“This system is stupid,” the King told his pigeons as he paced the aviary. “I should have listened to Albina and had the laws changed. I should have tasked Arlene to write up the bills and force them through the Council. I should have done something. This is my fault.” The pigeons hopped out of their lofts and nestled on his shoulders and arms. They perched on his head and clung to his beard and long cloak. They had always been a comfort to him, and were even more so now. He remembered how much his Daughters loved the pigeons, when they were small.
And then he looked outside and saw children in the marketplace, begging for coins and scraps.
Children who were, just a few months earlier, learning and working in school. Where they belonged, the King realized. Althea was right. Of course she was. Althea was always right.
“My darlings,” he said to his pigeons. “I think I have a plan.” The pigeons cooed, clearly approving.
The King went to the window and brought a stack of paper with him. He wrote something on thirty-three pieces of paper, then folded each one into the shape of a star.
Most monarchs in those days kept pigeons. It was a thing Kings did. Unlike other monarchs, though, the King was extraordinarily good at training his pigeons. Indeed, it was the thing he was best at. They were, to a bird, marvels of grace and intelligence. He gave a high whistle and the birds stood at attention.
“Well done, my lads and lasses,” he said. He indicated the paper stars. “Please take these papers to those children down there. I need their help.” The birds required no other orders. They understood him perfectly. The King watched with delight as each bird grabbed a star in its beak and flew in great spirals from the windows to the square.
He hoped that Althea had done her job well and taught those children how to read.
Down below, the children in the market square, empty-bellied and frightened, watched as birds poured out of the sky. One pigeon landed in front of each child and timidly hopped close. The children stared at the folded stars, and their eyes welled up as they remembered their teacher Althea instructing them how to fold paper stars exactly like that. How they missed her! How they wished she hadn’t gotten married! How they wished she hadn’t abandoned them!
The birds dropped the stars into the children’s outstretched hands before returning to the air. This is what the papers said:
My daughters are trapped
including your teacher
I cannot get them on my own
I need your help
I have lots of food. Come and eat.
Also, I am lots of fun and children love me.
Normally, the children knew not to trust people who said that last bit, but then they gazed up and saw the King, and they noticed how lonely he looked, and how sad. And he was their teacher’s father, after all. From the high window, he gave a timid wave. The children waved back. They looked at one another and shrugged, and by doing so came to an agreement.
And so the children—all thirty-three of them—marched to the castle and were ushered inside.
* * *
Not long after, Albina, in the darkened dimness of her locked boudoir, heard a scratching at the door. And then she heard the heavy bolt squeak and slide back. And then she saw a small face at the crack.
“Hullo, Teacher’s Sister,” the child said, her face splitting wide into a broad grin.
“Why, hello,” Albina said, peering behind the child to see if she had come alone. The hallway was empty. Was this a trap? It didn’t appear so. “Who has sent you, child?”
“Your father,” the child said. “He invited us into the castle and then he brought in a bunch of thieves to teach us how to be thieves so we might sneak in and steal you away. I did not need to learn how to be a thief because I already am one. And I’m good, too.” The child grinned. “The guards outside didn’t know what hit them.”
“Well done, child,” Albina said.
“Thank you,” the girl said. “Your father sent me to fetch you because he wants to know what the plan should be.”
“I see,” Albina said. She was, if truth be spoken, extremely good at making plans. And her father, bless him, was not. She closed her eyes and took stock of the situation. “So you are the only one breaking into our prisons. No one else is seeing my sisters tonight, is that right?”
“Yes, Teacher’s Sister. I am the only one right now who can do this.”
Albina nodded. “Good girl. Well, it does not make sense for you to break me out right now, as much as I hate it here. It would put my sisters in too much danger.”
The girl’s eyes widened suddenly and she rested her hand on Albina’s arm. “Someone’s coming, miss. I need to sneak away, and right quick.”
“Then I will make this fast. There are two plans—one that you and your friends must communicate to my sisters, and one that you must tell my father. He may know his, but not the other. My sisters must know both. Can you do this?”
“I can do that and more, miss,” the girl said.
“Marvelous.” And she whispered the plans, as quickly as she could, and the girl slipped out, bolted the door, and vanished without a trace.
* * *
Another month went by and the King sent invitations to all of his sons-in-law to gather in the great hall. He laid out a feast with wine and meat and complicated breads and all kinds of delicacies and gastronomical wonders. The Barons ate and drank and toasted one another’s cleverness. They complimented the King. They boasted their accomplishments. Each Baron calculated his odds at a coup—which Barons would support him, which Barons would oppose him, and which would fall. Each thought himself already King of the wide world, standing on the shoulders of these imbeciles and good-for-nothings assembled at the table. They thought of the Daughters—wives now, but in name only, as those doors remained locked. But maybe, they thought, in time. Those Daughters had skills, after all. And complex minds. Surely they could be convinced to share a throne, and maybe, eventually, a bed. If the knives were hidden. The Barons took another glug of wine and returned their attentions to the manly banter at the table. They were all honeyed tones and creamy praise and velveted claws.
“It’s a glorious day to be alive!” Baron Eidel toasted.
“In the most glorious kingdom in the world,” offered Baron Sloven.
“To our land!” shouted Baron Yre, his glass raised as high as it could go.
“To the King!” added Baron Egot.
“And to our most beautiful wives!” toasted Baron Glote.
A chill fell upon the room. The other Barons glared at Glote.
“Speaking of . . . ,” the King said.
And so it was, by decree of the King, that a Ball was to be held. For all the new sons-in-law and their blushing brides. All were required to attend. Any who did not would be cut off from their inheritances and tithing capabilities and would be cast out of their castles, by order and fiat, Long Live the King. The decree was irrevocable.
And the new sons-in-law would wear new coats, sewn by hand at the castle, as a gift from the King. The most beautiful coats ever to be seen in all the land, with spun gold and silver threads, pearl buttons running down the front, and tiny diamonds gleaming in the stitching. Thus spake the King.
And the King’s Daughters would wear new gowns, sewn by hand at the castle, as a gift from their father. The most beautiful gowns ever to be seen in all the land, with spun gold and silver threads, pearl buttons running down their long backs, and tiny diamonds gleaming in the stitching. The Daughters would wear nothing else. Thus spake the King.
The date was set. They had two months.
The Barons began to panic.
“A plan,” they whispered. “A plan. We must have a plan. We must be a united front.” But how could they be? With this band of scoundrels? Instinctively, each man brought his hand to his neck, as though warding away the executioner’s ax.
So distracted were the Barons as they whispered and schemed, as they met in secret quorums and darkened alleys,
that they did not notice there were more children moving about than usual. And they did not notice that the children were wearing dark clothing and black hoods. And that they were unusually good at bounding over large objects, or climbing walls. They did not notice that the children had light feet and quiet steps and sticky fingers.
Nor did they notice the strange proliferation of pigeons.
Coins went missing.
And keys.
Letter openers.
And letters.
But the Barons didn’t notice. They sweated and worried. They lived on the border of panic. That the King was a rube and an idiot and easily dispensed with, well. Everyone knew that. But this Ball. And with the Daughters. It required an airtight plan and a consistent conspiracy, with an agreed-upon flowchart of actions and reactions, scripts and responses. It required, at its heart, a substantial amount of trust.
But did Baron Yre trust Baron Lesu? Did Baron Egot truly rely on Baron Avarus? Was it possible to build a band of brothers when each one imagined himself as eventual King and did not mind so much if the rest of them hanged?
It was, each Baron knew in his heart, rather doubtful.
Having no one to trust, each Baron knelt by his imprisoned wife’s door. The screaming had stopped, after all. The reluctant wives had become—in each household—quiet. Introspective. Circumspect. They were excellent listeners. Good at analysis. And helpful. Perhaps, each Baron thought, she is coming around. And each one imagined himself at the center of the palace, with a canny and lovely wife resting her hand on his.
“If you betray me,” the Barons whispered to the locked doors, “I shall cut your throat.”
“Of course you will,” the Daughters soothed. “I’m sure that’s how the story goes. Now, tell me your troubles.”
And the Daughters listened.
Meanwhile, other things went missing. Tall boots. Jaunty scarves. Toupee glue and scissors. Leather britches and bracings. Here and there, house after house. But the Barons were beside themselves with worry and did not notice. The Ball, after all, was only a month away.
And then a fortnight.
And then a week.
And then a day.
The gowns arrived.
And masks—beautiful masks. Birds for the Daughters. Beasts for the Barons.
And the coats. The coats, of course, were things of beauty, and perfectly rendered. The Barons tried them on, feeling proud and sick.
There was a plan among the Barons—of course there was. It was discussed ad nauseam. But would it be followed? Would they be safe? And how could each one know?
“I shall need my ladies-in-waiting to come to see to my toilette,” the Daughters told their husbands through the locked doors. “How else can I show my face in my father’s court? How else can you show off your beautiful gem of a wife unless she is able to beautify before the Ball?”
The Barons, each in his own castle, shook their heads. “Out of the question,” they sputtered. “How can I trust your ladies-in-waiting? How can I know they won’t go scurrying off to your father and tell him everything?”
“They wouldn’t,” the wives soothed. “I’d tell them not to.”
“But they wouldn’t know the whole story!” the Barons whined. “Their narrative would lack context! They would jump to conclusions!”
“Well,” the Daughters said after a long, practiced deliberation, “it’s not like it’s difficult. It’s just hair. And makeup. And a bath. Help with my dress. A child could do it. Surely you have seen a lot of unaccompanied children lately, just loitering about. What with the schools closed. It’s good to give them a task. Keeps them out of mischief.”
As fortune would have it, there was a child. Just loitering about. What luck! A child in a dark cloak. And, good heavens! The poor thing was covered in pigeons! The kingdom had clearly fallen into a dreadful state. The Barons felt themselves puff up with their own cleverness and bigheartedness and civic responsibility. Look at me, they told themselves. Solving problems like a boss. It’s as if I’m already King.
Each Baron ran outside and addressed the child. “You look like a lost soul in need of a purpose,” the Barons said with magnanimity. “Come. I have a job for you.”
“Thank you, sir,” the child said with an implacable expression in those young, wide eyes. “Whatever would I have done without you?”
* * *
The Ball began with candles and wine and music. Beads made of cut glass had been strung on interlocking threads, forming glittering patterns over the revelers’ heads.
“How lovely!” the guests remarked, complimenting the King. “It is ever so like a spider’s web.”
“Isn’t it just?” said the King, avoiding their eyes.
“But which are we?” the guests joked. “Spiders or flies?”
“Which indeed?” the King replied. And then he excused himself to have a bit more water. He missed his Daughters. He missed them so much. He was beside himself. He counted the moments until they were scheduled to appear.
(“There must be beads,” the young thief told the King, after she had visited Albina, all those nights ago.
“How many beads?” the King asked.
“Thousands,” the child said. “They must be strung on great, interlocking threads and hung overhead. Like a glittering spider’s web in the morning.”
“But why?” the King asked.
The child would not say.)
The music played; the wine flowed; exquisitely dressed men and women snaked through the guests, offering all manner of culinary delights. The servers wore masks. The guests wore masks. Dancers moved with joy and abandon, and guests politely applauded their efforts. No one noticed the children, gathering like shadows in the corners, congregating behind the drapes, sliding between the swaying trunks of a forest of adults. No one noticed the pigeons perched on the children’s shoulders, cooing and whispering without ceasing. Sometimes, a ring found itself liberated from a bloated finger, or a purse wandered away from a carelessly fastened belt. No one noticed.
Wine flowed.
Delicacies floated past on great trays.
Minutes ticked by. An hour. Nearly two. Finally, the coaches bearing the Barons and the Daughters streamed in through the gates. The Barons stepped out of the carriages. They each wore tall boots, leather britches, and matching marvelous coats. Their mustaches were coiffed and curled. They wore beaded masks over their eyes. They were all manner of beasts. The Barons found this delightful. So forceful! So masculine! They stood for a moment in front of the coaches, hailed the other Barons as an invitation to notice how fine each one looked, and then turned and offered their hands to the Daughters. Each Daughter emerged in a flounce of spangles and beads. They wore masks over their faces. All manner of birds. Each Daughter had tied up her hair into a complicated tower of braids and ribbons and flowers.
(“Hire wigmakers,” the child had told the King, repeating the instruction that Albina had made her hastily memorize. “Have the wigmakers teach the children to master their art.”
The King listened and wrinkled his brow. “But why?” he asked.
The girl made her eyes as blank as saucers.
“I cannot know, my King,” she lied.)
Immediately after their announcement to the gathered guests, the Daughters and the Barons began to dance. The cloaked children moved more quickly through the crowd while the pigeons opened their wings and fluttered up to the strung beads overhead.
“Dance!” the children whispered to the guests. “Dance and dance and dance!”
The guests could not tell who had spoken. Only that the music played. Only that the urge for dancing shook their bones and rhythm rattled their feet. Only that the Daughters and the Barons were a delight of color and glitter and light. Skirts began to swirl. Heels clicked on the polished floor. Ribbons and sashes fluttered and snapped like flags. The Daughters raised their long arms. They spun toward their Baron husbands, who nearly cried out in astonishment and joy at this unexpecte
d gesture of affection and theater. (Did anyone notice, under the Daughters’ spinning skirts, the masculine strut of leather britches and bracings? Did anyone notice the riding boots? Perhaps not. The dance had begun, after all.) The Barons clapped their hands. The music swelled. They swirled and clicked and stamped. The dance became wild. Feral. They were wolves. They were swans. They were wild horses, thundering from hillside to hillside. They were unkind ravens and murderous crows. The music wailed. The children reached for the ribbons trailing from the coats and gowns of the spinning Barons and the Daughters.
They pulled.
And as they pulled, the pigeons bit the webbed threads overhead, sending a rush of bright beads cascading down to the ground. The guests covered their eyes. They rolled on the beads. The dresses fluttered open like great, wide wings. There were wings everywhere—wings, wings, wings. And, in a great chaotic crowd, they fell to the ground.
(“Dresses for the Daughters and coats for the Barons,” the child told the King. “That’s what you must make. And they must be beautiful.”
“I don’t want to give those imbeciles a darn thing,” the King harrumphed. “Coats? Bah! They can have hair shirts and prison jumpers.”
“It must be coats for the Barons. And gowns for your Daughters. Special coats. And particular gowns.”
“Obviously, my Daughters shall have whatever they wish. How pretty should the dresses be?”
The child shook her head. She explained slowly and carefully. “The design of the coat does not matter—whatever looks stylish. But the design of the dress does matter. You must go to Alana’s crafting workshop and use the design that is on the desk right now. She calls it the Transformation Dress. It’s the one with the ribbons. It ties together and opens up. Like wings.”
“I shall contact the Guild at once.”
“No,” the child said. “Not the Guild. You must hire seamstresses from the villages. They have magic hands. Send your secret guards to each village and ask for the most extraordinary seamstress. Tell them they cannot know what it is for. They will guess, and send accordingly.”
The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2020 Page 16