The Long List Anthology: More Stories From the Hugo Award Nomination List (The Long List Anthology Series Book 1)

by Annie Bellet

  Some days, Brandwin would operate the third vending cart, offering sweets and beer, but for some time she was absorbed in a number of demanding modifications to Shraplin’s body and limbs. These modifications remained hidden in the darkness of her workshop; Shraplin never went out in public wearing anything but one of his ordinary bodies.

  One bright day on Prosperity Street, a stray breeze blew one of Amarelle’s books open and fluttered its pages. She moved to close it and was startled to find a detailed grayscale engraving of Scavius’ face staring up at her from the top page.

  “Amarelle,” said the illustration. “You seem to have an unexpected literary sideline.”

  “Can’t practice my former trade,” she said through gritted teeth. “Money’s getting tight.”

  “So you’re exploring new avenues, eh? New avenues? Not even a smile? Well, fine, have it your way. I ought to snuff you, you realize. I don’t know who or what prompted the weirdness of the previous few months—”

  Amarelle fanned the pages of the book vindictively. The illustration flashed past on each one, and continued talking smoothly when Amarelle gave up.

  “…but the wisest and cleverest thing would be to turn your bones to molten glass and take no chances. Alas, I need evidence of wrongdoing. Can’t just blast sanctuary tithers. People might stop giving us large piles of treasure for the privilege.”

  “My business partners and I are engaged in boring, legitimate commerce,” said Amarelle.

  “I know. I’ve been peeking up your skirts, as it were. Very boring. I thought we ought to have a final word, though. A little reminder that you should stay boring, or I can think of one story that won’t have a happy ending.”

  The book slammed itself shut. Amarelle exhaled slowly, rubbed her eyes, and went back to work.

  On the days wore, on the legitimate business went. The women began to move their vending carts more frequently, investing some of their profits in small mechanical equines to make this work easier.

  With three months left in the contract, the carts that moved up and down Prosperity Street began to cross paths with carts from elsewhere in the city in a complicated dance that always ended with an unmarked High Barrens Reclamation Consortium wagon paying a quiet evening visit to one of the mansions they were excavating.

  Another two months passed, and there was no spot on Prosperity Street that Amarelle or Sophara or Brandwin had not staked out at least temporarily, no merchant they hadn’t come to know by name, no constable they hadn’t thoroughly pacified with free food, good beer, and occasional gifts of books.

  Three days before the contract was due to expire, a loud explosion shook the north end of Prosperity Street, breaking windows and knocking pedestrians to the curb. A mansion in a private court was found burning, already collapsing into itself. A huge black coach lay wrecked in the drive, its ghoul-cage wheels torn open, its roof smashed, its insides revealing nothing but well-upholstered seats and a carpeted floor.

  The next day, Amarelle Parathis was politely summoned to the manse of the wizard Ivovandas.

  16. Bottled Malady

  “Am I satisfied? Satisfaction is a palliative,” said Ivovandas, gold-threaded teeth blazing with reflected light, butterflies fluttering furiously. “Satisfaction is mild wine. Satisfaction is a tiny fraction of what I feel. Delight and fulfillment pounding in my breast like triumphant chords! Seventy years of unprofitable disdain from this face-changing reprobate, and now his misery is mine to contemplate at leisure.”

  “I’m so pleased you were able to crush him,” said Amarelle. “Did you manage to get home in time for your tea afterward?”

  The golden wizard ignored her and kept staring at the glass cylinder on her desk. It was six inches tall and half as wide, capped with a ground-glass stopper and sealed with wax the color of dried blood. Inside it was wretched Jarrow, shrunken to a suitable proportion and clad in rags. He had reverted (or been forced into) the shape of a cadaverous pale man with a silver-black beard.

  “Jarrow,” she sighed. “Jarrow. Oh, the laws of proportion and symmetry are restored to operation between us; my sustained pleasure balanced accurately against your lingering discomfort and demise.”

  “So obviously,” said Amarelle, “you consider me to have stolen Prosperity Street in accordance with the contract?”

  Jarrow pounded furiously against the glass.

  “Oh, obviously, dear Amarelle, you’ve acquitted yourself splendidly! Yet the street is still there, is it not? Still carrying traffic, still hosting commerce. Before I retrieve your blue crystal, are you of a mind to indulge my former colleague and I with an explanation?”

  “Delighted,” said Amarelle. “After all our other approaches failed, we decided to try the painstakingly literal. Prosperity Street is roughly three thousand, one hundred and seventy square yards of brick and stone surface. The question we asked ourselves was: who really looks at each brick and each stone?”

  “Certainly not poor Jarrow,” said Ivovandas, “else he’d not find his bottle about to join my collection.”

  “We resolved to physically steal every single square yard of Prosperity Street, every brick and stone,” said Amarelle. “Which yielded three problems. First, how to do so without anyone noticing the noise and tumult of our work? Second, how to do so without anyone objecting to the stripped and uneven mess made of the street in our wake? Third, how to provide the physical labor to handle the sheer volume and tedium of the task?”

  “To answer the second point first, we used the High Barrens Restoration Consortium. They carefully fished through the mansions you two have destroyed in your feud to provide us with all the bricks and stones we could ever need.

  “A large hollow space was constructed beneath each of our vending carts, which we first plied up and down assorted city streets, not just Prosperity, for an interminable length of time to allay suspicion that they were directly aimed at Jarrow’s locus.”

  Jarrow banged his head repeatedly against the inside of his prison.

  “Eventually we felt it was safe to proceed with our real business. The rest you must surely have guessed by now. The labor was provided by Shraplin, an automaton, whose meeting with Jarrow left him very eager to bear any trouble or tedium in the cause of his revenge. Shraplin utilized tool-arms custom-forged for him by Brandwin Miris to dig up the bricks and stones of the actual street, and to lay in their place the bricks and stones taken from the High Barrens mansions. At night, the detritus he’d scraped up by day was dumped into the ruins of those same mansions. As for why nobody ever heard Shraplin scraping or pounding away beneath our carts, all I can say is that our magician is highly adept at the production of sound-proof barriers to fit any space or need.

  “All that was left to do,” said Amarelle, stretching and yawning, “was to spend the months necessary to carefully position our carts over every square foot of Prosperity Street. Nobody ever noticed that when we moved on, the patches of street beneath us had changed subtly from the hour or two before. Eventually, we pried up the last brick that was genuinely important, and Jarrow’s locus became just another city lane.”

  “Help me!” Jarrow cried, his voice high and faint as a whisper in the wind. “Get me away from her! I can be him for you! I can be Scavius! I can be anyone you want!”

  “Enough from you, I think.” Ivovandas slid his prison lovingly into a desk drawer, still smiling. She curled her fingers, and a familiar blue crystal appeared within them.

  “You have suffered quite tenaciously for this,” said Ivovandas. “I give it to you now as my half of our bargain, fairly begun and fairly concluded.”

  Amarelle took the glowing crystal and crushed it beneath her heel.

  “Is that the end of it?” she said. “All restored to harmonious equipoise? I go on my way and leave you to your next few years of conversation with Jarrow?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Ivovandas. “While I have dutifully disposed of the crystal recording from last year’s intemper
ate drunken visitation, I have just now secured an even more entertaining one in which you confess at length to crimes carried out in Theradane and implicate several of your friends by name.”

  “Yes,” said Amarelle. “I did rather expect something like this. I figured that since I was likely to eat more treachery, I might as well have an appreciative audience first.”

  “I am the most appreciative audience! Oh, we could be so good for one another! Consider, Amarelle, the very reasonable bounds of my desires and expectations. I fancy myself fairly adept at identifying the loci in use by my colleagues. With Jarrow removed, there will be a rebalancing of the alliances in our parliament. There will be new testing and new struggles. I shall be watching very, very carefully, and inevitably I expect to have another target for you and your friends to secure on my behalf.”

  “You want to use us to knock off the Parliament of Strife, locus by locus” said Amarelle. “Until it’s something more like the Parliament of Ivovandas.”

  “It might not happen in your lifetime,” said the wizard. “But substantial progress could be at hand! In the meantime, I’ll be quite content to let you remain at liberty in the city, enjoying your sanctuary, doing as you please. So long as you and your friends come when I call. Doubt not that I shall call.”

  17. The Work Ahead

  Amarelle met them afterward on the Tanglewing Bridge, in the pleasant purple light of fading sunset. The city was quiet, the High Barrens peaceful, no fires falling from the clouds or screeching things sinking claws into one another.

  They gathered in an arc in front of Scavius’ statue. Sophara muttered and gestured with her fingers.

  “We’re in the bubble,” she said. “Nobody can hear us, or even see us unless I… shut up, Scavius, I know you can hear us. You’re a special case. How did it go down, Amarelle?”

  “It went down like we expected,” said Amarelle. “Exactly like we expected.”

  “I told you those kinds of sorcerers are all reflexively treacherous bags of nuts,” said Sophara. “What’s her game?”

  “She wants us on an unpaid retainer so she can dig up the loci of more of her colleagues and send us after them.”

  “Sounds like a good way to kill some time, boss.” Shraplin wound a crank on his chest, re-synchronizing some mechanism that had picked up a slight rattle. “I could stand to knock over a few more of those assholes. She’d save us a lot of work if she identified the loci for us.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said Sophara. “Now hold still.”

  She ran her fingers through Amarelle’s hair, and after a few moments of searching carefully plucked out a single curling black strand.

  “There’s my little spy,” said Sophara. “I’m glad you brought me that one Ivovandas planted on you, Am. I never would have learned how to make these things so subtle if I hadn’t been able to pry that one apart.”

  “Do you think it will tell you enough?” said Brandwin.

  “I honestly doubt it.” Sophara slipped the hair into a wallet and smiled. “But it’ll give me a good look at everything Amarelle was allowed to see, and that’s much better than nothing. If we can identify her patterns and her habits, the bitch will eventually start painting clues for us as to the location of her own locus.”

  “Splat!” said Brandwin.

  “Yeah,” said Sophara. “And that’s definitely my idea of a playground.”

  “I should be able to get some messages out of the city,” said Jadetongue. “Some of the people we’ve got howling for our blood hate the Parliament of Strife even more. If we could make arrangements with them before we knock those wizards down, I’d bet we could buy our way back into the world. Theradane sanctuary in reverse, at least in a few places.”

  “I like the way you people think,” said Amarelle. “Ivovandas as a stalking horse, and once we’ve got the goods on her we dump her ass in the river. Her and all her friends. Who’s got the wine?”

  Jade held out the bottle, something carnelian and bioluminescent and expensive. They passed it around, and even Shraplin dashed a ceremonial swig against his chin. Amarelle turned with the half-empty bottle and faced Scavius’ statue.

  “Here it is, you asshole. I guess we’re not as retired as we might have thought. Five thieves going to war against the Parliament of Strife. Insane. The kind of odds you always loved best. Will you try to think better of us? And if you can’t, will you at least keep a few pedestals warm? We might have a future as street lamps after all. Have one on us.”

  She smashed the bottle against his plaque, and they watched the glowing, fizzing wine run down the marble. After a few moments, Sophara and Brandwin walked away arm in arm, north toward Tanglewing Street. Shraplin followed, then Jade.

  Amarelle alone remained in the white light of whatever was left of Scavius. What he whispered to her then, she kept to herself.

  She ran to catch up with the others.

  “Hey,” said Jade. “Glad you’re back! You coming to the Sign of the Fallen Fire with us? We’re going to have a game.”

  “Yeah,” said Amarelle, and the air of Theradane tasted better than it had in months. “Hell yeah we’re going to have a game!”

  * * *

  Scott Lynch is the author of four novels in the Gentleman Bastard sequence. The Lies of Locke Lamora (2007) was a World Fantasy, British Fantasy, Crawford, Compton Crook, and Locus first novel finalist; its sequels are Red Seas Under Red Skies (2007), the New York Times best-selling The Republic of Thieves (2013), and the forthcoming The Thorn of Emberlain. His short fiction has appeared in Popular Science, Swords and Dark Magic, Tales of the Far West, Fearsome Journeys, and Rogues. He was a Campbell Best New Writer finalist for 2006 and 2007, and won the British Fantasy Award for best newcomer in 2008. He currently lives in Wisconsin, where he has been a volunteer firefighter since 2005. He shares a commuting relationship with his Massachusetts-based partner, author Elizabeth Bear.

  The Regular

  By Ken Liu

  “This is Jasmine,” she says.

  “It’s Robert.”

  The voice on the phone is the same as the one she had spoken to earlier in the afternoon.

  “Glad you made it, sweetie.” She looks out the window. He’s standing at the corner, in front of the convenience store as she asked. He looks clean and is dressed well, like he’s going on a date. A good sign. He’s also wearing a Red Sox cap pulled low over his brow, a rather amateurish attempt at anonymity. “I’m down the street from you, at 27 Moreland. It’s the gray stone condo building converted from a church.”

  He turns to look. “You have a sense of humor.”

  They all make that joke, but she laughs anyway. “I’m in unit 24, on the second floor.”

  “Is it just you? I’m not going to see some linebacker type demanding that I pay him first?”

  “I told you. I’m independent. Just have your donation ready and you’ll have a good time.”

  She hangs up and takes a quick look in the mirror to be sure she’s ready. The black stockings and garter belt are new, and the lace bustier accentuates her thin waist and makes her breasts seem larger. She’s done her makeup lightly, but the eye shadow is heavy to emphasize her eyes. Most of her customers like that. Exotic.

  The sheets on the king-size bed are fresh, and there’s a small wicker basket of condoms on the nightstand, next to a clock that says “5:58.” The date is for two hours, and afterwards she’ll have enough time to clean up and shower and then sit in front of the TV to catch her favorite show. She thinks about calling her mom later that night to ask about how to cook porgy.

  She opens the door before he can knock, and the look on his face tells her that she’s done well. He slips in; she closes the door, leans against it, and smiles at him.

  “You’re even prettier than the picture in your ad,” he says. He gazes into her eyes intently. “Especially the eyes.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she gets a good look at him in the hallway, she concentrates on her
right eye and blinks rapidly twice. She doesn’t think she’ll ever need it, but a girl has to protect herself. If she ever stops doing this, she thinks she’ll just have it taken out and thrown into the bottom of Boston Harbor, like the way she used to, as a little girl, write secrets down on bits of paper, wad them up, and flush them down the toilet.

  He’s good looking in a non-memorable way: over six feet, tanned skin, still has all his hair, and the body under that crisp shirt looks fit. The eyes are friendly and kind, and she’s pretty sure he won’t be too rough. She guesses that he’s in his forties, and maybe works downtown in one of the law firms or financial services companies, where his long-sleeved shirt and dark pants make sense with the air conditioning always turned high. He has that entitled arrogance that many mistake for masculine attractiveness. She notices that there’s a paler patch of skin around his ring finger. Even better. A married man is usually safer. A married man who doesn’t want her to know he’s married is the safest of all: he values what he has and doesn’t want to lose it.

  She hopes he’ll be a regular.

  “I’m glad we’re doing this.” He holds out a plain white envelope.

  She takes it and counts the bills inside. Then she puts it on top of the stack of mail on a small table by the entrance without saying anything. She takes him by the hand and leads him towards the bedroom. He pauses to look in the bathroom and then the other bedroom at the end of the hall.

  “Looking for your linebacker?” she teases.

  “Just making sure. I’m a nice guy.”

  He takes out a scanner and holds it up, concentrating on the screen.

  “Geez, you are paranoid,” she says. “The only camera in here is the one on my phone. And it’s definitely off.”