Comrade Grandmother and Other Stories

by Naomi Kritzer

Will Pare and Desneeze Stirs

  Demons

  THE LONG WALK

  by Naomi Kritzer and Lyda Morehouse

  I COLLABORATED WITH my friend and colleague (and writing group buddy) Lyda Morehouse to write this story. We figured out the basic plot, and then passed it back and forth as we got stalled. Writing it was so much fun.

  But then it took us years to find anyone to publish it. It turns out that when your opening scene has a male prostitute giving someone a blow job? It’s kind of a tough sell. (It was finally published in Tales of the Unanticipated.)

  ***

  LUCIEN SPAT INTO the alleyway, then stood up with his hand out for the money. He kept his gaze trained on the other man’s boots; a story had gone around about six months ago that magi could strike from anywhere if they got a good look at your face first, and Lucien didn’t want anybody to think he was going to try something funny. It didn’t matter that the story wasn’t true; besides, Lucien didn’t want to know what his customers looked like.

  The john was still buttoning his pants. He was a citizen—probably one of the legionary veterans who’d enlisted during the war. His boots and cloak were both new; if Lucien hadn’t been so desperate, he might have held out for more money. This man could easily afford it. Lucien’s palm itched as he waited for the familiar weight of the denarii. He hoped this guy wasn’t another dodger who’d refuse to pay up after the deed was done. Thanks to bad luck and an unscrupulous customer, two days had passed since Lucien had been able to afford equus, and his insides ached with an unnatural cold.

  “We agreed on sixteen,” Lucien said, kicking a pebble with his toe. “Is there a problem?”

  “I was hoping you’d at least look at me, Lucius.”

  No one had called him by his Latin name since his days at the academy, before the war. Lucien raised his eyes and squinted into the face shadowed by the cowl. Then he shook his head; he didn’t have time for a reunion. He could almost taste the equus. “It’s Lucien now. And, look, even if I knew you once, that doesn’t mean there’s a discount for services rendered, okay? Pay up. I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “You’ve changed, little scholar. So anxious to get your next ride you don’t have time to talk to an old friend? Not even a friend who could help you get out of here?”

  “If you’re such a good friend, citizen, why are you screwing me around?” The cold pain in Lucien’s stomach made his voice sound harsh and desperate even to his own ears.

  A moment passed, and then the man pushed a leather pouch into his hand and closed Lucien’s fist around it. “There’s more where this came from.”

  “Yeah,” Lucien laughed, tucking the heavy pouch into his shirt. His hands were shaking.

  “I need to see you again,” the soldier said.

  Lucien shrugged, starting to turn away. “You know where to find me.”

  The soldier caught Lucien’s sleeve, then reached up with his other hand and ran his fingers gently over the brand on Lucien’s cheek.

  “Don’t touch me.” Lucien’s shove sent the soldier stumbling backwards. The cowl caught on the rough stone of the alley wall, and fell back to reveal ice-blue eyes and a hawk-nose.

  A name connected with the face like a stone hitting the pavement. “Justinian.” Lucien cleared his throat and spat again onto the ground. “Of all people. You bastard.”

  “Wait!”

  Pushing past his old schoolmate, Lucien broke into a run. It wasn’t until he was well away from the ghetto wall that he realized his cheeks were burning with something almost like shame. “Bastard,” he said again, his fists clenching. Well, it didn’t matter. He had his money, and he could get the equus.

  Lucien knew he’d find a stablemaster near the magus’ green—the field of rubble and weeds where the last major fire had torn through Castramagorum, the Mage’s Camp. He glanced back over his shoulder once, making certain Justinian hadn’t followed him. Few customers dared to go more than a few steps beyond the range of the bows carried by the legionaries on the ghetto wall. The legionaries were there to keep the magi where they belonged, of course, but they also provided the only protection a citizen had in Castramagorum. Lucien smiled to himself: Justinian was lost somewhere in the shadows behind him. Spitting one last time, he crossed into the maze at the core of the ghetto.

  Lucien ducked into a shadowed doorway, checked to make sure he was alone, and opened the pouch. Dumping the contents into his sweating palm, Lucien counted not sixteen, but thirty-two denarii, and a thin glass vial of black liquid. Clenching his fist to cover what he held, he glanced instinctively back towards the alley, but there was still no one there. He dropped the coins back into the pouch, then pulled out the stopper with his teeth and smelled the black liquid. The fumes made him light-headed. Distilled equus—he hadn’t seen equus in its pure form since the war.

  Shoving the cork back in, Lucien palmed the tiny glass bottle and headed for an abandoned cellar. Equus was magic’s fuel, the source of a magus’s power, and if a rider had a bad day, the results could be explosive. It was dark inside, and Lucien knew he ought to try to find somewhere safe to sit down, but he couldn’t bring himself to wait any longer. Hands shaking, he uncorked the bottle, and swallowed the oily liquid inside.

  The equus burned his throat as it went down. Lucien had almost forgotten the taste—it had been two years since he’d had it in the concentrated liquid form. Within the ghetto, it was easy to buy equus in a watered-down tea, weak enough that most magi couldn’t do any real damage even if they wanted to. Lucien hadn’t thought that the distilled form was even made now that the war was over. He had no idea where Justinian might have gotten it, but right now, he didn’t care.

  The pure equus dropped him where he stood. It roared through him like wildfire, lifting him up on a cresting tide. During the war, he’d channeled that power, using it to blast the center of the opposing army into a ball of flame. But there was no mob today, no army of rabble to defeat. Only the equus galloping in his veins, a tide he could ride for hours and hours, with no cold, no emptiness, and no fear. As the power crested, Lucien almost cried out from its intensity. Then it ebbed, but slowly. As his vision cleared, he realized he wasn’t seeing the cellar anymore.

  The shelves of the library loomed over him, so high that rolling ladders were attached to each shelf to help scholars reach the highest books. Lucius stared around in wonder; after months of pleading, his pedagogue had arranged for him to have access to the library. He had all the books he could read, of course, at the academy, but he wanted to pick out his own—and in the library he had hundreds, maybe thousands, to choose from. He picked up the first volume of mathematics that he found and was quickly engrossed.

  “Lucius.”

  Lucius looked up from his book, realizing that he’d been sitting on the floor beside the ladder, holding the book in his lap. Justinian peered at him quizzically. “You don’t look very comfortable,” he said. “Why don’t you go sit at one of the tables?”

  Lucius stood up, trying to salvage some dignity. His knees were stiff, and one of his feet had fallen asleep. “I didn’t think you were allowed in here,” he said.

  “My father purchased a membership in the library for me.”

  Lucius bit his lip, trying not to show his annoyance. He knew perfectly well that Justinian had no interest in the library—it was just that Justinian hated to be bested at anything by anyone, most of all Lucius. Lucius and Justinian were the only Britons at the academy; the others were the sons of Romans, citizens of the Empire. Lucius was at the academy to read; Justinian, he knew, was simply looking for an easy path to citizenship.

  It doesn’t matter, Lucius thought. Someday everyone will know us for who we are.

  That thought caught him up and swept him out of the library, away from the bookcases and mathematics and the smell of leather-bound paper. He stood on a hill overlooking a battlefield; below, a fire roared out of the ground, consuming the ragtag army of rebellious Britons like dried leaves in a bonf
ire. Lucius felt the power running out of him like water, but even as his strength ebbed with the equus, he felt a surge of pride. The outnumbered legionaries, Justinian among them, would have been nothing without him. It was the magi who had won this war for the Caesar. The fire vanished with the last of his strength, and Lucius collapsed to the ground, spent.

  Slowly, the light around Lucius faded away. The fire was gone, and the sky grew dim, but no stars came out. There were pockets of light around him, torches and lanterns and campfires, but they went out, one by one, until only one was left—a glowing point of red, a long way off in a sea of darkness.

  No, Lucius tried to say, but the words wouldn’t form. Keep it away from me. You can’t do this. You promised.

  The red glow came closer. Lucius started to struggle, but hands held him down. The ground underneath him was very cold, and a sharp stone jabbed into his shoulder where he was pinned. He could smell hot iron.

  Above him, someone spoke. “Thank you for your service to the Caesar, Lucius. We are grateful for your sacrifice. As a magus, you have to understand, you’re a danger to everyone. You have to be marked—”

  No.

  “—but you will have our gratitude and support for as long as you live.”

  Lucius shook his head; someone grabbed his hair to keep him still. Desperate, he tried to wrench away, and the hands pressed his head down against the rough stones, clenching him so hard that he thought his neck might break. The person holding his head whispered, “Struggling won’t help.” Then Lucius felt the brand sear across his left cheek.

  Lucius’s voice wasn’t his own anymore; he could hear himself screaming for mercy, though he hadn’t consciously formed the words. The smell of charred meat choked him. Then his anger overpowered his agony, and he reached in blind rage for the thread of power that still flowed inside him —

  Lucien jerked awake, hearing the thunderclap of explosion around him. The cold ache was back, and it took a moment for him to realize what he’d done. “Fuck,” he said, scrambling to his feet. He needed to get the hell out of here before anyone saw him. He slammed the cellar door open and dove into the street just as the building collapsed in flames. Pushing himself to his feet, he ran away as fast as he could. When he’d almost reached the range of the wall-guards, he turned back to look at his work. The building he’d hidden in was a tower of flame. Nice to know he still had the touch, for all it would earn him a quick death if anyone realized he’d sparked the fire.

  Two years ago, of course, when they had branded him, he had reached inside for his power and found...nothing. The tribune’s men weren’t fools; they’d taken him after a battle, when their victory was secure and his power was spent. He and the other magi who had won the war for their Roman masters had been branded and imprisoned in the ghetto. A danger to everyone. It could have been worse, Lucien supposed. Rumor had it that once you’d tasted equus, you’d die if you were denied it, and the governor always made sure that the weakened equus was plentiful in the ghetto. Lucien assumed that the governor feared another war; he thought he’d need magi again, and thought he could count on them to do anything he asked in exchange for pure equus. Hell, he was probably even right. But for now, there was the ghetto.

  A danger to everyone. Well, he was, Lucien thought—he was a danger. You made me a danger, he said silently, staring at the fire. You made me what I am.

  ***

  LUCIEN WENT TO the mission at daybreak. His body wasn’t his own yet, still twitchy from the last traces of the equus, and he knew that Helena would know that he’d been riding hard. Still, Helena would never rat him out, if anyone came asking about who’d set the latest fire. Besides, he was hungry.

  Helena served him a cup of soup and gave him a wedge of the bread brought in from Londinium. Lucien knew from her expression that he looked worse than he’d thought. He sat down at the end of one of the long tables and concentrated on eating his soup. His hands were too unreliable to manage a spoon, so he drank the broth. When he finished, Helena refilled the cup and sat down across from him.

  “Did I ever tell you why I became a magus, Helena?” he asked when he’d finished the second cup.

  “Tell me,” Helena said.

  That meant he’d told her before, but she didn’t mind listening again if he wanted to talk. Lucien cupped his hands around the soup cup, trying to absorb the lingering warmth. “There was this guy I knew at the academy. When the war started, he joined the Legions.” Lucien broke off a piece of his bread, but he couldn’t bring himself to put it in his mouth; it was too dry. “We were both Britons, some of the only non-citizens at the academy. So I couldn’t let him best me, you know?”

  “So you volunteered to become a magus?” Helena said.

  “No. I tried to join the Legions, but they wouldn’t let me in. I was too skinny and I couldn’t see very well.” Lucien glanced down at his bony arms. “They sent Justinian—the other Briton—to talk me into becoming a magus. He told me that I’d have all the same benefits as a soldier: citizenry, everything. He said they wanted me because I was so smart, so loyal.”

  Lucien raised his cold fingers to his cheek and ran them slowly over the brand.

  Helena nodded. “How loyal are you now, Lucien?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re too good a man to be wasted in Castramagorum. You’re not like the others. You can still focus; you could do something with your life.”

  Lucien pushed the dregs of the soup around the bowl with the butt of bread. He shook his head, which still throbbed from the aftereffects of equus and lack of sleep. “I’m not any different.”

  “You have goals, don’t you?”

  He gave Helena a slow grin. “One.”

  “Revenge?”

  Actually, Lucien had been about to answer that riding more equus was his one and only goal. He glanced around the kitchen to see if anyone was within earshot. It was too early for most of Castramagorum; everyone but Lucien was still riding last night’s equus, and Helena’s kitchen was almost empty. Still, he raised a hand to hush her. “You shouldn’t talk like that. The Governor pays your bills.”

  “Not all of them. Much of my funding comes from the families of magi. People who still care about the welfare of their sons and daughters.”

  Lucien snorted. “They don’t care.”

  “Oh? A lot more people care than you think. Things are changing outside those walls.” Helena gestured over her shoulder towards the gate out of the ghetto. “Rome is losing the battle for Britannia.”

  Lucien shrugged, uncomfortable with Helena’s sudden intensity. “I’m not much for politics.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

  “Hmmm.” Lucien sipped more soup. “You know what I would kill for? Roast lamb. I haven’t had lamb since my academy days.”

  Helena stared at him. For a moment, Lucien wondered if she would continue on towards whatever point she’d been heading for, but instead she said, “I have another book for you. As soon as you eat your bread.” He looked down at it in revulsion and Helena laughed and clasped his hand briefly in hers. “It’ll do you good. I’ll get you some more soup to wash it down.”

  Lucien forced down the bread, since Helena was standing over him, and she gave him the book. Lucien wedged himself into the window seat, so he’d have enough light to read by, drew up his knees so that he could rest the book not too far from his eyes, and started reading. It was a book of political philosophy, not mathematics, but he quickly lost himself in the text.

  Something hit Lucien on the shoulder and bounced off. He kept his head down over the book, ignoring it. Then—“Hey, Lucius!” a gravelly voice shouted.

  Lucien’s head snapped up. The morning crowd had drifted in and there were people everywhere. It took Lucien a moment to orient himself. Just when he was about to give up and go back to reading, Old Martin spat another mouthful of chewed bread into his hand, clenched it into a wad, and threw it at Lucien. Old Martin’s face was a blur to Luci
en, but when he squinted he could see the glitter of the old man’s jaundiced eyes. “What are you doing here, Lucius?” Old Martin called. “Shouldn’t you be in the city with the other citizens?”

  Old Martin had fought for the Britons in the last war, and Lucien wasn’t sure why he hadn’t been executed. At any rate, he was in fine form today; normally he was riding too hard to do more than glare at Lucien as he passed. Lucien brushed the wad of chewed bread off his sleeve and bent his head over his book again.

  Another damp clump of bread hit his shoulder and bounced off. “Are you going to fight for your masters next time, Lucius?” Martin said. “Maybe when you’re done, you’ll lie down and let them brand your other cheek.”

  Lucien kept his head bent over his book.

  “Hey!” Old Martin shouted. “I’m talking to you, little cocksucker!” A wad of wet bread landed on the open page of Lucien’s book—the library’s book.

  Lucien’s anger caught him off-guard. He removed the wad of bread very carefully, then checked the paper for smears before closing the book. “Helena,” he called.

  “Oooh,” Old Martin said. “Going to tell the lady that I’m bothering you?”

  Helena hurried over. “Thanks for the book,” Lucien said. “Maybe I’ll read some more tomorrow.” Without looking at Martin, Lucien handed it to her.

  Helena stepped into the back room to lock up the book, and Lucien moved. Throwing himself along the bench, he slammed Old Martin to the floor. Lucien wasn’t much of a fighter, but neither was Old Martin, and Lucien was younger. He back-handed Martin across his branded cheek, then leapt to his feet as Helena returned. Helena had very strict rules against fighting.

  “I’m so sorry, Martin,” he said with false courtesy. “I must have slipped on that bread you threw on the floor.”

  “Fellator,” Old Martin said—cocksucker—and spat out a tooth, brown with rot.

  “Come outside and call me that again, Martin,” Lucien said, and walked out of the mission.