by Ian Creasey
Galorn grimly reversed the Count’s sword and handed it back to the nobleman.
“I hope you’ll not need this. Stay in your rooms until sent for.”
“And you, Russark?” the Count asked, as gently as if he’d been Galorn’s mother.
“I must report to the Markgrafina,” Galorn replied wearily. “I have my orders.”
The steward of the east wing, old Lauenhar – who’d always liked Galorn, an accord that was mutual – hastily blocked Galorn’s path. “No, lad, you mustn’t disturb the Markgrafina now. She’s given orders – ”
“She gave me orders, too,” Galorn replied gravely, stepping around the steward.
“It – it would be better to wait until she has departed,” Lauenhar said in a rush, sounding really agitated now. “Y-you could send messages whenever something she needs to – ”
Galorn gave the man the best smile he could manage. “True, but … orders are orders.”
“But, lad – ” Lauenhar looked stricken, then helpless. Reluctantly, he let fall his arms and stood back.
Galorn gave him a tight smile, and took the stairs two at a time.
One flight up, he turned on the landing with the great painting of the Grand Duke’s father winning an Illyrian battle, and –
Found himself face to snout with a huge gray wolf!
It sprang at him, and only his frantic willingness to hurl himself right at the far wall, balance be damned, saved him from those reaching jaws.
Galorn ducked his head just in time to avoid braining himself on unyielding stone, clawed out his sword, and swung it wildly around even before he had time to turn. That saved his life a second time, as his point struck and skidded off something hard and hairy, provoking a roar.
Galorn turned to face the beast and kept on turning, hacking at it as it bounded and tumbled, trying to get under his steel and around him on the steps.
Jaws against blade they fought, clambering and lunging in a wild, ungainly scramble on the stairs, steel clanging on marble amid the shrieking of claws skittering on the smooth stone, roars and panted curses echoing up and down the stairwell … through halls strangely bereft of the guards who should be rushing to Galorn’s aid right now.
Galorn got bitten badly just below his elbow, but hammered at the wolf’s head with his hilt and all his strength until it let go to turn and try for his throat.
Which is what he’d been expecting; he drove it back with a raised knee, and gave the beast a savage cut across the snout.
On his backswing, he tried for its eyes, missing but slicing open its brow – and amid a spray of blood, the wolf howled in pain and sprang over the rail and away.
He didn’t hear it land, and didn’t care how far it fell or whether it lived or died. He had to get to the Markgrafina, to guard her and rouse the castle!
Panting, bleeding hard, and feeling small stabbing pains like fire that that he’d not noticed before, Galorn struggled on up the stair and along the deserted passage. Where were all the guards who should be at their posts?
One arch along it, then two. No sign of the wolf reappearing behind him. He was trailing blood …
Galorn lurched through the third arch, and turned to the doors of the Markgrafina’s outermost audience-chamber. Two men he’d never seen before barred his way, drawn swords coming up at his face. They wore no uniforms …“Die, assassin!” one of them snarled.
“Come to kill the Flame of Tarkania? Your last mistake!” the other spat. Galorn parried desperately, backing away. They sprang at him, and only the archway saved his flank from a lunge that should have spitted him.
They were good with blades, the best he’d faced since the House tutors.
Galorn very much wanted to know who these men were, and what they’d done to the Markgrafina, but to fling questions at them would be a waste of breath.
They were pressing him, trying to catch him between them, and would manage it very soon, too, if he didn’t –
He was forced to give way again. His sword arm ached where the wolf had bitten him, he was winded from that fight and all the running, and – another lunge cut into his uniform, and was only prevented from slicing deeper than skin by his desperately hurling himself back. His shoulders thundered against a door … and it gave way!
Spilling him into the dimness of a disused room. He’d never been in here before, but all the rooms along here had balconies … he sprinted, dodging furniture. If he could make it to the balcony …
He could. Out, slam the doors hard on the foremost blade reaching for him, then along the balcony to the wide stone rail at its end. Up onto it, and leap!
There was a moment of rushing air, in the brightening morning sun … Then he was slamming against stone, bruised and numbed. Forcing him to turn, on this new and lower balcony, his legs shrieking in painful protest, to bring his sword up to meet the inevitable pursuit.
He was in time to spit one dark, looming shape, deeply enough to kill but not so deeply that he lost his blade. With a sort of screaming gurgle, his victim crashed against the stone rail, then fell from view into the gardens below. Galorn hoped he’d land on one of the spike-topped railings.
The other man paused at the edge of the balcony Galorn had jumped from, showed his teeth in a snarl, then turned and rushed away, disappearing back inside the castle.
Galorn drew in a long, shuddering breath, clutched his arm long enough to decide he could still use it, thrust his sword back into its scabbard despite its blood-smeared state, and started climbing. Downspouts had been added to Tark Castle over this last decade, flared clay tiles fitted into each other … if he put his full weight on them for more than the briefest of moments …
He’d never have tried it if he hadn’t been desperate, and winced as tile after tile collapsed down the wall to crash into unseen shards below, but he … managed it!
Up onto the balcony above, hoping his pursuer wouldn’t choose to rush there rather than to the one he’d just left … hoping no one was in the rooms that gave out onto this balcony who would hear his arrival and raise an alarm.
He had to smash the door latch, but the rooms beyond were thankfully empty.
Of course; the chambers immediately adjacent to those of the Markgrafina would either be occupied by guards, or kept empty to guard her safety, their connecting doors locked and barred.
Galorn frowned. But not necessarily servants’ doors …
At the back of one of the wardrobes would be a sliding panel that gave into the back of the wardrobes in the next room. He made for it, sword in hand, feeling in the darkness for finger-holes …
There! It opened soundlessly, kept greased for that very reason, letting him into a wardrobe crowded with clothing, that reeked faintly of many perfumes.
He was at the back of one of the Markgrafina’s robing rooms, now, mere steps from her bedchamber; it would be best to keep very quiet for a time, and listen.
Was she still here? Still alive? Or …
Someone hissed in pain, startlingly close, then stumbled. Coming closer, being helped to walk by someone, sitting down. Groaning.
“Easy, now,” a voice Galorn knew murmured. The Markgrafina! “We’re safe here, behind a dozen guardsmen. Bide still, and I’ll bind these.” She hissed in sympathy. “Who did this to you?”
“Young Russark! The man’s fast …”
That voice was familiar, too …
“Is he, now?”
Sun and moon, the Markgrafina was almost purring!
Galorn risked moving, just a little, so he could see. Letting himself sink down, scabbard held carefully to keep from making noise, he peered past a litter of shoes, under the edges of the hanging garments.
And beheld the steward Lauenhar – fat, naked, and bleeding profusely, crouching on a daintily-skirted bench with the Markgrafina binding women’s small clothing around his brow and over his nose.
Sun and moon, Lauenhar’s brow and nose! The former cut right across, and the latter sliced in half and
ruined, the very wounds Galorn had just given the wolf!
Others were behind them, handing the Flame of Tarkania more cloth; a maid and Garkus, the Markgrafina’s senior bodyguard. The steward tried to mumble something through the coursing blood.
“Yes, faithful Lauenhar?” the Markgrafina asked tenderly.
“I – ” the wounded man choked on blood, spat it up, coughed a time or two, then continued, “I fulfilled your orders. The British ambassador and all the rest known to support abolishing the slave trade are dead, but …”
He choked again, spat blood, and went on. “It seems to have been a mistake to do so. It’s roused young Russark, and many of the foreigners are awake now and talking of the deaths, trading all sorts of wild rumors. It is … messy.”
“It may well be, but it is also necessary,” the Markgrafina replied coldly. “The abolitionists must be thwarted, or letting the Empire gain control of the flying ships is useless to us. You still have the list?”
“I do,” the steward panted.
“Then rest until the morrow. Thereafter continue to hunt them down, without further delay, until every last one is dead. My father in particular. Before any foreigner can leave, before anyone tries to seize the Wargallant, and before word can be sent that will let anyone use this as a pretext to invade Tarkania. Kill everyone on the list. Then send word to me, and I’ll have happier orders for you. Rest, now; use my bed.”
“Flame of Tarkania, I obey,” Lauenhar replied – and shifted, under her hands, going gray and furry, sinking down as his snout lengthened.
Fresh blood welled out, and a maid and the bodyguard rushed into Galorn’s view, hastening to adjust the bandages and add more.
They were tending a wolf, now! A large, scarred, and powerful wolf! As Galorn watched in silent horror, the great gray beast slunk out of the room into the Markgrafina’s bedchamber beyond.
Galorn sat stunned, not knowing what to do now, hardly able to believe what he had just seen … but unable not to believe it.
It was another dazed moment before he realized the bodyguard and the maid had both sniffed loudly … and slowly turned to glare at the wardrobe where he was hiding.
The Markgrafina turned to face it, too, and calmly reached under her skirts. Galorn caught a glimpse of long, slender leg before her hand came out again.
Holding a pistol.
“Come forth,” the Flame of Tarkania said coldly, “or I’ll shoot.”
Galorn stood frozen.
The gun roared.
The ball smashed into Galorn’s shoulder. Slammed back against the wardrobe wall, he was unable to stifle his groan of pain. Through the spreading smoke, he saw the Markgrafina calmly fetching a powder-flask, to reload.
“Come forth,” she repeated.
Reluctantly, Galorn rolled over her shoes and out into the room.
Her smile was soft, but no warmer than her orders had been. “Ah, my young and handsome master of the blade. For whom do you spy on us?”
“N-no one,” Galorn stammered. “Or rather, for you. Why … why are you working with that man-wolf – where did it come from? And why are you killing abolitionists?”
The Markgrafina smirked. “There are places Mr. Wilberforce and his English abolitionists, and the British Navy who enforce the Slave Trade Act, don’t know about. Some of those places are Tarkanian property, ceded to our British kin as a private hunting ground. When they have their new flying navy, there’ll be more such secret game preserves soon.”
“But …”
“Russark, Markgrafinas give orders, not answers. Loyal Tarkanese obey.”
Her second shot brought Galorn screaming pain, and sent his sword clanging away, amid sparks. She’d shot him through his sword-hand.
He couldn’t stop the tears, couldn’t do anything but clutch himself …
He was only dimly aware of the bodyguard and the maid shrinking down and going gray, with fluid, terrifying speed and ease.
They pounced, jaws closing on his wrists.
The Markgrafina laid the smoking pistol on a dressing-table and strolled away into her bedchamber.
Galorn struggled against the wolves. He was unable to do more than drag them back and forth. Not far.
The Flame of Tarkania was smiling when she returned, holding a poker from her hearth.
“You see, Galorn,” she explained almost pleasantly, “if the British Empire is free to expand across all the world, and embraces the slave trade once more, we’ll have plenty of quarry to hunt, and wild new frontier territories to do it in.”
“‘We’?” Galorn asked weakly, wrestling against the wolves. He had a dagger, if he could just reach it …
“We Harhoun. We ‘werewolves,’ as you fools most often call us. We who own this hunting preserve, this planet you call ‘Earth.’ We paid much for it, long ago. Still a bargain, I think, considering all the splendid meals – and sport – that’s now ours.”
Galorn tried again to wrest free of cruel teeth.
The Markgrafina saw, smiled, and waved one hand in a signal. And the wolves obediently bit off both of Galorn Russark’s hands.
Through red mists of pain, Galorn saw the Flame of Tarkania hold up the poker and study it carefully. Its end, dully glowing, had been worked into a branding iron.
“I like to know that whoever I’m hunting,” she told him coldly, “is mine.”
She turned away. “This isn’t ready yet, though, so I’ll have your tongue first. We can’t have you speaking or writing inconvenient truths before the next slave ship sails.”
When the Markgrafina returned, her smile had turned ruthless. “Your tongue should be rather tasty, Galorn Russark. Do you feel well enough to jump up and try to flee? I love hunting.”
She strode closer.
“You humans insist on calling us ‘werewolves,’” she purred. “Well, we Harhoun have a name for you, too. We call you … meat.”
The smile that grew on the Markgrafina’s face then was wide and wolflike. Even before her nose became a snout, and fur sprouted all over that lengthening, sharpening face, and her laughter turned into high and hungry growling …
Galorn Russark did the last thing he knew how to do.
He fainted.
The Caretaker
By Ken Liu
Motors whining, the machine squats down next to the bed, holding its arms out parallel to the ground. The metal fingers ball up into fist-shaped handholds. The robot has transformed into something like a wheelchair with treads, its lap the seat where my backside is supposed to fit.
A swiveling, flexible metal neck rises over the back of the chair, at the end of which are a pair of camera lenses with lens hood flaps on top, like tilted eyebrows. There’s a speaker below the cameras, covered by metal lips. The effect is a cartoonish imitation of a face.
“It’s ugly,” I say. I try to come up with more, but that’s the only thing I can think of.
Lying on the bed with my back and neck propped up by all these pillows reminds me of long-ago Saturday mornings, when I used to sit like this in bed, trying to catch up on grading while Peggy was still asleep next to me. Suddenly, Tom and Ellen would burst through the bedroom door and jump into the bed, landing on top of us in a heap, smelling of warm blankets and clamoring for breakfast.
Except now my left leg is a useless weight, anchoring me to the mattress. The space next to me is empty. And Tom and Ellen, standing behind the robot, have children of their own.
“It’s reliable,” Tom says. Then he seems to have run out of things to say, too. My son is like me, awkward with words when the emotions get complicated.
After a few seconds of silence, his sister steps forward and stands next to the robot. Gently, she bends down to put a hand on my shoulder. “Dad, Tom is running out of vacation days. And I can’t take any more time off either because I need to be with my husband and kids. We think this is best. It’s a lot cheaper than a live-in aide.”
It occurs to me that this would make an excellen
t illustration of the arrow of time: the care that parents devote to children is asymmetrical with the care that their children can reciprocate. Far more vivid than any talk of entropy.
Too bad I no longer have students to explain this to. The high school has already hired a new physics teacher and baseball coach.
I don’t want to get maudlin here and start quoting Lear. Hadn’t Peggy and I each left our parents to the care of strangers in faraway homes? That’s life.
Who wants to weigh their children down the way my body now weighs me down? My guilt should trump theirs. We are a nation built on the promise that there are no roots. Every generation must be free to begin afresh somewhere else, leaving the old behind like fallen leaves.
I wave my right arm – the one arm that still obeys me. “I know.” I would have stopped there, but I keep going because Peggy would have said more, and she’s always right. “You’ve done more than enough. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s pretty intuitive to operate,” Ellen says. She doesn’t look at me. “Just talk to it.”
The robot and I stare at each other. I look into the cameras, caricatures of eyes, and see nothing but a pair of distorted, diminished images of myself.
I understand the aesthetics of its design, the efficient, functional skeleton softened by touches of cuteness and whimsy. Peggy and I once saw a show about caretaker robots for the elderly in Japan, and the show explained how the robots’ kawaii features were intended to entice old people into becoming emotionally invested in and attached to the lifeless algorithm-driven machines.
I guess that’s me now. At sixty, with a stroke, I’m old and an invalid. I need to be taken care of and fooled by a machine.
“Wonderful,” I say. “I’m sure we’ll be such pals.”