The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Third Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  The man in the corner moved. “Ah, good,” he murmured. “One’s hands have grown too cold.” He got up, and, moving to the firechauldron, thrust his hands into it and drew them out filled with hot coals glowing red. His manner seemed abstracted. An odor of singeing hair was very slightly perceptible. Eszterhazy felt his own flesh crawl. Slowly, quite slowly, the man poured the red hot coals back upon the fire. “You are Doctor Eszterhazy,” next he said.

  The statement required no confirmation. “And you, sir? Who?”

  Very slowly the tall body turned. A long finger stroked a long moustache. “I? Oh. I am the brother of the shadow of the slain. The vanguard of the shadows of the living. I—”

  Light. “Ah yes. You are the medium, Mr. Mudge.”

  “I am the medium. Mr. Mudge. As well. Oh yes.

  “I am really very pleased to have this occasion to meet the eminent Dr. Eszterhazy,” said Mr. Mudge.

  “Indeed,” murmured the eminent, very faintly questioning. He himself was certainly very interested at meeting the eminent Mr. Mudge. But, somehow, he rather doubted that he was really very pleased.

  “Yes, indeed. Ah. You are not here … or perhaps you are here … to consult the Second Recension of the Malleus Maleficarum?”

  The doctor said that he was not, not adding that both witchcraft and the fury it had once aroused alike tended to be productive of a definite dull pain between and in back of his eyes. “I am here to consult the Baconian Fragment. If it is by Friar Roger. Which is doubtless subject to doubt. If it is a fragment; the end of the parchment is rather fragmented, but the text itself seems complete.”

  Mr. Mudge nodded. He seemed, certainly, to follow the comments. But his manner seemed also to be rather faintly abstracted. “Now, I wish to ask you about your former tutor,” he said, and touched his full red tongue to his full red lips, and smiled. In fact the smile was not without a certain appeal, an effect, however, spoiled by … by what?… by the man’s having rather yellow teeth?

  “Which former tutor? I have had really a great many, as I began my formal education comparatively late, and was obliged to make up for lost time. So…”

  “He calls himself sometimes Cosimo Damiano, though I understand that this is not precisely his legal name.”

  Well. Someone learned enough to read old books in Latin, and he wished to enquire about old—“Yes. And what did you wish to enquire?”

  Could Dr. Eszterhazy recommend him? Certainly. The old man’s Italian knowledge was encyclopedic, his calligraphy was exquisite, and his knowledge of advanced geometry was … well … advanced. It was at this point that the door opened and Brother Claudius came in, hands tucked inside the sleeves of his habit. “Come with me,” he directed in a hollow voice; and, as he did not say to whom he was saying this, and as he immediately turned and left again, they both followed him. Through many an icy corridor. Up many a worn, yet steep, flight of stairs. Into the vast vaulted hall lined to twice a man’s height with books whose ancient odors still had, as far as Eszterhazy was concerned, the power to thrill. The monk gestured him to a table on which a book-box reposed. The monk next gestured Mr. Mudge further on and further on, eventually waving him to another table. On which, or so it seemed at a glance, another book-box reposed. Eszterhazy sat at the bench and opened the box.

  Immediately he saw that a mistake had been made, but automatically he turned a few pages. Instead of the rather cramped and fuddled Italian hand which he had expected, massive and heavy ‘black letter’ met his eye. One line seemed to unfold itself in particular; had it at one time been underlined and the underlining eradicated? For the parchment was scraped under the line. The mind of a demon is not the same as the mind of a man. Indeed, no. And the Malleus Maleficarum was not the same as the Baconian Fragment.

  “Pray excuse me, most reverend Brother,” He heard the voice of Mr. Mudge, “but have you perhaps inadvertently given my item of choice to the learned doctor, and his to me?”

  The hollow tone of Brother Claudius said, “Each has that which is proper for him now to read.” And he removed a small box from his sleeve, and took snuff. The learned doctor, what was it they called Roger Bacon? Ah yes: Doctor Mirabilis. Well—Suddenly he looked up; there was Melanchthon Mudge; had he floated? Usually the old floor sounded. What? The old floor always sounded.

  Always but now.

  “Brother Claudius has gone now. Shall we change books?”

  They changed books.

  By and by, he having principally noted what he had come to note, and the day having grown chiller yet, Eszterhazy rose to leave. Without especial thought, he blew upon his hands. With an almost painful suddeness his hand spun round towards the other man; he had not blown upon his hands to warm them! But the other man was gone.

  * * *

  It had been intimated to Eszterhazy that his name had been ‘temporarily subtracted’ from the military Active List for quite some years now, “for the purpose of continuing his education”—that meanwhile he had already obtained the baccalaureate, the licentiate, and two doctorates—and that unless he wished his name moved over to the Inactive List, very well, Engli, better Do Something about this. What he had done was to obtain transfer to the new Militia Reserve (as distinct from the not so new Reserve Militia), and as a result of having done so, found himself the very next weekend serving the twenty-five hours and twenty-five minutes which constituted his monthly service time with the Militia Reserve. (The Reserve Militia, as is well-known, had no monthly service time and instead required an annual service time of three weeks, three days, and three hours.) On reporting to the Armory he learned that although his having obtained a degree in mathematics had automatically shifted him from the Infantry to the Engineers, what was required of him this time had to do with another degree altogether.

  “Surgeon-Commander Blauew’s got the galloping gout again, Major Eszterhazy, and as you are, it seems, also a Doctor of Medicine, we need you for Medical Officer right now, and you can build us a fortress next month; haw haw!” was the adjutant’s greeting.

  “Very well, Adjutant. Very well. My that’s a nasty-looking spot on your neck, there, well, well, I’ll have a look at it after I’ve taken care of everything else;” and Temporary-Acting-Medical Officer Eszterhazy, E., moved on away, leaving the adjutant prey to dismal thoughts; and perhaps it would teach him not to play the oaf with his betters. The T.-A.-M.O. examined a number of candidates for the Militia Reserve, passed some, rejected some; made inspections which resulted in the Sanitary Facilities being very hastily and yet very thoroughly doused down with caustic soda and hot water; and delivered a brief and dispassionate lecture on social diseases to officers and men alike: to the great dis-ease of an elderly paymaster who said he doubted it was right to expose the younger men to such scientific language: perhaps not exactly what he meant. Sounds of drill command rang through the large hall with a surprising minimum of echo, in great measure because Eszterhazy (who had not read Vitruvius’s Ten Books for nothing) was instrumental in obtaining a theater-architect as consultant during the hall’s construction.

  Eventually it was time for commissioned officers to withdraw for wine and rusks, a snack traditionally taken standing up even where there might be facilities for sitting down. “Seen you in the Bosnian Campaign,” someone said; and, the Temporary-Acting-Medical Officer turning his head, recognized a face once more familiar than lately. The face was not only now older, it was much, much redder. “Just dropped in to pay my respects,” said the old soldier. “I am just here on my biennial leave. I am just a retired major in my own country, but I am a full colonel in the service of H.H. the Khedive of Egypt. Can I recruit you? Guarantee you higher rank, higher pay, higher respect, several servants, and heaps and heaps of fascinating adventure.”

  The younger man confessed himself already fascinated. He looked the Khedivial colonel in the man’s slightly bulging, slightly blood-shot, entirely blue eyes, and said, “Tell me about it.”

  He listened without a single
interruption until Col. Brennshnekkl got onto the subject of hunting in the Southern Provinces of H. H.—the southernmost boundaries of which evidently did not, as yet, exist. “—at least not on any official map; we intend to push ‘em as far south as we can push ‘em; now where was I? Ah yes! Hippo! Ah, you need a champion heavy ball for hippo! Say, a quarter of a pound. Same as elephant. Same as rhino.” Perhaps indecisive which of the three to talk about first, Brennshnekkl paused.

  Dr. Eszterhazy heard himself asking, “What about tiger?”

  “Tiger, eh. Well, you would naturally want a lighter rifle for soft-skinned game. Say, a .500 … or better yet a .577 Express—a Lang or a Lancaster or any of the good ones.”

  Eszterhazy stroked his beard, trimmed closer than in the mode of fashion. “But are there tigers in Africa?”

  The colonel appeared to be trying to say Yes and No simultaneously. To aid him he sipped his wine. Then: “Well, strictly to speak, no: there are no tigers in Africa. However, lots of chaps call them tigers. Am I making sense? I mean, leopards.”

  Something somewhere jingled. Or perhaps there was a ringing in the doctor’s ears. He repeated, dully, “Leopards?”

  Colonel Brennshnekkl explained that in some way leopards were more dangerous than tigers. Tigers, like lions, went along the level ground; leopards sometimes hid up trees. And pounced. Carefully setting down his wine, he bared his teeth, turned his hands into paws and his fingers into claws, and gave something in the way of a lunge which was nevertheless certainly intended to imitate a pounce. It seemed to his younger comrade that people for some reason had lately begun to imitate leopards for him. Was it a trend?

  “What else do they do up trees? Besides prepare to pounce? Do they have their, no, one would not say ‘nests,’ do they have lairs—?”

  No. No, leopards did not have lairs in trees. Well. Not precisely. In the manner of colonels the world over since the beginning of time, this one began to tell a story. “—recollect one day my native gun-bearer, chap named Pumbo—Pumbo? Yes. Pumbo. Faithful chap. Pumbo. Came running over to me and handed me my .577 Express. Said, ‘Master, tiger,’ which is to say, of course, leopard, said, ‘tiger up tree, look-see, shoot-quick!’” He raised an imaginary leopard-gun at an angle. “And as I was sighting, sighting, damn me! what did I see? A bloody young zebra or was it an antelope, bloody leopard had killed it by breaking its neck, as they do, and dragged it up into the upper crutch of the tree where I suppose it could hang, you know, all that galloping the wild game there does, makes it muscular and tough—’nother thing,” temporarily lowering his nonexistent rifle, the colonel got his wine back, looked at Eszterhazy over the rim of the mug; said, “’nother thing. Hyaenas can’t get to it. Once it’s up a tree. You know. Well—”

  But that was the last which Eszterhazy was to hear of the matter, for at that moment a whistle sounded to signal a return to the duties of the twenty-five hours and twenty-five minutes; a whistle? It was the sort of nautical whistle called a boatswain’s pipe and it was traditional to sound it at this point. No one at all knew why. That was what made it traditional.

  * * *

  In what had been the oldest and smallest schloss in Bella, long since escheated to The Realm, was the chamber of a gentleman whom rumor connected with the Secret Police. He was called by a number of names. Eszterhazy called him Max.

  “Engelbert Kristoffr.”

  “Max.”

  Segars and decanters. “How is the great plan for the education going?” “Engelbert Kristoffr” said that it was coming along well enough. He supposed Max knew that he already had the M.D. and Phil. D. Yes? And the D.Sc. and D.Mus. were likely next. Of course degrees were not everything. Right now he was not taking a schedule of courses for any degree, but he considered that his education continued daily nonetheless. Max hummed a bit in his throat. “You shall certainly become the best-educated man in the Empire. I hope you begin to think of some great reforms. Everyone thinks that old Professor Doctor Kugelius is our best-educated man, why? because each year he gives the same lecture on The Reconciliation of Aristotle and Plato and it is actually fifty lectures and he delivers it in Latin and what is his conclusion? that, after all, Aristotle and Plato cannot be reconciled; you did not come to hear me talk about Aristotle and Plato.” Said Max.

  The guest shook his head. “I came to hear you talk about Mr. Melanchthon Mudge,” he said.

  There was indeed a file on Melanchthon Mudge and Engelbert Kristoffr read it and then they began to talk again. Said Max: “You well recall a Cabinet decision to hold the laws against witchcraft in abeyance. It simply would not do, in this day and age, for our country to start a prosecution for witchcraft. And as we prefer to believe that the matter is confined to harmless old women living in remote villages, there is really no mechanism to handle a latter-day sorcerer.”

  An ash was flicked off a segar with impatience. “I don’t want the man burned or hanged or shackled, for heaven’s sake. We have experts in the sophistry of the law. Can’t they simply get an excuse to get the man out of our country?”

  Max very very slightly poured from the decanter to the mug. “Not so easily. Not when he has a lot of powerful friends. One of whom, are you not aware, is the aunt of your cousin Kristoffr Engelbert, of the Eszterhazy-Eszterhazy line; you are not aware? Ah, you were not, but are now. Having read the file.” The file reminded him of the Sovereign Princess Olga Helena of Damrosch-Pensk; she was of course not sovereign at all, she was the widow of Lavon Demetrius, whose status as one of the once-sovereign princes of the Hegemony had been mediatized while he himself was yet a minor: the family retained titles, lands, money, and had nothing any longer to do with governation at all; was this a good thing? If they were under the spell of Mr. Mudge, probably.

  “Nor is she the only one. Not every name is in the file; listen.” Max repeated some of the names not in the file. Engelbert Kristoffr winced. “Is it that they are so immensely impressed because he makes the spirits blow trumpets, move tables, ring bells? In my opinion: no. They are so immensely impressed because they are weak in character and he is strong in character and he is very, very bad in character and his performances are merely as it were items chosen off a menu. Melanchthon Mudge, as he calls himself, has a very long menu, and if he did not impress the credulous by doing such things, well, he would impress them by doing other things. Was it only because Louis Napoleon and Amadeus of Spain and Alexander of Russia believed the spirits of the dead were at this fellow’s command, lifting tables and sounding trumpets and ringing bells, that they gave him jewels? I don’t think so. And I might ask you to look at what happened afterwards: Louis Napoleon deposed, dying in exile; Amadeus deposed and in exile; Alexander of Russia fatally blown up by political disaffecteds.” Max banged his mug sharply on the scarred tabletop. “And another thing. If he has such powers, why does he employ them lifting tables and tinkling bells? Why does he content himself with gifts of jewels from kings and emperors?”

  Engelbert Kristoffr Eszterhazy thought of another question: Why is he—via the thought of him?—tormenting me? But he said, suddenly, aloud, “Because the mind of a demon is not the same as the mind of a man.”

  Said Max, “Well, there you are. There’s your answer.”

  But, wondered Eszterhazy, to which question?

  Having left the old, small castle to Max, its present master, Dr. Eszterhazy long wandered and long pondered. Was it indeed his fortune to have become involved with a Count Cagliostro, a century after the original? Was Melanchthon Mudge really “Melanchthon Mudge”? Could anyone be? And if not, who then was he? The learned doctor did not very much amuse himself by conjecturing that perhaps Giuseppe Balsamo had not really died in a Roman dungeon ninety years ago, but—

  * * *

  Of the so-called Pasqualine Dynasty [a learned correspondent wrote Dr. Engelbert] few literary remains exist, and almost without exception they are very dull remains indeed. Only one reference do I find of the least interest, and that is to a s
o-called Pasqualine Ring. Do your old friends know about it? Legends for a while clustered thick, stories that “it had been worn upon the very thumb of Albertus Magnus,” is one of them; I cannot even say if thumb-rings were known in the day of good Bishop and Universal Doctor—you may also have heard it assigned to the thumbs of two anomalous Englishmen named Kelly (or Kelley) and Dee—and one of the innumberable editions of the Faustusbuch—but enough! Do think of me when you see your old and noble tutor, and ask him … whatever [and here the learned correspondent passed on to another subject entirely].

  Why had not Engelbert Eszterhazy, Ph.D., M.D., long since removed his old and (perhaps, who knows) royal tutor and wife to a comfortable chamber in the house at 33 Turkling Street? He had offered, and the offer had with an exquisite politeness been declined. Why had he not bestowed a pension? To this question: the same reply. Had he, then, to relieve the burden of want, done nothing? No, not nothing. One day he had encountered the owner of the tottering tenement in which lodged the King and Queen of the Single Sicily in Exile, herself (the owner) a widow incessantly bending beneath the burden of many debts, herself; part in sorrow, part in shame, she said that she would shortly have to double their rent: Dr. Eszterhazy easily persuaded her to mention no such thing to them, but to apply instead to him quarterly for the difference: done. So. There he was one day, visiting, and presently he asked, “And the ring of Duke Pasquale?”

  “We have it, we have it,” said ‘the Queen.’ In her haggard, ancient way, she was still beautiful. “We have it. So,” she said. “It is all that we have. But we have it. So.”

  Eszterhazy sat silent. “I will have them bring you a cup of chocolate. Clarinda?” she raised her voice. “Leona? Ofelia?” As, not surprisingly, none of these imaginary attendants answered the summons, the Queen, murmuring an apology, rose to “see what they are all doing,” and withdrew into a curtained niche behind which (Eszterhazy well knew) reposed the tiny charcoal brazier and the other scant equipment of their scant kitchen. Politely, he looked instead at the King.