There are no advertising agencies, very few law offices, and a single shopping mall. There are two colleges, one university, and an entirely legal House of Assassins.
The House of Assassins is allowed to operate on several conditions, all of which are strictly enforced with hard labor in the mines of Winter.
No independent Houses of Assassins are permitted. The government of Centralia wants all the assassins in one place, where they can be taxed and monitored. Twenty percent of its gross income goes to funding hospitals, orphanages, elder-care homes, and libraries. This is twenty percent of their profits before taxes are subtracted. All targets must make enough money or have enough power to hire bodyguards.
Licensed assassins must have a dagger tattooed somewhere on their bodies, visible if they were stripped naked and standing before an observer. Spot checks are made every six months to make sure none have attempted to remove this mark. Assassins must also truthfully inform the victim who hired them, if the victim asks.
Finally, in the most important one of all, when any assassin gets his or her license he or she must submit to a light, whimsical curse. These curses take the form of an incurable personality quirk. Assassins who try to find their way around these suffer severe consequences. For example, an assassin might experience severe nausea and vomiting if they attempt to harm someone wearing yellow socks. The House has repeatedly campaigned for an end to this requirement. Unfortunately, the public always votes to keep it.
Witness the following cellular phone conversation between a customer and one of their imps, hired from Faerie. Imps have perfect recall and can read and write three times faster than any human. Work visas for Fae are trickier than for humans and cultural differences abound, but many managers find their talents worth the trouble.
“Welcome to Automated Assassination Asks and Answers, sometimes called ‘AAAA!!!’ Build a man a fire, warm him for a day. Set a man on fire, warm him for the rest of his life. For quality purposes, your call will be memorized and possibly snickered over.”
The voice might have been ‘male’ or ‘female’. Imps don’t think of gender the way humans do. “I know the drill, little imp. I need to speak to a representative.”
“You have reached Odd Ree’s House of Assassins. If this call was a mistake, hang up now. If you suddenly feel as though this call is a mistake, hang up now and be less impulsive in the future. If you wish to inquire about our modus operandi, say yes. If not, say no. I’m not particularly small for my species and age, thank you very much.”
“Sorry. I really do need to speak to a representative. If you could simply transfer me, please.”
The imp gave stock reply number #47: “Your call is important to the company, but not to me personally. It’s part of the dull but profitable routine that is my working day. If you would like to have someone dealt with, say yes. If not, say no.”
“I need someone captured alive rather than killed. The killing will be personal.”
Their rejoinder was stock reply #13: “I’m sorry. Your request appears to be of questionable legality. If I have misunderstood, please restate your request. If not, hang up now. If you call with an illegal request again, your call will be traced with the fanciest of imp spells and we will send the police to find you.”
The voice became frantic. “No, listen – I can explain, it’s not really a mortal being killed, and not a Fae either…”
“I’m sorry, but your request still appears to be of questionable legality. If I have misunderstood, please restate your request. If not, hang up now. If you persist in this call, I will cackle and jeer at your utter impotence before I report this incident to my superiors.”
“You’ve got to transfer me to a representative. They’ll understand.”
“This is the sound of me being amused by your predicament: Aheheehyaheeeheeho!”
“If the new Summer is allowed to live, the whole multiverse could fall into chaos!”
The imp paused. They cleared their throat. “You are now being transferred to a representative. Please hold.”
Six
Summer Storm
Gwen followed Kira into her house. “Did you mean to leave the door ajar?”
“The furniture’s been moved,” Kira growled, crossing her arms across her chest.
“I will search the house,” Radcliff declared gallantly, whipping a rapier from the scabbard on his belt and holding it before him. It contrasted oddly with the brass goggles on his forehead. He always refused to tuck them in a bag like a normal person.
Gwen put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be an idiot, dear. The people in this area have guns.”
“Ah. ‘Those who live by the sword get shot by those who don’t.’” He sheathed it anew and pulled out two pistols. “Haha!”
“Why didn’t you draw those first?” Kira asked.
He smiled like a gleeful child. “Swords make a lovely ‘shing’ noise, and this is the first time in over a year I’ve been strong enough to use one.”
Kira made a quick visual scan. “I hate to clog up your stream, sir, but you can see the entire house from here. This is the house. No one is here but us. Sorry if it doesn’t meet with your fancy standards.”
Radcliff stopped smiling. He took her hand and dipped his head, looking at the ground. “I did not mean to cast aspersions. Please forgive me, fair lady.”
“It’s fine. I know we’ve got chickenscratch, and that’s not something I’m ashamed of. It’s the life I got and I gotta live it. Should I be worried about an attack?”
“Yes,” the two nobles chorused.
“Can you…make some kind of magic barrier or protection or something?” she asked Gwen.
Gwen shook her head. “We’re in the Temperate Zone. It’s not my time here, and we are far from my place of power. You’re the one who can do something.”
Kira took a deep breath. “I think it’s time to get Papa.” She ran to the bedroom, hoping he wasn’t lost.
“‘Papa’?” Gwen whispered to Radcliff.
“Your informant said she never met her father, or even knew his name. It’s logical if you think about it.”
Kira reappeared with a shotgun, battered but carefully cleaned. She had a shoebox-size leather pack slung diagonally across her torso. She rubbed the gun with deep love as she spoke. “Isaac got ‘im for me when I was twelve. From Next Door. They make the best guns there. I do chores for Isaac to earn shells. He’s a Remington 870 – Papa, not Isaac. Isaac’s a butcher. Oh, but you knew that. Papa boosts my confidence.”
“Good shot?” Radcliff asked.
That drew the first real smile the Lady and the Lord ever saw from Kira. “Yes sir. Now let’s go find Mother before some son of a bitch tries breaking in again.”
“Watch your language, dear,” Kira’s mother said from outside the window. “Especially with company.”
She appeared through the door with a sack full of blackberries. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat and sweat made her dress and strands of her long hair cling to her pear-shaped body. “My name is Ruth. You two are?”
Kira fidgeted. “Um, Mother…these…these are…um…kind of…you know how I took care of our Timmy problem?”
“See, this is why Gwen’s taking you by yourself,” Radcliff whispered to Kira.
Ruth frowned and her voice gained an edge. “You’re not in trouble, are you? They don’t look like the law. My girl didn’t do nothing – I mean, didn’t do anything…wrong, and I’ll spit at anyone who says otherwise.”
“Oh, no, no, Kira has done nothing wrong,” Gwen hastened to say, “but there is a fact that is kept secret for good reason, and Kira ran into it by complete accident.”
“I’ve got no time for games, ma’am.”
Gazing at the floor, Kira said slowly, “I’m…the…new…Summer, Mother.”
Ruth stared at her daughter in silence. Blackberry juice soaked through the canvas and dripped onto the tiles.
Kira handed Papa to Radcliff, who appeared a
s delighted as if she’d handed him a puppy. He cooed over it. She unbuttoned her shirt far enough to show the design of the sun above her heart. “This appeared. It won’t come off.”
“Well, I declare,” Ruth said in a small voice, putting the sack on the table.
“I am Gwen of Autumn, and this is my consort, Radcliff.”
He passed the gun back to Kira’s outstretched hands and waved. “How de do?”
“My. Such company here and our third spoon just bent to useless the other night.”
“I have to take Kira to her castle now. She needs to tidy affairs up a bit. We’ll send for you when things are more settled. Radcliff is going to stay behind, explain things more, and protect you.”
“From what?”
“I’m now a target for assassins,” Kira said, her voice flat.
“I see, and what if I absolutely stamp my foot no?”
“Beyond the fact that I now supposedly have superpowers, Mother, Naomi could still be in the castle, and I could find her.”
“I…I see.” Ruth kneaded her temples. “Be sure to pack clean underwear. You don’t want any servants to be looking down on you.”
“Mother!”
“Brush your teeth on the regular, too.”
“I’ll help you figure out what to pack, Kira,” Gwen said.
“I need to stop by the outhouse first,” Kira said before bolting out the door. Gwen sighed and leaned against the wall.
“Is there something I can do to make you feel better, madam?” Radcliff asked, taking a seat across from Ruth.
Ruth asked with audible sarcasm, “Do you have any knack for pie crust? Because when I’m upset I can’t knead worth squat.”
“The only thing I love more than eating pie is making pie. I suppose I would also have to say my love for Gwen outstrips both. Not by much. Don’t tell her.” He winked. Gwen snorted.
“Honest? You’re not making fun?” Ruth glanced at Gwen, then back at Radcliff.
He shook his head. “I wasn’t always a Seasonal Consort, you know. Even though I’m hundreds of years old, I remember plenty of things and keep my hand in. For instance, take your roof that needs new shingles? I’ll see what I can do about that.”
Ruth cocked her head to one side. “Well, maybe this won’t be so terrible after all.”
****
“You can sleep in my mother’s room,” Jared said as the hour grew late. “I certainly couldn’t.”
Lynne smelled talcum powder and the faint scent of fresh laundry inside the bedchamber. A fluffy blue comforter covered the narrow bed. Beside it stood a wicker rocking chair, two closets, and a chest of drawers. The peculiar thing was the many different masks hanging from the walls. “Fine. Where are the lights, and the room of necessity?”
“There’s a restroom inside. I use the one down the hall.” He gestured at the door, decorated with a scowling demon mask from Tanzania that had been a gift. Mom got a kick out of it. Well, she did get a kick out of it. He turned away faster than was technically polite. “Please don’t touch anything you don’t need to.”
Lynne figured he was unable to look any longer. “I may wake early in the morning. The time here is hours behind the time in my castle.”
“Well, help yourself to any surviving scraps that might still be the kitchen, and feel free to read anything. We leave at eight in the morning tomorrow. Good night.”
“Good night, Jared – wait, what is your last name? I’ve been in your house for most of the day and I don’t even know.”
He turned around but kept his eyes on the stranger who had crashed into his life, rather than the painful tokens of loss he saw through the doorway. “Derkins. What’s yours?”
“I don’t use it now, but my full name was once Lynneala Phoenix Orion.”
“Hey, cool.”
She shrugged. “I always thought it was kind of ‘overly spoiled, helpless fairy princess’. I prefer Lynne.”
He let out a short laugh. “As a kid I wished I could change my name to ‘Sporlock Fightmaster’, though I’m now glad I don’t have to hear doctors call out “Fightmaster!” several times a day.”
She chuckled. “Good night and thank you.”
He departed.
****
She surveyed the room. Colorful masks hung at different levels, masks of wood and porcelain and paper, of clay and leather and cloth. Here an otherwise blank face smiled with glittering lips. There a giraffe mask loomed over a mirror. On the closet door the face of a green lady wept dark tears, while beside her a blue man’s face sneered at her sadness. They all stared at Lynne with empty eyes. She shivered with the uncanny feeling of it all.
Lynne took her headset off when they left the house. Jared insisted. She didn’t want him to see how afraid she was at navigating Next Door with a stranger as her guide. Nothing terrible happened. The car went faster than she would have liked, but once she got used to it she enjoyed watching the scenery stream by.
It was time to call Amber. The combination of unfamiliarity and all these ill-omened masks would keep Lynne from sleeping if she didn’t have someone to soothe her. Jared could not be allowed to see her any weaker than he already had. At least his coming to her aid was a decent test of character. She retrieved her distance talking device and turned it on. Then she realized Amber was probably asleep. Lynne seethed in petty frustration for a moment and grew another plant out of the floor for her amusement. She wondered if Jared would ever figure out that she could turn that particular power on and off. Except for this, nothing had sprouted around the house since he proved he had a spine. It was a sprig of lilac. She plucked it and breathed in its delicate scent.
After a few moments’ thought, she carefully turned every single mask towards the wall so their faces was hidden.
****
The city of Literaria is nominally a part of the Temperate Zone, but it tends to be dismissed as kooky by the rest of the loose conglomeration of communities that make up the TZ. It mainly serves as a nexus for artists of all kinds. It’s also a major draw for the sorts of people who take care of practicalities. They see the business opportunities inherent in a community where people forget to do their laundry for weeks at a time.
Since then it has also become a place of art, theater, and what little there is of a film industry in the Seven States. The local film industry can’t manage more than shoestring budgets and shaky camera work. The residents who have devices that can play videos mostly watch stuff smuggled from the other world. Bollywood is popular in the Joint Republics of Monsoon and Drought.
Only a few people of Literaria are aware that one of its high schools is connected to a parallel high school in Columbus, Ohio, the United States of America.
Ned Blier was a fifteen year old tenth grade student at Thomas Hobbes High School in Columbus, Ohio. He was a scrawny, shy boy with acne, glasses, and braces, the triumvirate of dorkdom. He also had a stutter. His school lacked the money to provide speech therapy, as did his parents. All these things made him miserable.
At least, it made him miserable at Thomas Hobbes High School. It did not prevent him from being appreciated by his classmates at Average High School, which he had first found when two boys twice his size locked him in a supply closet as a ‘joke’.
There, toy lightsaber duels were common in the hallways and teachers gave extra points for clever answers. People frequently wore costumes for the simple joy of them rather than the occasion. Breaking into dance was commended and joined in with rather than laughed down. Friends sat with him every school day, during his lunch break. As a bonus, his bullies couldn’t find him there for a precious hour. It kept him from becoming bitter and gave him cause to smile.
Ned was in Creative Writing class, just before lunch, when the portal gaped. The teacher was saying, “Then James Branch Cabell writes: ‘Here was the word, vexatiously repeated within three lines, which must be replaced by a synonym; and the clause which, when transposed, made the whole sentence gain in force and comeliness
; and the curt sentence…”
Ned raised his hand. Though this was his favorite class, he raised his hand there as infrequently as in all his others. He was simply too embarrassed by his stutter.
The teacher was absorbed by her declamation of the turn of the century author’s words, and did not notice. “…‘whose addition gave clarity to the paragraph…and the vaguely unsatisfactory adjective, for which a jet of inspiration suggested a substitute, of vastly different meaning…’”
For the first time in six years, he actually waved his hand around to get attention. She saw him and held up a finger so she could finish the passage. “‘...in the light of whose inevitable aptness you marveled over your preliminary obtuseness; - all these slight triumphs, one by one, first gladdened Kennaston’s labor and tickled his self-complacency.’ Yes, Ned, what is it?”
“Th-th-the-ere i-i-s a h-h..th-th-the…”
A giggle rose around him and drifted across the class. “Stop it, the rest of you. Yes, Ned? It’s okay. I’m listening.”
He was going to say there was a hole in the wall right next to him in the back corner, and it was getting bigger. Then he realized he was sick of hiding behind his clumsiness and drawbacks. Hey, he could travel between worlds, and now something strange was happening, he was probably the only person – on this side of things, anyway - who was equipped to handle it. He always felt braver when he was in Literaria. Maybe its influence was pouring through the fissure and giving him strength.
He jumped to his feet, threw his pencil towards the whiteboard so hard that it snapped upon impact, and started to sing. The words flowed out of him better than plain talking ever did.
“Teacher! There’s a hole in the wall. You didn’t notice ‘cause you don’t look at me. If they hadn’t shoved me to the edge than maybe I wouldn’t know what was going on, I’d be blind and complacent, I would just refuse to see. There’s a world next to ours and it’s coming to call.”
Everyone stared at him. Then they turned their gaze to the gap. It was just above his shoulder and about the size of an apple. White light shone through. It steadily expanded to the size of a cantaloupe, all while they watched.
Seasons Turning Page 7