Then his lion’s tail wasn’t the only one on stage. Alicorn leapt onto the end of the runway, John Fortune dismounting, and the unicorn began slowly walking along the ramp to the adulation of the virgins and somewhat less virginal teenyboppers on both sides as the rest of the Boys joined in on the next verse:
If you go down to Jokertown
Well, you might just stay there
’Cause that mean ol’ woman
Who deal cards, she ain’t fair
If you lose, you win
If you win, you lose
What I’m talking about
Is called the Wild Card Bluuuuuuues. . . .
On the long sustained note, the unicorn reached the end of the runway and reared up on his hind legs, morphing from Alicorn into Alec—Alec, totally naked—and Sam realized that when he’d catalogued his friend’s changes earlier, he’d been inaccurate. Aside from his horn, mane, and mass, Alec’s unmentionables remained relatively unaffected by the transformation: He was hung like a horse in either form. Girls screamed in appreciation while the Boys got in front of him, strategically placing Dirk’s shoulders between the cameras and Alec, handing him a microphone for the encore:
You’ll get no release!
You’ll get no reprieve!
And if you go down to Jokertown
You might never leave!
The crowd went wild while various individuals attempted to enforce decency standards: cameramen battling to restrain possessed and prurient audiovisual equipment, Jim puzzling over his smashed remote, and Cameo running from offstage carrying a giant green tunic which she threw to Alec. Just as he put it on over his horn and got it low enough for at least regimental standards of decency, the weird electrical energy evaporated into nothingness and the instruments clattered to the stage. As the curtain began to come down, Jim triumphantly held up the universal remote in one hand and the batteries in the other.
“That was fun,” the crazy ace said, turning to the rest of them. “Do you think we’ll be able to top that with the next set?”
“God I hope not . . .” Alec prayed. “I must have looked like Herne out there.”
Jim nodded. “A lot like he did in ‘The King of Spring.’”
“Jim,” Paul said, “that’s not a good thing. That’s a joker porn video.”
“It is not,” Jim insisted. “I read the box. It’s a French art film.”
“Where Herne fucks twenty nuns.”
“It’s symbolic. He’s the King of Spring.”
Dirk snorted. “King of Sproing is more like it.”
“You’re not being helpful,” Cameo said, then to Alec, “Honestly, Alec, you do not look like Herne.”
“Herne has antlers,” Jim said helpfully, “you have a unicorn horn. No one could mistake you. Above the waist, at least.”
Alec groaned while Cameo said, “Let’s just get you your tights.”
The went offstage to the changing area where the most noticeable thing was Cameo’s ragbag spilled across the floor. The next most noticeable thing was when Topper snatched the cloche hat off Cameo’s head. “Alright,” she said, stuffing it inside the inverted top hat she held in her other hand, “and for my next trick, I’d like to hear some serious answers. That is, if you ever want to see your own precious hat again.”
Cameo turned and began to glow blue with St. Elmo’s fire, electricity sparking off the bobbypins of her bizarre hairdo, which consisted of her long honey blond tresses pinned up and over a battered fedora, squashed from where it had been hidden beneath the cloche. “I don’t know who you are, lady,” she growled, “but you stay away from Ellen or you’ll have to answer to me.”
“And who are you?” Topper asked, stepping back, her hand still down her hat.
“That, I expect, would be Nick Williams,” said Peregrine, stepping in front of John Fortune, “a dead private investigator. And a dead ace. Will-o’-the-Wisp, the Hollywood phantom.”
“Who-” said Cameo, turning, then, “Oh, the winged bimbo who called me a liar. Ellen too.” A small ball of energy had formed in the air, levitating above her right hand like an ignis fatuous. “Going to call us liars again?”
Peregrine stood there, her face a mask of regal calm. “No. Though you were less than forthcoming with all the particulars of your story.”
“I told you everything,” Cameo said. “I was an ace up the sleeve, and I was murdered for it. Only thing I didn’t tell you was that when Ellen calls me back, she calls my ace too.”
“Is that why you stole my hat?” Topper asked.
“What?” said Cameo, then looked distracted, as if she were listening to someone. “Ellen says she didn’t steal your hat, she stole your grandfather’s hat. She needed to talk with him.” Cameo looked distracted again. “Says he’s a stubborn old bastard, and he’s pissed as hell that you kept your ace up your sleeve. But tit for tat. You never told him your secret, he never told you his.”
Topper’s eyes went wide. “That’s what this is about? Grandpa’s tricks?”
The electrical charge faded back into Cameo and she shook her head. “Yes,” she said, “I’m sorry for borrowing your hat, but you can use any hat for your tricks, while I needed this one in particular.”
Topper looked to Sam, then back to Cameo. “You read that same damned Aces! article, didn’t you?”
“Actually, I did,” said Roger. “I won’t let Cameo take the rap for it alone. I put her up to it. The article said that after the fire, the only personal effects Blackwood the Magnificent had left were his hat—”
“And the International Brotherhood of Magicians pocket watch he was buried with,” Topper finished for him. “And you didn’t want to desecrate his grave. I guess I should thank you for that.” She paused then and grimaced. “Grandpa forgive me . . . hopefully soon. . . .” She reached deep into her hat and came back with a corroded silver pocket watch, covered with dust and gravemold. She tossed it to Cameo.
The medium caught it in one hand, then gazed at it for a long moment. Then she popped the catch and looked at the watchface, remarking, “This is going to need to be cleaned if you expect me to be wearing it.” She looked up then, smiling. “Melissa. How are you, my dear?”
“Grandpa?” Topper asked.
“The same,” she said, “or different. Don’t be so amazed. Swapping places with an assistant is old hat.” She chuckled. “Besides which, if Houdini managed an escape from the grave, why should you be surprised when I play the same trick?”
“This afternoon . . . you didn’t tell me it was you.”
“You didn’t ask. Besides which, it wasn’t my trick to reveal.” Cameo raised her eyebrows. “Anything you’d like to tell me now, my dear?”
Topper bit her lip, then let it out all in one breath: “I’m an ace, grandpa.”
The medium nodded. “There, that wasn’t so hard. I’m glad to hear it. But as I can see from the faces here, that secret has been spread rather thin. Indeed, I heard you tell it this afternoon to one who you believed was a complete stranger. Not quite worth the price of the Blackwood legacy.” She looked about the group. “Are there any other takers?” She looked to Roger. “You, sir, the gentleman with the handsome raven—I’m informed you quest after magic. Is this so?”
“Of course,” said Roger. “You’re one of my idols.”
“A flattering thing to hear in a weary world,” Cameo responded, “but flattery is cheap, and you know my price: A secret for a secret. But a bit of professional advice: A good magician has more than one trusted assistant. If you can take those present here into your confidence, I suggest you do so.”
Roger looked around, lingering a long moment on Peregrine and her son, but she nodded as did he. “Alright,” Roger said, “I’m not an ace. Not even a deuce. All my tricks are parlor magic.”
“Anything else?”
Roger paused, then took a deep breath. “I’m not a joker either.” He reached up and lifted his eyepatch, then opened his eye and pinched out a large
black lens. “Theatrical contacts.”
“But you have horns!” Jim protested. “I’ve seen them!”
“Those are real,” Roger said, “just not mine. I got them from Hodge-Podge.”
“Hodge-Podge?” Peregrine asked.
“Back alley psychic surgeon,” Roger explained. “She takes bits off animals and put them on people.” Roger replaced his contact and eyepatch, then lifted his hat. “Somewhere there’s a small African antelope missing its horns.”
Everyone looked at Sam’s tail until he tucked it between his legs. “Uh . . . guys, this is original equipment.”
“Same here,” said Alec.
“Not here.” Roger dropped his hat. “I’m a latent. That’s all.”
“No,” said Cameo, “you are also a skilled illusionist. I can see from the faces here.” She gazed about the circle. “I also find this very droll—an ace pretending to be a latent aiding a latent pretending to an ace.” She glanced over to Topper. “And teaching my granddaughter a valuable lesson in the bargain: A good magician never relies too heavily on one trick. Enjoy your hat, Melissa. And adieu, for the moment.”
Cameo clicked the watch shut and shook her head. “He’s gone.”
“May I have his watch back?”
Cameo paused, then pressed the stud again, raising a cloud of dust, and fixed Topper with haughty look. “Really, Melissa. It’s my watch, and last I checked, the dearly departed were allowed to take their grave goods into the afterlife however they please. This is how I please. Once Ellen assists with costume changes, we intend to watch the performance—and my new apprentice.”
“I thought I was your apprentice.”
“You were, my dear,” Cameo said softly, “but there’s a difference between something you do to please your grandfather, and something you do out of love for the art. And despite my current state, I still have standards. This young man meets them. Masquerading one magic as another, well, that has a certain flair, don’t you think? You are all assistants in a grand illusion, one final Blackwood trick.” She paused, listening. “And Ellen tells me that it is time for a certain young man to get into his tights. It appears the theatre has not changed much in the years since my death, and I take some comfort in that, so again, adieu for now.” Cameo clicked the watch shut again and said to Topper, “My hat?”
Topper pulled the cloche out of her topper and tossed it to Cameo, and as she and the Boys set about costume changes, Topper came over next to Sam and sighed. “Trust grandpa to upstage me, even after all these years.”
“Trust my brother to join him,” Sam said.
“They’re two of a kind, aren’t they?”
“Seems like. Anything for the show. Your grandpa ever drag you onstage?”
“When I was five. . . .” Topper bit her lip. “You know, I was planning to go to a costume party at Aces High. Care to blow this popstand and join me?” She paused. “What’s wrong?”
“That phrase.” Sam nodded to where Cameo was helping Jim with a Dr. Frankenstein costume. “Do you know how many sodas have names like ‘Burst’ and ‘Blast’? Jim blew up the 7-11 once.” Sam switched his tail then. “Do I meet the dress code?”
“You’ve just had thousands of girls screaming for you. Hiram’s a snob, not an idiot. And it’s a charity masquerade anyway.” She paused. “The only problem is that I only bought one ticket and it’s sold out. And while Hiram keeps extras in his desk,” With a flourish, she produced a sheaf from her hat, “they require his signature to be valid . . . .”
“What’s the charity?”
“J-town Clinic, same as always,” Topper said, handing him the passes. “I can slip a few thousand in the till when he’s not looking.”
Sam grinned, laying them out on the cover of his sketchbook. “Got an example?” he asked, pulling off his glove.
Topper produced one, and with a flair, Sam forged both Hiram Worchester’s flamboyant up-and-down signature and his peacock blue fountain pen ink. “Cast party is on me,” said Topper, taking the extras and handing them to Peregrine, “but tell the Boys that I’ve absconded with their backup singer.” She replaced her hat, tapped the top, and extended her arm to Sam. “Care to join your fellow aces?”
Sam accepted her arm. “Sure thing.”
Editor GEORGE R. R. MARTIN was born September 20, 1948 in Bayonne, New Jersey. He began writing very young, selling monserstories to other neighborhood children for pennies, dramatic readings included. Later he became a comic book fan and collector in high school, and began to write fiction for comic fanzines (amateur fan magazines). Martin’s first professional sale was made in 1970 at age 21: “The Hero,” sold to Galaxy, published in February, 1971 issue. Other sales followed.
Four-time winner of the Hugo Award, two-time winner of the Nebula Award, and six-time Locus Award winner, Martin is the author and editor of over two dozen novels and anthologies, and the writer of numerous short stories. His New York Times best-selling novel A Storm of Swords—the third volume in his epic fantasy series “A Song of Ice and Fire”—was published in 2000. Martin lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
“Martin has assembled an impressive array of writers. . . . Progressing through the decades, Wild Cards keeps its momentum to the end . . . I’m looking forward to the next episodes in this saga of mutant Americana.”
—Locus
“Well written and suspenseful and a good read. . . . The authors had a lot of fun rewriting recent American history.”
—Aboriginal Science Fiction
“Commendable writing . . . a zany premise . . . narrated with rueful humor and intelligence.”
—Publishers Weekly
Wild Cards XVI Deuces Down Page 33