boarder's fee will be pro-rated by the amount of overage."
Friar Julian slipped his hands out of his sleeves and stepped forward to pick the coins off of the gloved palm.
"Yes," he said calmly, fingers tight around the money, "that is the usual arrangement."
"Then we'll leave 'im to ya," the first policeman said. "Arms up, m'boy!"
That last was addressed to the prisoner, who raised his arms slightly, black eyes glittering.
The policeman unsnapped the binders while his partner walked across the nave to the safe. He used the special police-issue key to unlock it, and placed the small silver control box inside. Then he locked the safe, and sealed it.
He looked over his shoulder.
"Ponnor!" he called.
The prisoner pivoted smoothly to face him.
"You pay attention to this seal, now! It'll snap and blow if you try to get in here—that's the straight truth. The blast'll take your fingers, if it doesn't take your head. So, just sit tight, got it? The friar'll take good care of you."
"I have it," the man said, his voice low, and surprisingly lyrical.
"Right, then. We're gone. Good to see you again, Friar."
"May the gods and their consorts look with favor upon your efforts," Friar Julian said; seeing Friar Anton approaching from the direction of the North Transept. He had been listening, of course. The ostiary always listened, when there were policeman in the nave.
The policeman followed him out, leaving Friar Julian alone with the man named Ponnor.
* * *
The garda left them, escorted by the gadje who had admitted them to this place. Niku rubbed his right wrist meditatively, and considered the one who would take good care of him, Fadder Friar.
This gadje holy man was old, with a mane of white hair swept back from a formidable forehead. He had a good, strong nose, and a firm, square chin. Between chin and nose, like a kitten protected by wolves, were the soft lips of a child. White stubble glittered icily down his pale cheeks. His eyes were blue, and sad; far back, Niku perceived a shadow, which might be the remnants of his holiness, as shabby as his brown robe.
It was, Niku reflected, surprising that even a gadje holy man should accept the coin of the garda. Niku had no opinion of gadje in general, but his opinion of holiness had been fixed by the luthia herself. And among the blessed Bedel there was no one more blessed than the luthia, who cared for the body and soul of the kompani.
Well. The luthia was not with him, and he had more pressing concerns than the state of any single gadje's soul. It could be said that his present situation was dire—Niku himself would have said so, save for his faith in his brother Fada.
Still, a man needed to survive until Fada could come, so he looked to the holy gadje, produced a smile, and a little nod of the head.
"Sir," he said. Gadje liked to be called sir; it made them feel elevated above others. And the garda had shown scant reverence for this one's holiness.
The holy gadje returned both smile and nod.
"My name is Friar Julian," he said. "I am the oldest of the friars who remain at Godsmere, and it is my joyous burden to bring the prayers of the people to the attention of the gods and their consorts."
Niku, to whom this was so much nonsense, nonetheless smiled again, and nodded.
"Within these walls, my son, you are safe from error, for the gods do not allow a man to sin while he is in their keeping."
"It is well to be sinless," Niku said flippantly
It seemed to Niku that the holiness far back in Friar Julian's eyes burned bright for an instant, and he regretted his impertinence. Truly, the gods of this place had failed him, for it was a sin to mock a holy man, even a gadje holy man. The luthia would say, especially a gadje holy man, for gadje are so little blessed.
"Let me show you where you will sleep," said Friar Julian; "and introduce you to the others."
Niku froze. Others? Others might pose a problem, when Fada came.
"Other prisoners?" he asked.
Friar Julian frowned.
"You are our only boarder at present," he said stiffly. "The others to whom I would make you known are friars, as I am, and lay brothers. This we will do over the meal." He raised a hand and beckoned. "Come with me."
* * *
Ponnor walked the length of his room, placed a hand on the bed, opened the door to the 'fresher, closed it, opened and closed the closet door.
He turned, and asked, in his blunt way.
"What will be my occupation?"
Friar Julian was pleased. Despite his rough appearance, it would seem that this boarder had a sense of what was due a house of the gods. Most did not understood, and in fact, the agreement between Godsmere Abbey and the city constables stated that no boarder would be required to labor.
So it was that Friar Julian said, "You may do whatever you like."
Bright black eyes considered him from beneath lowering brows.
"If that is so, then I would like to return to my grandmother."
Friar Julian sighed, and held his hands out, palms up and empty, to signify his powerlessness.
"That," he admitted, "you may not do."
Ponnor shrugged, perhaps indifferently, or perhaps because he understood that there was no other answer possible.
"If I am to remain here, then, I would prefer to work, and not be locked all day in a room."
"We do not lock our boarders in their rooms," protested Friar Julian. "You may walk the halls, or the garden, meditate, read . . . "
"I prefer to work," Ponnor interrupted. "I am accustomed."
Were a boarder to volunteer to work, the agreement between Abbey and police continued, they might do so, without the expectation of compensation.
"If you would like, Friar Tanni will add you to the roster." Friar Julian hesitated, then added, in order that there was no misunderstanding. "Your work would be a gift to this house of the gods."
"I would like," said Ponnor firmly, and, "Yes."
"Then we will see it done," said Friar Julian. A bell sounded, bright and sharp, and he waved Ponnor forward.
"That is the dinner bell. Come along, my child."
* * *
The dining hall was full of people—gadje, all. The six friars sat together at one table near the hall door. To these, Niku was made known, and Friar Tanni that moment added him to the lists, and promised to have work for him by meal's end.
He was then released to stand in line, and receive a bowl of broth with some sad vegetables floating in it, a piece of bread the size of his fist, rough, like stone, and as dense, and a cup of strong cold coffee.
This bounty he carried to a long table, and slid onto the end of the crowded bench, next to a yellow-haired gadje who looked little more than a boy, and across from a woman who might have been the boy's grandmother.
"You're new," the grandmother said, her eyes bright in their net of wrinkles.
"Today is the first time I eat here," he admitted, breaking the bread and dropping hard pebbles into the soup. "Is the food always so?"
"There's bean rolls, sometimes," the yellow-haired boy said with a sigh. "Bean rolls are good."
"Having food in the belly's good," his grandmother corrected him, forcibly putting him in mind of the luthia, the grandmother of all the kompani. She looked again to Niku.
"Don't know what we'd do without the friars. They feed who's hungry; patch up who gets sick or broke."
"They do this from their holiness?" Niku asked, spooning up bread-and-broth.
The gadje grandmother smiled.
"That's right."
"Some of us," the boy said, "bring finds—from where we're clearing out the buildings don't nobody live in now," he added in response to Niku's raised eyebrows.
"Isn't the same as before, when this was a place for the rich folk," the grandmother said. "When it was over, and those of us who were left—you're too young to remember --" So she dismissed both Niku and her grandson. "Well, I don't mind telling you, I was one thought the friars would leave with the ones who could—and some did. But some stayed, all of them hurting just as much as we, and they opened up the door, and walked down the street, and said they'd be bringing food, soon, and was there anybody hurt, who they could help."
She glanced away, but not before Niku had seen tears in her bright eyes.
"Wasn't anything they could do for my old man, not with half a partment house on top him, but others, who they could."
Niku nodded, and spooned up what was left of his soup. After a moment, he picked up his cup and threw the coffee down his throat like brandy.