Skies Discrowned and An Epitaph in Rust

by Tim Powers

  “Yes, officers?” Frank said.

  “Are you Francisco Rovzar?” asked the one with the pistol.

  “Yes. Why?” Can I kill all three? he wondered. I don’t like that gun. Emsley will be no help, that’s certain, and I’m not in top-notch shape anyway. Better talk to them.

  “Can we come in?” They were already walking in, so Frank nodded and bowed. “We stopped by yesterday, but you weren’t here. We want to ask you about an incident that took place in the street two days ago. Did you see or hear or… do anything out of the ordinary on that day?”

  “Friends of yours, Rovzar?” sneered Emsley.

  “Who are you?” asked the captain sharply.

  “Christopher Marlowe.”

  “Write that name down,” barked the captain to one of the other officers. The man whipped out a small pad and scribbled in it. “Now get out of here, Marlowe. Rovzar, maybe you can explain how it is that four Transport policemen were found killed in the street two days ago.”

  “No,” said Frank. “I didn’t hear about it.”

  “Well, let me fill you in. They were killed in a swordfight. Your fencing school is less than a hundred yards from the spot, so you’re implicated. We’ve come to take you topside for interrogation. Any objections?”

  The captain stood a good distance away, with his hand near his pistol.

  “Not at all,” Frank said with a smile. “I assume you’ll provide lunch?” He hung up the sword and mask casually. I could dive through the river window, he thought, but that would be a pretty clear admission of guilt; I’d never dare come back here. I guess I’ll have to kill all three. If they get me topside they’re likely to see my tattoo and remember that Francisco Rovzar who escaped from Barclay six months ago. How long, though, can I keep killing every Transport who wants to question me?

  He turned to the officers cheerfully. “Lead the way, gentlemen,” he said. The captain strode out while the other two officers seized Frank by the arms and frog-marched him through the door.

  “Take it easy, for God’s sake,” snapped Frank, wincing at the pain in his arm sockets. Four more Transports waited outside in the street, and fell in behind the two who held Frank.

  “Only one thing really puzzles me, Rovzar,” remarked the captain over his shoulder as the grim procession set off down the street. “Why didn’t you change your name?”

  “Change my name?” panted Frank.

  “Yeah. Did you think we wouldn’t check? That we don’t keep records? When you jumped over the fence at Barclay and killed those two patrolmen, it was assumed that you’d drowned in the Malachi; but we didn’t throw away your file.”

  Frank didn’t answer but cursed inwardly at his foolhardiness. I’ve had it. They’ll ship me off to the Orestes mines, and it will be as if I’d never set foot in Munson Understreet.

  A heavy sense of final doom settled over him, and he felt close to tears. He had to forcibly strangle an impulse to beg the captain to let him go.

  They turned onto Harvey Way, and Frank knew they must be planning to ascend to the surface by way of the Baldwin sewer. His arms had become numb from his captors’ tight grip, and he realized that the time to make a break for it, if there ever was one, had passed.

  They had marched a hundred yards down the lamp-lit length of Harvey Way, the soldiers’ feet clumping in unison like a monotonous military tap dance, when a sharp explosion sounded up ahead and the Transport captain abruptly sat down on the street. Surprised, Frank looked at the man, and saw blood funneling onto the pavement from a gaping wound in the back.

  “It’s an ambush,” cried the policeman who held Frank’s left arm, a moment before a slung stone cracked his forehead and he sprawled on the street. The other man released him in order to draw his sword, and Frank fell helplessly forward onto the sitting corpse of the captain. He heard swords clash behind him, but centered his attention on the task of getting his numb hands to pull the captain’s pistol out of its holster. At last he fumbled it out, and rolled over so he could see the fighting. There were four Transports standing in a circle, fighting off about a dozen understreet brigands. Frank waited patiently until he had a clear shot, and then sent ten bullets into the desperately tight police formation. By the time the echoes of the last shot had dissipated, several of the brigands had bolted in terror and every Transport was dead.

  Frank dropped the empty gun and scrambled to his feet. One of the bandits thoughtfully fitted a stone into his sling, but a voice barked at him from farther up the street: “Drop it, Peckham. He’s one of ours.” Frank turned toward the voice and saw Orcrist step out of a shadowed doorway and wave at him with the tiny silver pistol.

  “So it was you they were after, Frank! Come on, all of you! Down this alley here.”

  In spite of his dizziness Frank managed to keep up with Orcrist and his unsavory followers. They fled west, through several of the more dangerous understreet districts, to Sheol Boulevard, and soon they were all filing down the dark stairway under the sign that read “Huselor’s.”

  Huselor’s was a big, low-ceilinged bar, lit only by candles in glass jars on the tables. The floor was carpeted and the cool air smelled of gin. Orcrist led his band to a long table in the back, and they sat down silently, looking like a committee of especially disreputable senators.

  Orcrist handed each of his hired swordsmen a one-malory note and they all stood up and exited, tipping their hats gratefully. Skilled labor is dirt cheap these days, Frank thought. That can’t be a good sign.

  When they were alone, Orcrist moved to a much smaller table and waved at the waiter.

  “So, Frank,” he said in a low voice. “How is it that those boys were leading you off so heavily guarded?”

  “Two reasons. They’re almost certain I helped kill those four cops the day before yesterday, and they know I’m the same Francisco Rovzar who escaped from Barclay six months ago. As that captain said, I should have changed my name.”

  The waiter padded noiselessly to their table and bowed. “Two big mugs of strong coffee,” Orcrist said, “fortified with brandy. Do you want anything else, Frank?”

  “Maybe a bowl of clam chowder.”

  The waiter nodded and sped away. Orcrist sat back with his fingertips pressed together. “That’s bad,” he said. Frank raised his eyebrows, and then realized that Orcrist wasn’t referring to the clam chowder. “I heard, about an hour ago,” Orcrist went on, “that a large band of heavily-armed Transports had been sighted down here, so I very quickly rounded up some rough lads, and even brought my pistol along, to go and…”

  “…set another precedent,” Frank finished.

  “Right. And it’s a good thing I did. But if they’ve identified you that thoroughly, you can’t relax yet. With the economy as shattered as it is, the Transport is able to buy informers very cheaply, and you never know which alley-skulker might be a spy or assassin.”

  “Great,” said Frank wearily.

  “It’s tricky, but it isn’t hopeless. You’ve got to go underground again—figuratively this time. Change your name, of course, and your location, and you’ll be all right. But you’ll have to move fast.”

  The soup and coffee arrived, and for a while neither man spoke.

  “I think I’ve got a solution,” Orcrist said, after five minutes of thoughtful coffee drinking. “I own a boat that’s moored in Munson Harbor, just south of the Malachi Delta. It’s very near the mouth of the Leethee, so transportation won’t be difficult. You could live there. It’s got a large dining room below deck that I think you could easily turn into a fencing gym.”

  “You think I’d still be able to give lessons?”

  “Sure. The lords may complain, but they’ll make the trip. I think they’re beginning to see how much there is to know about the art of swordplay, and how important it is that we learn it before the Transports do. There’s a crisis coming upon us fast, Frank, and we have to be the ones who are ready for it.”

  CHAPTER 4

  FRANK PAU
SED IN FRONT of the dark glass of a shop window to straighten his wig and his shirt collar. He grinned at himself and walked on, swinging his leather case jauntily, his rubber-soled shoes silent on the damp cobblestones.

  Cochran Street, a tunnel bigger, wider and brighter than any he’d yet seen understreet, lay ahead, and he turned left onto its uncracked sidewalk. The sixth door down wore a polished brass plate on which, boldly engraved, was the single name “Blanchard.” Frank could feel eyes on him, and realized that he had probably been under several hidden guards’ scrutiny ever since he’d turned onto Cochran.

  He tucked his light-but-bulky leather case under his arm and knocked at the door. After a moment it was opened by a frail-looking old man with wispy ice-white hair, who raised one snowy eyebrow.

  “My name is Francisco Rovzar,” Frank said. “I believe… uh, his highness is expecting me.” The old man nodded and waved Frank inside.

  The floor was of red ceramic tiles, and the starkness of the whitewashed stucco walls was relieved by a dozen huge, age-blackened portraits. Torches were thrust into wrought-iron chandeliers that hung by chains from the ceiling.

  The old man led Frank down a hallway to a bigger room, high-ceilinged and lined with bookcases. Standing in the center of the room, hands behind his back, stood Blanchard. He wore light leather boots, and his bushy white beard hid the collar of his tunic.

  “Rovzar?”

  “At your service, sire,” said Frank with a courtly bow.

  “Glad you could make it. I hear the Transports are interested in you. You know Sam Orcrist, don’t you? Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes, I do, and yes I would.”

  “I’m drinking daiquiris. How’s that sound?”

  “Fine.”

  Frank leaned his sword case against a wall. “Sit down,” Blanchard said, waving at a stout wooden chair in front of a low table. “I’ll be back in a second.” He left the room and then reappeared immediately, carrying two tall, frosted glasses.

  “There you are,” he said, taking the chair across from Frank and setting the drinks on the table. “You know, Rovzar, I’m glad you’re on our side. Yessir. Our boys were tending to get too smug about their swordsmanship, and now they find out there’s a twenty-year-old kitchen boy who can beat ’em—and give ’em lessons, too.” Blanchard took a deep sip of his daiquiri. “Damn, that’s good. The thing is, you’ve got to be sharp these days.”

  “That’s true, sir.”

  “You bet it is. I tell you, Rovzar, it’s doggy-dog out there.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I say it’s doggy-dog out there. The peaceful times are over. Peaceful times never last, anyway. And a good thing, too. They give a man a… rosy view of life. Hell, you know how I became King of the Subterranean Companions?”

  “How?”

  “I killed the previous king, old Stockton. I exercised the ius gladii, the right of the sword. It’s a tradition—any member who invokes that right can challenge the king to a duel. The winner becomes, or remains, king. But don’t get any ideas, Rovzar.”

  “Oh, no, I—”

  “Hah! I’m kidding you, boy. I wish you could have met Stockton, though. A more repulsive man, I think, never lived. Do you play chess?”

  “Yes,” answered Frank, a little puzzled by Blanchard’s topic-hopping style.

  “Fine!” Blanchard reached under the table and pulled out a chessboard and a box of chessmen. He turned the box upside down on the table before sliding its cover out from under it. “Which side?” he asked.

  “Left,” said Frank.

  Blanchard lifted the box and chessmen rolled out of it in two side-by-side piles; and the left pile was black.

  “Set ’em up,” said Blanchard.

  Two hours and six daiquiris later Frank was checkmated, but not before he managed to capture Blanchard’s queen in a deft king-queen fork.

  “Good game, Rovzar.” The old king smiled, sitting back. “I’ve got to be leaving now, but I’ll send you another note sometime. Hope you’ll be able to drop by again.”

  “Sure,” said Frank, standing up. It was only when he picked up his case that he remembered he’d come to discuss fencing.

  That night Frank, wearing a false beard, plied the oars of a rowboat while Orcrist sat in the bow with a lantern and gave instructions.

  “Okay, Frank, sharp to port and we’ll be in the harbor.”

  Frank dragged the port oar in the water and the boat swung to the left, through a low brick arch and out into the Munson Harbor. A cold night wind ruffled their hair, and the stars glittered like flecks of silver thread in the vast black cloak of the sky. The boat rocked with the swells, and Frank was finding it harder to control.

  “Bear north now,” Orcrist said. “It’ll be about half a mile.” He opened the lantern and blew out the flame, since the moonlight provided adequate light.

  The cold breeze was drying the sweat on Frank’s face and shoulders, and he leaned more energetically into the rowing. Munson’s towers and walls passed by in silhouette to his right, lit here and there by window-lamps and street lights. It’s a beautiful city, he thought, at night and viewed from a distance.

  “How’s Costa doing these days?” he asked, his voice only a little louder than the wavelets slapping against the hull. “Does he like being Duke?”

  “He’s apparently trying to imitate his father, I hear,” Orcrist said. “Topo played tennis, so Costa does too, and his courtiers generally have the sense to lose to him.” Frank chuckled wearily. “And he’s been seducing, or trying to, anyway, all of the old Duke’s concubines. He pretends to savor the wines from Topo’s cellar, but hasn’t noticed that the wine steward is serving him vin ordinaire in fancy bottles, having decanted the good wine for himself. Oh, and this ought to interest you, Frank: he’s decided he wants his portrait done by the best artist alive, just as his father did.”

  “Hah. It’s because of him that the best artist isn’t alive.”

  “True. And apparently he’s not settling for second best, either.”

  They were silent for a few oar-strokes. “What do you mean?” Frank asked.

  “Well,” Orcrist said, “he’s let every artist on the planet try out for the privilege of doing the portrait, but so far he’s sent every one away in disgust once he sees their work. Your father seems to have set an impossibly high standard.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me. Art, like a lot of things, is a lost art.”

  Orcrist had no reply to that, and just said, “bear a little to starboard.” Frank could see the skeletal masts and reefed sails of a few docked merchant ships, and swung away from the shore a bit to pass well clear of them. Distantly from one of the farther ships he heard a deep-voiced man singing “Danny Boy,” and it lent the scene a wistful, melancholy air.

  Just past the main basin Orcrist told Frank to head inshore, and in a minute their rowboat was bumping against the hull of a long, wide boat. It sat low in the water; they were able to climb aboard without paddling around to the back of the craft for the ladder.

  “Moor the line to that…bumpy thing there,” Orcrist said, waving at a vaguely mushroom-shaped protrusion of metal that stood about a foot high on the deck. Frank tied a slip-knot in the rope and looped it over the mooring, before following Orcrist into the cabin. The older man had just put a match to two wall-hung lanterns.

  “This is sort of the living room,” Orcrist explained; “and you can take that ridiculous beard off now.”

  Frank peeled it off. “It pays to be cautious,” he said.

  “No doubt. Through that door is your room—very comfortable, books, a well-stocked desk—and down those stairs is the dining room, another stateroom, and a storage room full of canned food and bottles of brandy. Don’t raise the anchor or cast off the lines until I find someone who can give you lessons on how to work the sails.”

  “Right.”

  “I guess that’s it. There are four good swords in your room—two sabres, an épée and a
rapier. There’s a homemade pistol in the top desk drawer, but I’m not sure it’ll work, and it’s only a .22 calibre anyway.

  “I’ll bring the rest of your things later in the week. If I can, I’ll bring the swords and masks and jackets from the school.” Orcrist took out his wallet and, after searching through it for a moment, handed Frank a folded slip of thin blue paper. “That’s the lease verification. Wave it at any cops that come prowling about. And here are the keys. I’ll leave it to you to figure out which lock each key fits.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you… bring Kathrin along with you sometime?”

  “I will.” They wandered out onto the deck again. The moon was sitting low on the northern horizon now, magnified and orange-colored by the atmosphere. “Morning isn’t far off,” Orcrist said. “You’d better get some sleep.” He lowered himself over the side into the rowboat. “Untie me there, will you, Frank? Thanks.”

  He leaned into the oars, and soon Frank could neither see nor hear him. Frank went below and checked the swords for flexibility and balance—the best one, the rapier, he laid on the desk within easy reach—and then went to bed.

  The next few weeks passed very comfortably. Frank read the books in the excellent ship’s library, gave more expensive fencing lessons to many of the thief-lords (although Lord Emsley, by mutual consent, was no longer one of Frank’s students) and frequently, wrapped in a heavy coat and muffler against the autumn chill, fished off the boat’s bow. He often spent the gray afternoons sitting in a canvas chair, smoking his pipe and watching the ships sail in and out of the harbor. He had twice more played chess and consumed daiquiris with Blanchard, and been assured that it was “doggy-dog” out there. Orcrist was a frequent visitor, and Kathrin Figaro came with him several times. She found Frank’s exile exciting, and had him explain to her how he would repel piratical boarders if any chanced to appear.

  “You should have a cannon,” she said, sipping hot coffee as they sat on the deck watching the tame little gray waves wobble past.

  “Probably so,” agreed Frank lazily. “Then raise anchor, let down the sails and embark on a voyage to Samarkand.” His pipe had gone out, so he set it down next to his chair.