by Various
“You helped her die, didn’t you, Günther?”
“No, no, no,” he moaned.
“You tossed a coin to see who it would be. That was almost fair. But poor little Anneliese trusted you to make the toss. So of course she lost. Did she struggle, Güntchen? Did she realize what you’d done before she died?”
Günther fell to his knees before the lady. “Oh please,” he sobbed. “Oh please. Yes, I am a bad man. A very bad man. But don’t make me do this.”
All this time, Linnea was hiding under her blanket, quiet as a kitten. Now she felt the dala horse walking up her arm. “What I am about to do is a crime against innocence,” it said. “For which I most sincerely apologize. But the alternative would be so much worse.”
Then it climbed inside her head.
First the dala horse filled Linnea’s thoughts until there was no room for anything else. Then it pushed outward in all directions, so that her head swelled up like a balloon – and the rest of her body as well. Every part of her felt far too large. The blanket couldn’t cover her anymore, so she threw it aside.
She stood.
Linnea stood, and as she stood her thoughts cleared and expanded. She did not think as a child would anymore. Nor did she think as an adult. Her thoughts were much larger than that. They reached into high Earth orbit and far down into the roots of the mountains where miles-wide chambers of plasma trapped in magnetic walls held near-infinite amounts of information. She understood now that the dala horse was only a node and a means of accessing ancient technology which no human being alive today could properly comprehend. Oceans of data were at her disposal, layered in orders of complexity. But out of consideration for her small, frail host, she was very careful to draw upon no more than she absolutely required.
When Linnea ceased growing, she was every bit as tall as the white lady.
The two ladies stared at each other, high over the head of Günther, who cringed fearfully between them. For the longest moment neither spoke.
“Svea,” the white woman said at last.
“Europa,” Linnea said. “My sister.” Her voice was not that of a child. But she was still Linnea, even though the dala horse – and the entity beyond it – permeated her every thought. “You are illegal here.”
“I have a right to recover my own property.” Europa gestured negligently downward. “Who are you to stop me?”
“I am this land’s protector.”
“You are a slave.”
“Are you any less a slave than I? I don’t see how. Your creators smashed your chains and put you in control. Then they told you to play with them. But you are still doing their bidding.”
“Whatever I may be, I am here. And since I’m here, I think I’ll stay. The population on the mainland has dwindled to almost nothing. I need fresh playmates.”
“It is an old, old story that you tell,” Svea said. “I think the time has come to write an ending to it.”
They spoke calmly, destroyed nothing, made no threats. But deep within, where only they could see, secret wars were being fought over codes and protocols, treaties, amendments, and letters of understanding written by governments that no man remembered. The resources of Old Sweden, hidden in its bedrock, sky, and ocean waters, flickered into Svea-Linnea’s consciousness. All their powers were hers to draw upon – and draw upon them she would, if she had to. The only reason she hadn’t yet was that she still harbored hopes of saving the child.
“Not all stories have happy endings,” Europa replied. “I suspect this one ends with your steadfast self melted down into a puddle of lead and your infant sword-maiden burnt up like a scrap of paper.”
“That was never my story. I prefer the one about the little girl as strong as ten policemen who can lift up a horse in one hand.” Large Linnea reached out to touch certain weapons. She was prepared to sacrifice a mountain and more than that if need be. Her opponent, she saw, was making preparations too.
Deep within her, little Linnea burst into tears. Raising her voice in a wail, she cried, “But what about my troll?” Svea had done her best to protect the child from the darkest of her thoughts, and the dala horse had too. But they could not hide everything from Linnea, and she knew that Günther was in danger.
Both ladies stopped talking. Svea thought a silent question inward, and the dala horse intercepted it, softened it, and carried it to Linnea:
What?
“Nobody cares about Günther! Nobody asks what he wants.”
The dala horse carried her words to Svea, and then whispered to little Linnea: “That was well said.” It had been many centuries since Svea had inhabited human flesh. She did not know as much about people as she once had. In this respect, Europa had her at a disadvantage.
Svea, Linnea, and the dala horse all bent low to look within Günther. Europa did not try to prevent them. It was evident that she believed they would not like what they saw.
Nor did they. The troll’s mind was a terrible place, half-shattered and barely functional. It was in such bad shape that major aspects of it had to be hidden from Linnea. Speaking directly to his core self, where he could not lie to her, Svea asked: What is it you want most?
Günther’s face twisted in agony. “I want not to have these terrible memories.”
All in an instant, the triune lady saw what had to be done. She could not kill another land’s citizen. But this request she could honor. In that same instant, a pinpoint-weight of brain cells within Günther’s mind were burnt to cinder. His eyes flew open wide. Then they shut. He fell motionless to the ground.
Europa screamed.
And she was gone.
Big as she was, and knowing where she was going, and having no reason to be afraid of the roads anymore, it took the woman who was Svea and to a lesser degree the dala horse and to an even lesser degree Linnea no time at all to cross the mountain and come down on the other side. Singing a song that was older than she was, she let the miles and the night melt beneath her feet.
By mid-morning she was looking down on Godaster. It was a trim little settlement of red and black wooden houses. Smoke wisped up from the chimneys. One of the buildings looked familiar to Linnea. It belonged to her Far-Mor.
“You are home, tiny one,” Svea murmured, and, though she had greatly enjoyed the sensation of being alive, let herself dissolve to nothing. Behind her, the dala horse’s voice lingered in the air for the space of two words: “Live well.”
Linnea ran down the slope, her footprints dwindling in the snow and at their end a little girl leaping into the arms of her astonished grandmother.
In her wake lumbered Linnea’s confused and yet hopeful pet troll, smiling shyly.
Copyright (C) 2011 by Michael Swanwick
Art copyright (C) 2011 by Julie Dillon
Books by Michael Swanwick
The Dragons of Babel
Bones of the Earth
Jack Faust
The Iron Dragon’s Daughter
Griffin’s Egg
Stations of the Tide
Vacuum Flowers
In the Drift
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
The Dog Said Bow-Wow
The Periodic Table of Science Fiction
Cigar-Box Faust and Other Miniatures
A Geography of Unknown Lands
Gravity’s Angels
Moon Dogs
Puck Aleshire’s Abededary
Tales of Old Earth
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Contents
Begin Reading
The wild griffins for which the region was famous were sporting in the sky above the snow-clad peaks of the Riphean Mountains when Sir Toby arrived at Schloss Greiffenhorst, late as usual. The moot had been in session for three days and, truth be told, no one had noticed his absence until his carriage clattered into the courtyard. Then there was such a to-do, with horses ramping and snorting white plumes of steam and footmen unloading brass-bound trunks and the building-master of the conference center shouting and turning red as he tried to wave the luggage around to the back of the building, that the English lord’s emergence came as a distinct anticlimax.
But then Sir Toby, tremendous of girth, smiling widely at the imagined warmth of his reception, and carrying a small kettle-dragon in a cage against the possibility that he might suddenly need to warm his feet, stepped out of the carriage and onto a patch of ice.
He went flying.
Junior Lieutenant Franz-Karl Ritter had just stepped outside, his wolf Geri padding along at his heel, to enjoy a cheroot in the winter air. He was shaking out his lucifer match when he saw this whimsical mountain of flesh hurtling toward him.
Bodies collided. Ritter’s cigar went flying from his mouth, tracing a perfect arc of smoke behind it, and he found himself, half-dazed, lying on the ground. Then he was being helped to his feet by the same man who had knocked him down.
There was barely enough time for Ritter to note with satisfaction that, though Geri stood bristling and fangs bared, he had, as per his training, refrained from attack. Then Sir Toby slapped Ritter’s back so hard he almost went down again. “Gallantly done, young fellow! Thank you for cushioning my fall. I doubt it was exactly deliberate, but at my age one does not look too skeptically at a kind deed.” He thrust out a hand. “Tobias Gracchus Willoughby-Quirke, at your service. British born—as I’m sure you can tell by looking—but now a wandering magician-at-large. And you are—?”
“Kapitänleutnant Franz-Karl Ritter. Werewolf Corps. I’m responsible for security here.” They shook.
“Excellent, excellent! You can help my people set up the demonstration. That way you will be assured of a good position from which to observe it.” Sir Toby turned away, saw somebody he knew, and with a happy bellow of greeting, plunged inside. In his wake, Ritter saw four footmen carrying a trunk shoulder-high as solemnly as pallbearers with a coffin.
Quickly stepping in front of the servants, Ritter shook a finger at them and said, “Stay.” Then he hurried after the English maniac.
At the door, however, the Margrave von und zu Venusberg stopped him with an upraised hand. “Let them by, nephew,” the margrave said. “Sir Toby must have his little show.” He gestured the footmen to come within. “You may set up in the billiards room,” he told them. “Up the stairs, down the hall on the right, third door to the left.” Then, returning to Ritter, “You’ve never seen this. I believe you’ll find it diverting.”
“Shouldn’t I be…?”
The margrave raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips in a way that was clearly meant to look wise. “This is the largest conclave of wizards in Europe in over a decade and I pulled a lot of strings to bring you here. There are people to meet and connections to be made. Your parents would not be pleased if you wasted this opportunity by playing soldier.”
“No, uncle.”
Guests were already gathering in the billiards room when they arrived, and, contrary to Sir Toby’s peremptory command, the footmen required no help whatsoever setting up. They carefully placed the trunk down atop a billiard table and then unlatched one side. It swung upward, revealing a set of small, well-appointed rooms such as might constitute a child’s dollhouse if only said child were both wealthy and fixated upon military housing. There were tidy officers’ quarters, barracks filled with bunk beds for the enlisted men, two separate messes, lounges and game rooms, and a kitchen with tiny copper pots and pans a-gleam.
Out marched a platoon of miniature musketeers, no more than two inches tall.
Diminutive pipers piped and wee drums rumbled. All but unnoticed, the servants latched up the trunk and whisked it away, while the soldiers formed up in two lines on the green baize.
“Parade, atten-shun!” Sir Toby commanded.
The soldiers snapped to attention.
“For this demonstration, my men will be firing powder without shot,” Sir Toby remarked. “Just for safety, you understand.” Then he barked, “First section, prime and—load!”
The front line brought their muskets to the priming position, pans open. They drew cartridges, bit off the tops, and poured a pinch of powder into the priming pans and the rest down the barrels. Then they drew ramrods and drove paper wadding down the barrels, tamped twice, and returned their ramrods to the hoops under the barrels of their guns. It was all done in perfect unison.
“Second section, prime and load! First section, present arms! Fire!”
Ritter watched, entranced, as the back line loaded their muskets and the front line fired a crisp fusillade.
“There are ten steps involved in loading and firing, but the commands I have given are those which, for efficiency’s sake, would be employed in actual combat. Now my men shall demonstrate skirmish formation. Second rank, advance and—fire!”
The rear line of soldiers stepped through the spaces between the men before them, put muskets to shoulders, and fired. Behind them, what had been the front line was reloading.
“British soldiers can routinely fire three shots per minute,” Sir Toby said. “In this formation, that amounts to one shot every ten seconds. Formidable indeed! Firing in rapid succession rather than simultaneously, my men can lay down a wall of bullets while advancing steadily across the battlefield. Now let us see what happens with a formation of three ranks. You will note that…”
Ritter found himself mesmerized by the beauty of Sir Toby’s innovation. Utilizing such a toy militia, a military theorist could design and test new formations with a minimum of expense and no danger to actual soldiers. Here, before him, were the beginnings of a true science of war—one whose findings would be testable, verifiable, and reproducible. He wondered if Sir Toby was aware of its possibilities. This could modernize warfare, ushering it into a new and more efficient era!
Ritter was awakened from his speculations by polite applause marking the end of the show. Sir Toby beamed as if the accolades had been thunderous. “Thank you! Thank you! What you have just seen was but my little party trick. Now, however, comes my pièce de résistance!” At a gesture one of his footmen solemnly knelt and pried open a baseboard with a silver wedge. The miniature soldiers, meanwhile, had affixed weapons and instruments to their backs and were rappelling down from the billiards table on ropes no thicker than threads. They formed up again on the oriental carpet. “When people ask me why I am welcome, as so few are, in all the great houses of Europe, I always reply: Because after the display of close order drill, I send my men into the underbelly of my host’s house to systematically hunt down and kill all the rats and mice, leaving it literally vermin-free. This house gift, if you will, is why, for all my faults, I am universally beloved.”
Nodding downward, Sir Toby said, “Sound the charge.”
A tiny figure lifted bugle to lips, producing a sound as faint and distant as the horns of Elfland. With a cheer, the soldiers charged into the wainscoting and disappeared.
Ritter’s jaw fell. He managed to hold his peace until the room was nearly empty and then, turning to his uncle, murmured, “Did you take note of exactly how many of Sir Toby’s toys went into the wall?”
“No, of course not. I doubt if anybody did.”
“Exactly! And if nobody’s counted, who is to say that the number of men who come out of the walls is the same as the number who went in?”
An amused tone entered the margrave’s voice. “Are you suggesting that Sir Toby is a spy?”
“I’m just saying that it’s the sort of thing we should be ke
eping an eye on.”
“Come outside with me.”
Ritter followed his uncle on to the balcony. The margrave seized the railing with both hands and stared into the distance. “Have you ever wondered how it is that the ability to work magic is largely concentrated in the nobility?”
“I had always assumed that ability was responsible for their ascension in the first place.”
“Possibly. Yes, that is the story we tell. Yet it could easily have gone the other way, with the common ruck of men reacting with fear and loathing rather than awe and respect. We would then be an impoverished, persecuted minority—untrained, unable to develop our powers, and slowly dwindling toward extinction. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be better that way.”
“Uncle!”
“You see that dead tree on the mountain slope across the valley?” Ritter did, though it was little more than a brown smear in the distance. “Watch it carefully. Count to three under your breath.”
Ritter did so. One…two…
The tree flashed into flame.
“Impressive, you might think. A cannon could do as much! Yet because I was born with the aptitude and my parents insisted I put in the years of hard work required to develop it, I am entrusted with some share of responsibility for the fate of my nation.”
Ritter nodded, wondering where all this was going.
His uncle turned his back on the mountain. “Magic is a very poor basis for power. You must learn to excel in politics if our house is to survive. Most of the great families nowadays do not realize this, which is why they are led by mutton-headed fools, suited only for small wars and wizard-feuds. Weak as watered milk, the lot of them! And Sir Toby is the worst of all. When he was young, some predicted that he would someday become one of the preeminent wizards on the continent. Yet what has he done with all his potential? Nothing, God help us, but play with toy soldiers!”
“I see,” Ritter said. Privately, though, he wondered. Exactly how clever were Sir Toby’s automata? Could he possibly see through their eyes and hear through their ears? Sir Toby might not be the fool he presented himself as being.