“Just making sure,” Aleksei muttered as a stream of black blood oozed across the floor.

For a few moments, the two of them just sat there. Vassilisa felt as if she’d run all the way across Russia. Aleksei looked no better. Talking seemed like more effort than either one of them could manage.

“Well,” Vassilisa wheezed after a while. “Can you get it off now?”

“I’m afraid to try,” Aleksei said, but he reached to undo the first fastening.

It came apart easily. Too easily, in fact. The heavy chainmail tore like the flimsiest fabric. Aleksei looked startled at first, then broke into a wide grin as he ripped the coat off in pieces.

“Yes!” He jumped up and danced a wobbly jig around the room, tossing scraps of armor in all directions. “It worked!”

Vassilisa picked up one of the scraps. It felt like ordinary chainmail, heavy and not at all fragile. But then she pulled at one edge, the rings came apart like strands of cobweb. Vassilisa shrugged, and let the piece fall.

“Well,” she said, “I guess we can call the trip a success then.”

“I hope you know how lucky you are,” Yaga grumbled as she smeared burn ointment on the spots where Vassilisa’s eyebrows used to be. “Koschei at the height of his power would’ve turned you into dust without breaking a sweat.”

Vassilisa glared at her. “I said I was sorry. Stop lecturing me.”

“I’m not lecturing. I’m talking sense. But do you listen to me? Some apprentice you are.” Yaga stoppered the ointment jar and put it back on the shelf. “There. You’re done.”

“Thank you. Are you going to go talk to Aleksei now?”

“No.”

“Oh. Should I ask him to come in here, then?”

“No.”

Vassilisa blinked in confusion. “But . . . you were going to tell him your price. For helping him.”

“I didn’t help him. You did the work, you name the price.”

“Me?” Vassilisa’s voice rose in a squeak. “But I—”

“But nothing. You’ve earned it. Go claim your reward.”

Something in her voice, and in the thoughtful way she looked at her, made Vassilisa bite back any further objections.

“I can ask for anything I want? And you’ll let me have it?”

“Me? What do I have to do with it? It’s your reward. And your decision.”

Vassilisa’s head was spinning as she climbed down to the yard again. My decision. Had she imagined it, or did Yaga put an extra stress on that last sentence, as if she’d meant more by it than what she actually said. My decision. But what did she want?

Aleksei had just finished resaddling his horse, and was tying up the saddlebags. He stopped when Vassilisa approached, and turned to watch her with a nervous expression.

“Is Yaga coming down?” he asked.

“No.” Vassilisa shifted from foot to foot, feeling awkward and nervous. What did she want? What did Yaga want? What did Aleksei have to give? She didn’t know. But she suspected that if she asked for half his treasure and a ride to Kiev or Novgorod, that he would give it. And Yaga would let her go.

No more living in a forest, away from the world. She could be a rich woman in a big city, and never darn another sock or scrub another pot. She could dance at the Tsar’s palace in jeweled slippers.

And trip over my own feet, most likely.

Vassilisa leaned against the fence and looked around at the hut, and the vegetable garden, the cat asleep in a sunny spot, the chickens milling around the coop. She remembered what it had felt like, to fly the mortar above the forest. She remembered the power coursing through her as she defeated Koschei.

“Well?” Aleksei prompted.

Vassilisa closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “The cup. The one you offered earlier. Yaga’s changed her mind. She wants it now.”

“Oh.” Aleksei looked relieved and disappointed at the same time. “All right.”

Vassilisa climbed back into the hut, not waiting to watch him ride away. Yaga was in her rocking chair, sipping tea from a mug, looking insufferably pleased with herself.

“So?” she demanded. “What did you get?”

“Here.” Vassilisa thrust the goblet at her. “We can use it for a flowerpot or something.”

After multiple nominations for the Nebula, Hugo, Edgar and World Fantasy Awards, plus a gig on the TV ad (Would you buy a used Borg from this woman?), not much scares Susan. Not even when I told her I was going to subtitle this story “Xenadoon” (You’ll see why!) Her most recent books are Vulcan’s Forge (with Josepha Sherman) and Cross and Crescent.

Straight Arrow

Susan Shwartz

It wasn’t just life flashing before Lt. Kyria Mavricos’ glassy eyes as she punched out of her crippled fighter, but a veritable mountain range of clouds. Below them was probably the nastiest part of what used to be Yugoslavia. And some very hostile hostiles. And it was all coming up to meet her way too fast.

One instant, her F-15 had been on a high, fast overflight; the next, every instrument had gone dead, she’d lost control, and she’d set off that damned explosion underneath her butt and prayed the canopy would blow before she blasted through it.

Air-to-air couldn’t have taken out her F-15 before something registered on her screens. Surface to air? Here, where Serbs fought Croatians, Greeks fought Macedonians, and everyone hated Albanians and Turks and dreamed of terrorists, you had to be prepared for Scud-like flying objects, but, in the instants before power died, nothing had shown up.

EMP? She wouldn’t have thought the locals had any technology left, let alone anything good enough to mess with an F-15’s electronics.

What was left? Wind shear? Those gray critters with the big eyes? What about a Bosnian branch of the Bermuda Triangle that chowed down on F-15s?

She drew in arms and legs and plunged through the clouds. Maybe lower altitude would clear her head.

Her chute erupted with an impact like whiplash. If this doesn’t kill me, my CO will. Any time a female pilot ejected—let alone bored a hole in the ground—the Air Force didn’t just conduct an investigation, it threw a collective fit. And just let CNN sniff it out, or Rush . . .

It wasn’t as if her squad had called her Little Ms. Congeniality before. Even if the fact that she’d grown up speaking Greek at home let her translate some of the menus and local papers. Some of the other NATO types were Greek, but they all spoke English. Regardless, some of the pilots—the other pilots—nursed attitudes that could charitably be described as Neanderthal studying to be Cro-Magnon without the blessings of Ayla and her posterity.

I don’t want to be a poster child for Affirmative Action. I just want to fly.

Kyria jerked as something holed her chute not a meter from her helmet. Dammit, even if it didn’t violate the rules of war to shoot down people who had to eject from planes, it still was lousy manners.

The ground was coming up fast now. She tried to peer through the mist at the spinning landscape, hoping to spot possible hiding places she could use, the nearest source of water, maybe an easy route out, though “easy” was a misnomer in these mountains.

The whine in her ear made her whip her head around. Another hole in the chute. And what had made it hadn’t sounded like any bullet she’d ever heard.

Look out for that tree!

The last thing she saw before the tree clobbered her was two small figures standing in a clearing, bows slung over their backs.

Why was some imbecile was singing “George of the Jungle” in a peculiar hoarse voice here on a Serbian mountainside? If one of those damn archers was the comedian, that was two reasons the bozo deserved to die.

That couldn’t be right. Any locals would be singing in Serbo-Croatian or whatever. So she had to be the one trying to sing. Trying. She spat a mouthful of blood and one tooth.

Testing, she thought. One . . . two . . . three. Arms and legs ached but were otherwise in working order.

So was the rest of her, even if her helmet felt like she had the brain bloat that Boomer in her wing declared women got once a month, cancha take a joke, har har har.

He’d never made that joke around the CO or anywhere else he could be nailed for it. So help me, I’m going to make it back and wipe his face with it.

But the chain of command wouldn’t help her now. What would?.

Her survival vest held drugs, a knife, a radio, maps, matches, a First Aid kit, tools, and a side arm. And face paint for camouflage. Really gorgeous with a bloody nose and probably shiners, but the regs said to apply it right away. Her hands were hardly shaking at all now.

Her parachute billowed overhead, caught by the tree that had braked her fall and damn near broken her.

First, secure her chute. Then, look around for a place she could hide out in while she sent a message. Come on, God. You helped get Captain Scott O’Grady out of the soup and into a book contract. How about me?

The folds of her parachute jerked. More arrows, dammit. No guns?

In that case, I’ve got the bastards outnumbered.

Sure.

She drew her side arm, then wriggled into some covering underbrush just as someone jerked the chute down from the tree.

Voices again. My God, they were speaking Greek. Not demotika, but something close, more old-fashioned sounding than even her grandfather, who’d liked to pretend they were still living in the age of Pericles, which also had been a lousy age for ambitious women.

A branch snapped, and she whirled round. Standing over her was a tall woman dressed in leather, if not much of it, a curved bow slung across her back, high-laced boots, and holding a very businesslike-looking hunting knife. If the woman hadn’t stepped on that branch deliberately, she could have slit Kyria’s throat before Kyria heard her coming.

“The mists have brought us another one!” she called.

A wordless, high-pitched shout of triumph answered as Archer Number 2 strode forward. Not as tall as the first woman, she was fair, as some Macedonians had been, time out of mind. She carried a long staff, not a sword. And, as she folded Kyria’s parachute into a bundle, her hands lingered on the fabric as if she wondered at its smoothness.

Oh shit, Kyria thought, I’ve waked up in the Xenaverse.

Before she could even try playing Quick Draw, the tall woman’s long staff slammed out at her head. The explosion of pain, followed by blackout, was almost a relief.

Red light erupted, ejecting Kyria back into consciousness the way she had been hurled out of her cockpit. She flailed against whatever it was tied her down.

Blankets. Coarse wool blankets and fleeces.

Rainbows erupted in Kyria’s field of vision. What had Doc Dworkin said about concussion? Keep awake. If you’re dizzy or you vomit, get help. She glanced about. They’d settled her in some sort of shelter, but what passed for a door flap was open, and the noise in the camp made it unlikely she’d be getting any sleep. So did the idea of what a bunch of primitives could do with her gear.

I’m not doing very well, am I? she thought. First I punch out. Then I black out. Now I’m a prisoner.

“She’s awake.” Again, that curiously old-fashioned Greek. A woman’s voice. Maybe she wasn’t hallucinating. This region had a history of female guerrillas.

“See if she’ll drink something.”

The blond woman crouched at her side, holding a steaming cup. Good thing she’d had all her shots.

The cup pressed against her bitten lip. She swallowed so it would go away.

 “I’d hate to take a urine test right now,” she muttered to herself. “Where’s my gear?”

The woman was wearing her belt knife, she observed. Damn. That Marine-issue Bowie knife had been a gift from one of the friendlier men in her outfit, who’d scrounged or traded for it.

“Until we got your clothes off, we thought you were male,” said the blonde.

She sounded disappointed. You, my drill instructor, and half my flight. You’d think women warriors, at least, would be half civil . . .

“We know of no Amazons who wear such garments,” the woman continued. “Or carry such gear.”

Kyria blinked and took a quick look south. If this woman was any example, it was a myth that Amazons mutilated themselves so they could shoot better. This woman had the complete set . . . Encased in the proverbial bronze bra.

Okay, so this is the uplift war, not ethnic cleansing. I still want out.

I’m nuts, right? Maybe it was better than reality, considering that reality in this part of the world consisted of ethnic cleansing, which meant genocide, rape, and anarchy.

A child holding something olive-colored with trailing straps ran toward the central fire.

“No!”

Before Kyria realized what she was doing, she was on her feet, out of the tent, and heading unsteadily and quite bare-ass toward the blaze. If the kid threw that on the fire, they were all in trouble.

The blonde caught her round the ankle and brought her down. Someone else cuffed the child and whirled it—him—around before returning him to the circle of women and children.

“What can you expect of a boychild? He’s almost old enough to be sent to his father’s tribe, and if you ask me, he’s enough trouble I say we set him loose before the mists arrive!” the blonde said.

“I am Demetria,” her benefactor said. “And your name?”

“Kyria Mavricos,” she rapped out. “Lieutenant, US Air Force . . .”

Demetria’s voice interrupted the recitation of her serial number and birth date. “This ‘air force’ is your tribe? From your name, you would be of the ruling line?”

If “Kyrios” meant “lord,” then “Kyria . . .”

Long-lost princess. Right. Kyria resisted the temptation to tug the goatskins, which didn’t stink as badly as she’d expected, over her head until Demetria stopped asking questions.

Demetria held a second cup to her mouth. “Drink. This will steady you.”

“My tribe, yes,” Kyria agreed as soon as her head stopped spinning. “But I am not in line to rule.” What Intel would say about any of this was another thing not to think about. Section 8 would be the least she could expect.

“You may feel better if you dress,” said Demetria. “Certainly, you will feel warmer. The clothes I brought will do for now, but we must find you better before you meet the queen.”

That bronze bra was cold! Kyria discovered as she wriggled into it. She pulled on the rest of the garments—a dark leather tunic, a skirt of those metal-tipped strips her military history prof had said were called pteruges. No boots. These women might be low-tech, but they weren’t stupid.

“Can I have my stuff?” she asked again. If she could just get to her gun, her radio, her medical supplies, maybe she could make a break for it. A prisoner’s first duty is to escape.

Demetria was six inches taller than she and had that staff. Right.

“The queen will decide when to return your possessions to you. Meanwhile, you will be well treated, as befits your rank.”

Lieutenant? Or princess of the tribe “US Air Force”?

“When can I speak with her?” Kyria asked.

“Now that the mists have lifted, she is out hunting.” Demetria emphasized the last word and smiled thinly. “She will not return until tomorrow. I know she will want to confer with you in the absence of your queen. For now, rest.”

Kyria emerged from her shelter the next morning to respect and curious whispers. She had the mother of all headaches, and if she didn’t find a bathroom soon . . .

Well, she didn’t have cramps. Thank heaven for small mercies.

She gestured urgently, and a hand pointed the way to a Bronze Age equivalent of a latrine. Two very young women leaned on trees nearby, pointedly allowing her privacy, while letting her know she was under guard. They carried businesslike knives and staffs like the one that had put Kyria out of action the day before. Two against one, even if they weren’t much more than kids. Better not, she told herself.

At least, not till after breakfast.

“I don’t suppose you have a shower nearby,” she asked, as she readjusted the leather garments Demetria had handed her. Don’t even think about asking if there’s coffee.

“There is a hot spring, Kyria, if you wish to bathe.” The way they spoke her name, it sounded like a title. “We will alert the guards.”

“After breakfast,” she decided. “You do have breakfast around here, don’t you?”

Demetria hailed her on her return and gestured her to a seat by the fire. Suspended from a tripod was a heavy pot in which bubbled what looked like oatmeal or some sort of boiled grains with dried fruit mixed in. She ladled out two bowls and handed one to Kyria, who took it with as much grace as she could, considering how hot it was and how hungry she suddenly found herself.

Demetria clapped her hands. Kyria’s guards of earlier that morning disappeared into one of the shelters, then emerged.

“My gear!” Kyria got the words out despite hot porridge that damned near scalded her mouth. She had more attention for the sage-green and gray vest with its many pockets, pouches, and straps than she did for the pain.

One of the young guards had parked Kyria’s helmet on top of her mop of hair and was trying hard to swagger. The other carried her vest and was trying just as hard to peek into it without being caught.

Demetria barked laughter. “Quite the warriors, now that they have passed their women’s trials. Patience, cousins. The queen should return this evening, and I will wager you a dozen arrows that she does not return alone.”

The girls blushed identically.

“Are they twins?” Kyria asked. “They look a lot alike.”

Unobtrusively, she checked the nylon holster in its innermost pocket: yes, the automatic was still there. Her headache lightened. She sorted through her First Aid kit to make certain no one had mistaken pills for the coffee candy that her survival gear also contained, popped two painkillers anyway, along with a broad-spectrum antibiotic, and waited for the headache to subside.

She offered some of the hard candy to the twins. Nice-looking kids. Come to think of it, they had a marked resemblance to Demetria. Who looked a lot like the other women who emerged from various huts, from the woods, and from the bank of a nearby stream to watch Kyria. I may be the first person some of these women have ever seen who doesn’t resemble them.

Demetria snapped something in Greek too fast for her to follow.

“Your pardon. We do not see many strangers here.”

That returned her to the question that dogged her all day, persistent as her young guards. Where was here?

Bosnia? Macedonia? Some time in the past? Maybe this was a sort of branch office of the Bermuda Triangle, and they were all stuck. What were these mists that seemed to determine when they could hunt and when they could leave?

If they were all stuck here, maybe the ethnic cleansing that had been going on since the breakup of Yugoslavia had accounted for some of the locals . . . the locals . . .

 . . . from whom these Amazons had drawn their breeding stock. Maybe the gene pool’s getting a little shallow.

The girls had flushed when Demetria had assured her the queen would not return alone. “I’ve bagged another one!” Demetria had called when she’d found Kyria. So that was what the queen was hunting.

Kyria suppressed a grin. Guess who’s coming for dinner?

If she’d just wandered into an Amazonian version of the Dating Game . . .

My God, talk about fraternization.

Light was glinting off the mountains when a brighter light erupted into the center of the camp. A heliograph?

“The queen’s coming.” One of the younger women started smoothing her hair. Another bit her lips to redden them.

Kyria raised an eyebrow at Demetria. “Do we dress for dinner around here?” she asked. Her project for the day had been washing out her flight suit. She’d had to shoo away a number of eager helpers, all with that same family resemblance. If she had to meet a foreign dignitary, she preferred to do so in some semblance of uniform.

 “Five . . . six . . . seven . . .” came a cry from the outskirts of the camp. “The guards are bringing up the rear.”

“Only seven?” asked a girl slightly taller and darker than the others.

Demetria shrugged. “We take what the fates send, little sister,” she said. “Now, run along.” The girl wavered visibly. “Go on! They won’t bite . . . I think . . .”

She made shooing motions. Finally, the girl ran off, laughter trailing after her like a bright scarf.

A child ran to Demetria and whispered in her ear.

“The queen has summoned you.”

No time to change, then. She followed Demetria past the campfire, where only children and older—meaning more than twenty—women sat efficiently butchering something—a deer? A sheep? A goat while another roast sizzled on a spit. Her nose wrinkled at the scent of rough wine. A feast, Amazon-style. Might be fun. She heard a skirl of flute music, a clash of chords and drumbeats interrupted by a shout that sounded like a bawling-out.

She’d hoped to get a look at the queen’s . . . trophy males? She managed not to grin. If, as she suspected, these mists let the warrior women reach through time, they’d probably be drawn from a number of times and places. Genetic diversity, after a fashion, but judging from the look-alikes, the system was breaking down, had been breaking down for generations.

She glanced around, but Demetria led her and her guards walked past a number of shelters, their doors already firmly tied shut (Demetria chuckled), and toward a cave. Stuck into the earth outside it was a spear, a helmet and plumes swaying on its point. The equivalent of a flag over Buckingham Palace. Her Majesty is At Home, Kyria determined. A red fire—one of her flares burned outside it in a brazier. So they’d seen flares before.

Demetria and the wannabes—great name for a rock band—led her into the cave toward another fire. A tall figure, her head covered in a huge mask, reclined on a pile of furs that would have given PETA spasms. Half-covering them was some of the fabric from Kyria’s parachute. Fastened to the rock walls, glinting with crystals, were—an M-16, a Lee-Enfield, a scimitar that had to be four hundred years old, and a collection of helmets and other trophies she couldn’t identify.

The mists had obviously been going on for a long time.

Demetria came to what clearly passed for tenn-HUT among the Amazons.

If this woman says her name is Gabrielle, I’m dead. No way I won’t crack up.

The queen removed her heavy mask. She was taller than Demetria. Her hair, before the gray streaked it, had been as black as Kyria’s own. “Greetings, sister,” said the queen. “I am Hippolyta.”

You are not going to say you are Lieutenant Diana Prince, Kyria told herself. This isn’t a comic book. And you’d better come up with a matronymic damn fast.

She drew herself up and inclined her head formally like British soldiers did in all the movies. Field-grades got charm school; lieutenants made do with movies and TV.

 “I am Kyria,” she said. “Daughter of Eleni.” Her mother had preferred to call herself Elly, but that didn’t sound Greek. Or regal.

The queen gestured Kyria to another pile of furs. She gestured, and one of the girls poured wine into . . . that wasn’t a beaker, Kyria’s mind gabbled. A rhyton. Did that mean these Amazons had trade with Scythia or the equivalent at some point in the past? The cups that the girls handed her and Demetria were heavy silver; she would have bet that Hippolyta’s was gold.

Kyria sank down onto the furs, which felt surprisingly comfortable after a day of goatskins, stumps, and rocks, and took a cautious sip of a charming little wine with overtones of violence and delusions of grandeur.

“We saw you,” said the queen. “You leapt in fire from a chariot that flew across the sky. You grew wings, easing your fall. And then your chariot fell with a noise like unto Hephaestus’ anvil . . . One of my huntresses found me and brought me—this!”

She handed Kyria a scorched, torn metal shard to which fragments of paint still clung. What had ever possessed their squad leader to pick a sea lion as insignia anyhow? Scott always had had a weird sense of humor. Maybe she could say she was under Poseidon’s protection or something and they’d take her to the sea. Right.

The woman leaned forward, expectantly.

“Yes, this is from my . . . my chariot.”

“I would learn more of it,” the queen said, as if the idea that information would be withheld was unthinkable.

Sorry, I can’t violate the Prime Directive, Kyria’s mind gabbled.

“I have equipment in my ship,” was what she actually said. “Metal you could work into useful tools.” Not to mention the radio and the black box that I need . . .

The queen raised her winecup and sipped. “We saw where your . . . your ‘ship’ landed,” she said. “A good thing the snows had melted, or we would have had fire.”

“Can you take me there?” Kyria asked.

Uh-oh, never rush in a bargaining session, she warned herself.

“We could,” said the queen. “But the land is tricky if you do not know it, and we have enemies who would not be as gentle captors as we.”

Outside the music skirled up. Kyria heard raucous singing. Must be some party.

“My daughters are trained from birth in the ways of this land. You . . .”

Better pay attention. This woman wants something of me, or she wouldn’t have led with the news about my plane.

The second attendant brought in a steaming platter.

“From the feast,” she said.

“For luck!” Demetria threw a piece of meat into the queen’s hearthfire. “My queen, you will excuse me? I must make sure order—such order as may be—is kept.” The queen nodded.

It was impolite to talk business while eating. Kyria noted the presence of bread and salt with relief and went light on the unfamiliar meat.

“Our garments look well on you,” Hippolyta complimented Kyria once the food had been taken away by the two attendants. “Now, you look like a proper woman warrior . . .”

“Your Majesty is too kind.” God, I didn’t know people ever said things like that, even in the movies. She stifled a grin. “Demetria told me they thought I was a man until they got my flight suit off.”

Sounded disappointed about it too. Guess I know why, now.

“Demetria longs for a daughter,” said Hippolyta. “She has had three sons, all of whom have been sent to their fathers, except for the last one, who was malformed and whom she decided not to rear.” The woman took a sip of her wine. Attempting protocol, Kyria reached for the pitcher and poured, first for the queen, then for herself.

Hippolyta nodded approval.

Exposure of the unfit. Disappointment when the queen came in accompanied by so few men. And that family resemblance—there’s more inbreeding around here than in Boomer’s family, Kyria thought.

Outside, the music rose. She heard laughter—men’s voices as well as women’s.

“How many daughters do you have?” asked the queen suddenly.

Oops! That one came right out of left field.

“None,” she replied. “None yet,” she corrected herself fast.

The queen raised an eyebrow. “Is it prudent to wait so long?” she asked. “I mean no discourtesy, but even with the mists’ blessing, we have found fewer tribes who will be willing to . . . exchange with us each year . . . As Demetria knows, the opportunities must go to younger women, best able to give the tribe healthy daughters.”

Just what she didn’t need: a wake-up call from a Bronze Age biological clock!

Kyria looked down, a merchant hoarding her bargaining chips. Inbreeding. Declining fertility. Fewer available mates. “There are many healthy people where I come from. Many men. Many healthy men.”

This time, the queen leaned over to pour wine for both of them.

Kyria toasted her, then drank cautiously. This was going to be a long bargaining session.

“You realize your people may have abandoned their search for you.” Hippolyta stifled a yawn. My God, she had staying power!

Outside the cave, the sky was pale. In a little while, the women who’d feasted that night would be going about their morning chores with Amazon-size hangovers. I bet seven of them are praying for morning sickness in the near future.

”What of the men you caught in your hunt?” she asked the queen.

“Once the mists return, we shall blindfold them, take them away from here, and release them, together with the boys who are old enough to leave us, and let them return to their tribes.”

“Will they be expected?”

Hippolyta laughed. “They are not the first we have taken since the Goddess brought us here to protect us after Troy. The mist is the veil she cast down to protect us.”

So that was the story? Well, some Afghans claimed to be descended from Alexander the Great’s warriors. And it was as convenient an explanation for the mist as she was going to get right now.

She nodded respect at this alleged goddess, and Hippolyta proceeded. “These new prizes will not be the last. Their tribes will be glad of them and of new sons. Perhaps they too wait for the mists. Perhaps they will come looking for them—or for us, to punish us. They have tried before and failed, but now our numbers grow less.”

“My tribe will be looking for me,” Kyria insisted. “At least, they will mount a search for the plane.”

“For your equipment, but not for you?” asked the queen. “This is no way to treat a warrior and a princess of your tribe. Is it because you are a woman? In that case, why not stay with us?”

One more woman’s genes aren’t going to solve your problem, queen.

Kyria shook her head, wishing for strong black coffee. She’d tried to be moderate, but she had had a lot of wine. “I can’t. That would be desertion. No, let me get to my plane, and I can radio . . . I can call . . . for help. They will come pick me up and drop off whatever supplies we agree on.”

Knives, warm clothing, simple tools, probably MREs to help them get through the winter. Hell, if we could fly in Pampers and Tampax, we’d make a killing. And I’d love to see how Amazons with PMS react to chocolate.

Queen Hippolyta had sat, gazing into the fire. “You have said that we—my sisters and I—are a story out of legend. Will you be believed when you tell them of us or how we found you?”

“Probably not,” Kyria said. If they don’t throw me out, I’ll be flying a desk from now on. At worst, well, they say counseling isn’t all that bad. Kind of like root canal.

“Will this bring you trouble?”

Lady, you can’t begin to imagine.

“But you plan to tell them.”

Kyria sighed, leaned forward, and threw a stick on the fire. “You are an archer, Majesty. Among my people, we call a person who behaves with honor a ‘straight arrow.’ I will tell my people the truth though they would more easily believe a lie because an officer does not lie nor tolerate those who do.”

“Those who come for you, will they be men or women?” Hippolyta asked.

“More men than women, I should think,” Kyria answered with the straight truth.

“Could they be persuaded, do you think, to stay for awhile? We would gladly entertain them.”

Kyria’s eyes met the queen’s. She tried to keep her face straight, but failed.

That would be the mother of all shore leaves! Think of it, she imagined some morale officer saying, as diplomatic relations. Applied diplomatic relations. Close your eyes and think of USAF?

“You could always ask,” she said.

Kyria paused, leaning against a tree, and tried not to think of how quickly an F-15—always assuming the mists didn’t materialize and bring it down—could overfly the ground that had taken them days to cover, always with scouts out and an eye to the weather.

Apparently, those damn mists were picky about when they appeared. If you were in the right place at the right time, you lucked out. The Amazons’ collection of trophies drawn from across centuries showed they had been consistently lucky. If not, you waited around for the next attack of the mists and hoped your local enemies didn’t pick you off first.

I still don’t know what we’re up against.

Did it matter? Waving aside the offer of a filled wineskin—unpurified water, wine, and badly tanned goatskin’s not my drink of choice, she had a sip from her canteen. For her, the mists had acted like an electromagnetic field, sufficiently powerful to bring down a high-performance, high-altitude jet. How did the men snatched out of time see it? As a flying carpet? A pillar of cloud?

With luck, I won’t have to stick around long enough to find out. At least, the past few days, she hadn’t been useless. Her survival vest carried snares as well as weapons and medical supplies: she’d earned her keep.

I could make a place for myself here, I know it. But it would be desertion. My first duty is to get home.

“Hurry!” Demetria urged them on. “The mists are coming. Can’t you smell them?”

All I can smell is me. Hope any hostiles out there have stuffed noses.

From the youngest girls to pass their warrior trials to the gray-haired, scarred veterans, these women made Special Forces look like the Junior League. She’d like to have turned them loose on Special Forces, let alone the pilots in her wing. Now, if they only remembered what she’d told them a radio looked like.

Two of the Amazons gestured, Come on!

“We climb up to that spur next.” A gray-haired veteran pointed to a rock spur that looked to be a thousand meters away, most of it straight up. “There’s a clearing beyond it.”

Kyria crouched in the cover of the rock spur, hearing searchers crunch through debris. The ground was blackened here. In some places, the rock was fused, glassy. She drew in a gulp of air that burned. They had climbed high enough that she could see clouds floating below her. Clouds that, with any luck, would form the mists she needed to get herself out of this.

Hope the radio survived impact, she thought. Hippolyta’s hunting party had brought in sizable chunks of fuselage and said that the rain had prevented a total burnoff. It didn’t make sense, but what around here did?

Past the rock spur, the ground flattened out to form the “clearing” she had been promised. She didn’t think much of it. Granted, the helo pilots she knew bragged they could set down on a dime, but . . .

What’s the difference between a fairy tale and a pilot tale?

A fairy tale begins “Once upon a time.” A pilot tale begins “And there I was at 20,000.”

They weren’t at 20,000, thank God. Kyria thought she’d heard a story once of some Nepalese maniac in a chopper evacuating people off Everest at that kind of altitude, but she wouldn’t want to try it herself.

She thought of taking something for her headache, then thought again. She had face to maintain. And supplies to conserve, in case the mist took its sweet time about showing up.

Damn. She didn’t remember having altitude problems at the Academy.

We didn’t have to worry about drill instructors with swords in Colorado Springs, she remembered.

“Alexa brought this in. Is it what you need?” Demetria, with her usual soundlessness, had come up around the rocks—what’s a traverse of a hundred meters or so among friends?—and dropped down beside Kyria. She reached around and unstrapped the Amazonian equivalent of a backpack. What emerged from the swathings of scarred hide was . . .

Her radio.

Grabbing was rude. More than that: grabbing might antagonize Demetria, and that was counterproductive. Not to mention potentially suicidal.

“Two of the scouts brought this in,” Demetria said. “Is it the talisman you wanted?”

“Point them out to me this evening,” Kyria asked. “I’d like to thank them myself.”

There must be something in her equipment she could spare: a knife, maybe, or maybe the penlight.

Or—the idea struck her the way the sunset struck the valley below, with the force of revelation: if I’m picked up, there’s no end to the things I can give these people!

Unless, of course, her rescue party had heard of the Prime Directive. Which, considering the number of Trekkies in the Air Force, was all too likely.

She bent over the restored equipment, testing it out. Once she got it working, maybe she could lay out a landing field—or some kind of X-marks-the-spot—for a rescue helo.

And then, it would be time to hurry up and wait. For the mists.

Or for anyone else dependent on the mists to arrive.

It could be rescuers for her.

But it could also be hostiles. Bosnians. Croatians. Albanians. Or, seeing that the mist respected time as little as it respected persons, they might have to watch for anything from stray soldiers from Alexander the Great’s time to crusaders to Ottoman Turks.

The more the merrier, or the more genetically diverse.

As long as the Amazons could continue to take them.

In, of course, a manner of speaking.

* * *

The fire had died to a memory of smoke. Frost had formed on her sleeping bag. By the time the Amazons emerged, appallingly alert, from their sleeping pelts, dampness in the air had wakened Kyria. You never did get much sleep at altitude, she recalled. Just as well. It would keep the guards awake and slow any potential attackers.

She gazed out over the rock lip. The sky was lighter, but if she was expecting a spectacular sunrise, she could forget it.

Already, the bowl that was the valley had filled.

With mist, ruddy from the sunrise.

Was this the condition they’d been waiting for?

She heard Demetria whisper a prayer. Odd to find that, at this end of time, the Amazon was as big a straight arrow as she.

How long would the mist last? The best Kyria had been able to get was: it lasts as long as it lasts.

Apparently, the weather-wise—mist-wise?—among the Amazons could sense when the mist was due to arrive.

Demetria lifted her head and nodded. Go. The Amazon gathered her own gear and soundlessly dressed.

She reached over and tested the radio one last time. It had survived impact. Would it survive this too? She checked and loaded the flare gun.

Last night, she’d marked the clearing herself for a helo landing. She was running on a lot of assumptions here: assuming the mists held long enough to call in a recovery mission. Assuming it could see the landing field, such as it was.

Assuming it was an Air Force helo.

Hippolyta had taken one hell of a risk sending her up here. A risk she’d been glad to take in the hope that Kyria would be able to do something for the tribe that had taken her in.

And that might be the rashest assumption of all.

“Let’s do it,” she muttered to herself and began transmitting.

She sensed when the number of women at her back began to diminish. There’d be hunting parties out today for certain. Amazons hunting men; men hunting Amazons.

Over the centuries, they’d had to have built up a certain amount of blood feuds that made twentieth-century backlash look like a love-in.

From the corner of her eye she could see Demetria slipping from point to point, talking to the various scouts. Which ones were set to watch her?

Possibly none, Kyria thought. Hippolyta trusts me, after her fashion. And I gave my word.

And I’m just going to go off and leave these people, aren’t I? Hardly seems right.

Neither did involving the Air Force in their survival strategies—or the Amazons in twentieth-century style ethnic cleansing.

I’ll think of this tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day. And possibly, another century.

She bent over the radio, searching from frequency to frequency. From time to time, she picked up noise . . . chatter . . . something . . . but nothing that told her that this clearing on a desolate mountain peak in ex-Yugoslavia had any connection to her own time and place. The mist thickened below them, reaching up to lap about them. Damn! How could a chopper spot her in this kind of limited visibility, let alone make pickup?

It would have to wait until the mist started to dispel. Assuming she could raise an Air Force unit. Assuming they hadn’t called off the search. Assuming . . . oh damn.

What was that?

Electricity crackled across the miles, accompanied by crisp words, made almost incomprehensible with static. She could take those words, take them and twist them into a rope, a lifeline.

Swiftly, she bent, whispered her own message in answer to the demand she heard.

“They’re coming!” she hissed at Demetria, who had returned from briefing her scouts. She nodded. And checked the positions of her staff, her bow, and her arrows. At least the sword was sheathed. For now.

A scout, scarcely more than a girl, rushed up to them, crouched over. Demetria hissed something that brought the scout’s eyebrows up in surprise.

“We’ve got visitors,” the warrior said.

“How’re they armed?”

Demetria shrugged. “The usual. Bows. Arrows.”

Kyria supposed that was better than, say, a detachment of Serbs.

Still, arrows had been known to pierce plate armor. A lucky arrow—and a particularly strong archer—might be able to puncture a helicopter’s fuel tank. She could hear an icon out of her childhood intoning in the familiar deep voice, “I would calculate the odds against that at . . .”

How do you like those odds, Kyria?

Not one bit.

She glanced down at the valley. The mist was thinning. Ominous sign, really. If she could see out, people could see in.

Could see her, and attack.

She had a few spare clips for her side arm. After that, she was down to the local weapons—bows and arrows, knives and swords.

And after an endless time of waiting, of eating whatever was put into her hand, preferably without looking at it, of nature calls, and watching the mist evaporate as the sun climbed toward noon, she heard the thwock-thwock-thwock of a helicopter. What was that painted on the fuselage? A sea lion? It wasn’t just rescue, then, but some of her own come to bring her home.

She fired the flare gun before Demetria could grab her wrist. Fire launched into the sky, signaling her presence.

Demetria pushed her down. Maybe Hippolyta hadn’t been that trusting after all.

“Those are my people!” Kyria protested. There was no way she could reach her revolver.

“That doesn’t look like your chariot,” Demetria observed.

How could she tell, from a crash site?

“It’s mine. Same emblem, see?” Right now, that helicopter couldn’t have been any more beautiful if it had carried the Angel Gabriel.

Click your jump boots together three times and say: There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

“It flies lower, yes. And can land here.”

Now came the part that was really risky.

She stood, dressed again in her flight suit rather than something out of a sword and sorcery epic, scurried into the center of the improvised landing strip, and waved her arms. Her instructors at the academy would kill her—if the archers didn’t. She suspected the Amazons gave points for bravado. Or, if the phrase applied, sheer ballsiness.

An arrow whizzed by her, damn near bouncing off her helmet.

Just the way I came in. Damn!

Now, she could hear more arrows—the bronze age version of covering fire—and battlecries. She drew, dropped, and set off the smoke end of another flare to confuse things thoroughly, and wriggled back to the rock spur the way she’d learned—knees, elbows, chin (ouch!) in basic training. Granted, there was no barbed wire and no one was using live ammo.

But you could get just as dead from an arrow, and the idea of one hitting her in the . . .

By the time she got back under cover, the radio was squawking hysterically.

“Yes, that was me. And we’ve got ground action,” she said. “I don’t think they’ve got guns.”

The squawk rose in pitch.

“Bows and arrows!” she cried. “No, I’m not seeing things. And I don’t inhale.”

She spared a look into the valley. The air was clearing fast now; she could make out individual trees. Yes, and individual fighters emerging from the forest to engage each other. Ugly. Even as she watched, four Amazons tackled what looked like a warband and brought them down. She threw another flare, gushing orange smoke, to break things up.

Unfortunately, up above the treeline, far too close for her comfort, someone wearing what looked like boiled leather, had an Amazon down on the ground, was raising a sword overhead . . .

Kyria snapped off a shot. Lucky! The man fell with a howl, clutching his leg.

The thwock-thwock-thwock grew louder. The air darkened as the helo broke through what remained of the cloud cover and loomed overhead.

God, it made one gorgeous shadow! Kyria thought—then flinched as arrows ricocheted off.

Some of the women had broken cover, were standing looking up in amazement. The idea of vulnerable people, approaching before that chopper’s rotors had come to a full stop . . .

“Get back!” she screamed. “Demetria, tell your people to get back.”

She ran forward, knowing the chopper would hover, and she’d have a matter of minutes, if that, to race toward it and in.

Demetria screamed something and gestured. Away from the chopper, the land began to glow. The sun grew brighter.

The mist was fading fast now.

Thwock . . . thwock . . . thwock . . .

Coming in for a landing.

Unfortunately, it looked as if the infantry had arrived too. Good God, what had the mist dragged in this time? Were those actually hoplites?

Men were gesturing, urging her forward, shouting just as if she was making an eighty-yard run for a touchdown at the Superbowl . . . she was throwing herself at the hatch . . . someone had grabbed her arms . . . the chopper started to lift . . .

A gust of wind blew a patch of the mist right at them, enveloping the chopper.

Damn. The chopper’s engines choked, then stalled. Its rotors ground slowly to a stop.

“Now what?” demanded the man who had boosted her into the chopper. She recognized him from base: Lieutenant Tony “Mad Anthony” Wayne.

“I told you,” she said. “There’s a local condition. Works like EMP—oh, I don’t know, call it an obscure application of Clarke’s Law.”

“You got brain bloat but good this time?” Why in hell had Boomer come along on this one? She had a moment’s vision of him, surrounded by Amazons, and managed, just in time, not to grin.

“Haven’t got time to explain. I suggest . . . allies over here . . . let’s GO!”

She turned in time to watch the Amazons sweep past the chopper and intercept the remaining archers and a stray hoplite or two.

Oh, there’d be a hot time in the old town tonight.

She waved at Demetria, who emerged from around a rock, cleaning her sword. She sheathed it, put her hands to her throat, and shrieked a victory cry, throbbing up and down on two shrill notes.

“I see you brought us guests!” she hailed Kyria.

“These are my friends,” she said. “Men of my unit.” Yes, and there was Kathy Banks, too, the other female pilot in her wing. Under her helmet, Banks was all eyes—and a smile that gradually expanded into a seriously evil grin.

“This is a joke, right?” Banks asked.

“You’d better tell me what’s going on,” Wayne snapped at Kyria. In a minute, he’d draw, and she’d really be up the proverbial creek.

“You won’t be able to take off in these weather conditions. It’s like EMP. Shorts out everything. But these are friendlies . . .”

Very friendly.

She leapt from the chopper—no one was going anywhere, at least not till the mists came up again—and ran toward the Amazons. Now, she could grin. Demetria met her halfway.

“When do you think we can expect the mists to come again?”

Demetria raised her head and sniffed the air.

“A couple of weeks,” she said.

So. They’d think the chopper had broken off radio contact, had crashed in the mountains. She wondered if they’d send in a search party, much good it would do them until the mists arrived. And meanwhile . . .

She turned to the helo pilot. A captain. Humph. She rated. Well, F-15 pilots were expensive to train. And female F-15 pilots were a PR nightmare, his sour expression seemed to indicate. And thank you very much, sir, only “thanks” isn’t quite the word I had in mind. I suspect the Amazons will express their gratitude too.

Everyone into the gene pool!

“Sir,” she said, “I suggest we get this craft under cover. Camouflage. The local friendlies say it’ll be at least two weeks before we can fly out.”

“How the hell do they know?”

Kyria shrugged. “They know local conditions, sir.”

“And what do they expect us to do until then?” the man demanded.

His eyes rounded as Demetria and several of the scouts came up, bows, swords, bronze bras, and all. Not an ounce of cellulite on them anywhere. Banks and Kyria covered their mouths at the same time to conceal smiles. I believe the technical term is “relax and enjoy it,” Kyria thought.

“They’re very friendly, sir,” Kyria said. “I’m sure they’ll think of something.”

There was some satisfaction in knowing that she wouldn’t be leaving the Amazons in the lurch. And at least as much in watching Boomer’s face as the Amazons gave him the once-over. Maybe he’d stop preening soon.

And best of all, since all of them were in it, there wouldn’t be any scapegoating. Talk about unit cohesion.

Or maybe the best thing to say would be: Don’t ask. Don’t tell.

As an infant, Rosemary Edghill was discovered floating down the Amazon in a hatbox and was raised by the Lords of the Middle Terraces in downtown Zinderneuf. Though a dead ringer for the Crown Prince of Ruritania, she has found time to write over a dozen novels in several genres and far too many short stories like this one.

No, I have not been drinking; that’s the bio she sent me in its entirety. So there.

Bad Heir Day

Rosemary Edghill

For, lo! Whosoever pulleth this swordeth out

of the stoneth, shall, all things being equal,

probably be King of Britain, more or less, if

everything works out okay.

From the Prophecies of Geoffrey
the Equivocal, Sixth Rev. Ed.

It’s not my fault how things turned out. My brother (he’s not really my brother, but that’s another story that the bards don’t like to sing) says it’s only what anyone could expect, but Mo has a much lower opinion of people than I do. Probably that comes from having studied magic in his misspent youth, although if you ask me, growing up on a farm with three older brothers like Ingrate, Aggravating, and Garish would be enough to sour anyone’s disposition. By the time I was old enough to get to know them, I was glad, believe me, that Mother’d had the foresight to dress me as a boy. Not that this alone would have been enough to save me, but I could run fast, too. Faster than the sheep, anyway.

But you’ll be wanting to hear about the prophecy, and my parents, and things like that. I would like to stress that I neither planned nor expected how things turned out. Maybe Mo did. You could always count on Mo for things like that. Complicated plots and really spectacular revenges, that’s my brother.

Well, step-brother, anyway. And it isn’t as much his fault as it was the old king’s. Rules are rules and prophecies are prophecies, and people should understand that what they say is what they mean, no matter what they intended to say instead. But the person whose fault it really was, was Ambrius’ merlin. You’d think people wouldn’t go around annoying wizards, wouldn’t you? But kings are all the same, Mo says. He keeps wanting to tell me this long story about somebody named Saul who was king a long way east of here, and I tell him, “Mo, what is your point? Does this guy have a sword?” And Mo tells me that no, but there’s a harp mixed up in it somewhere, which is not much of an inducement as I’ve never been really musical. The zakpjip sounds like a pig caught in a gate, if you ask me, and Orkney’s too damp for harps. The bards are always complaining.

Anyway, I suppose you want to know about King Ambrius. The main thing to know is, he was one of these guys who put everything off until way beyond the last minute, and so the bottom line is, he’s eighty, he’s dying, and he hasn’t got an heir. What he does have is a War Duke named Uther, and guess who’s the insiders’ pick for the next king? (This is the point at which Mo always wants to tell me about some people named David and Adonijah and Solomon and Abishag. I ask him, doesn’t he know any stories about people with normal names?)

Anyway, what Uther didn’t know when he hustled Ambrius off that mortal coil was that the king had gotten an heir on a girl named Nimhue, a serving girl of the blood of the Old Line who had been brought to Ambrius’ bed to give him heat. You can get away with a lot if you’re king, as I intend to prove. I came into the world while Uther, now High King of Lochrin, was still piling stones on Ambrius’ tomb in blessed ignorance of my mother’s interesting condition.

I was smuggled from the palace on the night of my birth by the king’s merlin, who was a lot fonder of my mother than he was of Uther, especially considering Uther had gone secretly to the Druids to be named Pendragon and King, and so much for the King’s Royal Companions, a.k.a. the hostages Ambrius had exacted from all the noble families of the realm with the promise that, failing further developments, one of them would be King.

It sounds complicated, but it’s not. A few murders, some betrayals, a clandestine alliance or two . . . of course, by the time Uther was hitting his stride in the backstabbing department, Nimhue was long gone. Uther had done a major prereign housecleaning and parceled out the old king’s women to whoever would take them. Mom got Lot, Orkney, and four stepsons. Uther got the throne. The merlin got the gate, because Uther didn’t want him around when he was breaking his latest set of campaign promises. He’d promised the Druids that he’d drive out the followers of the Chrestos who’d come in on a “One God—One Vote” platform and were annoying everybody. What the Druids had failed to note was that the Chrestians were like that with the Roman legions, and Uther thought that a Roman legion might be more good to him later on than a few sprigs of mistletoe and some sacred snakes, but by the time the Druids had worked that out for themselves Uther was already on the throne and anointed with the Dragon’s Blood, and they were pretty much stuck with him.

Nobody in Orkney paid much attention to this at the time. If it didn’t come in a dragon ship waving torches, no one up north really cared. Still it was always amusing to hear what fools the sassenach were making of themselves, so when the merlin came to visit (usually arriving just before the first hard snow of the season, necessitating his staying the winter; the man had a marvelous sense of timing, ask anyone) and tell us what was going on down in Lochrin, we listened. Ingrate, Aggravating, and Garish (Lot’s three eldest, in order of annoyance) never were sure he wasn’t going to turn them into toads (a vast improvement, it would be, but not really a stretch, in my opinion) so they were marginally better behaved while he was here. Mo and I were the youngest, so we got most of his attention.

I think he would have liked to take Mo as his successor, but Lot was real down on the whole castration thing (Mo wasn’t too big on it either, truth to say), so most of what the merlin knew would die with him.

At least, I thought so at the time. Now I’m not so sure. Being King changes your perspective.

Meanwhile, by the tenth year of Uther Versus Practically Everybody (the Tribute Kings of the Royal Kindred being really sore losers who could carry a wicked grudge), Uther was pretty desperate for some Peace In Our Time. The Druids weren’t talking to him, the Legions were staying put in Armorica, and the Chrestians were proving to be a pretty weak reed—the White Priest might talk a good fight, but he couldn’t bring Uther alliances and he couldn’t bring him luck.

So when Ambrius’ merlin floated a rumor that he had one last great magic to perform for the right person and the right price, Uther jumped at it like a gaffed trout. What the merlin did then did not bring Uther luck either, though it took Uther some time to figure that out. He was too dazzled by this fairy tale about a magic sword known only to the merlins’ college, which lay in a cave in the hills to the west and upon which Ambrius had sworn his vows of kingship.

And which, the merlin let it be known, he was willing to give Uther as a free gift, owing to how he was the last of his line and all. Uther, never a subtle man, believed him.

And so the merlin went off with the White Priest, a cohort of soldiers, and two teams of double-yoked oxen to fetch Guenhwyfar the Shining, the merlin’s magic sword. They found her right where he said she’d be, only there was a slight catch: Guenhwyfar was sunk to the hilt in two sword-stones.

One was an iron anvil such as swords had been forged on since my grandfather’s day, and the one below that was a heavenstone such as the old bronze swords were poured out on. And written upon them both in large friendly letters was the merlin’s final judgment upon Uther: that anyone who might draw the sword forth from the stone and anvil was the true and rightful overlord of the land, accept no substitutes.

Anyone, mark you.

Well, you probably know the rest of the story as well as I: that everyone—starting with Uther—tried to pull the sword out and nobody could, which was way too bad because Uther, like Ambrius before him, did not have an heir. Uther had gone through six Queens in all (divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, left with no forwarding address), with the interval between the weddings (and the beddings and beheadings) getting shorter as Uther lost patience, until there was absolutely nobody in all Lochrin willing to date the man, let alone marry him.

This was the main reason that Uther didn’t simply sink the whole mess (sword, stone, anvil, inconvenient prophecy) in the River Tame and let the fish try to draw the sword. While the merlin’s travelling wondershow was sitting in front of Caer Londinium, Uther could at least pretend he was taking the whole succession thing seriously. (Mo says Uther thought he’d live forever. I tell Mo I’m not as stupid as he’d like to think I am. I think Uther thought that the last time a king had named an heir, look what happened to that king. Better to keep them guessing.)

This was mainly the period during which Uther turned the place upside down looking for the merlin, who had made himself a very scarce fellow indeed, as who could blame him? Looking for him, though, ruined Uther’s health, and after twenty-one adventure-fraught years of reign, Uther was dying, and still no heir in sight. People were talking, even up in Orkney.

Naturally there was a fair held in the City of Legions down South. A sort of a hiring fair, because with the sword stuck firmly in the stone, and Uther having done such a good job of weeding out importunate claimants in his salad days, any man’s claim to the throne was by now as good as any other’s (though, entre nous, the Duke of Cornwall’s was better than most, plus he had an inexhaustible supply of Eirish mercenaries who’d work for cheap usquebaugh and some hot dance tunes). Claims needed armies to back them, and my step-father had an army for sale. Having learned from Uther’s example, he didn’t leave anybody behind in Orkney who might have the least interest in the throne. We all went, even Mother.

And certainly Mo, since Mo was easily bored and dangerous therewith and nobody knew it better than his father, especially after the affair of the sheep, the Archbishop, and the traveling portrait painter. If Lot went to war, I knew that the Three Stooges were going to draw lots to see who got Mo as squire, since, face it, would you want him to be the last person who’d handled your armor?

But I digress.

While Uther or his spies would probably recognize Mother, he didn’t even know I existed. So Mo and I had the run of the town, while Mother stayed put inside the tent and Lot went around trying to drum up business. Naturally, the first thing Mo and I wanted to see was the merlin’s sword—me, because it was probably the last piece of magic anyone would ever see, Mo, because the last piece of magic anyone would probably ever see could probably be used to cause trouble.

It’s much better to stay on his good side, really. But he was my best (and only) friend and I’d always liked him. Besides, he has a strong appreciation of how long I can carry a grudge.

Anyway, we got to the courtyard in front of the White Tower, which was the king’s residence, and there Guenhwyfar was, surrounded by bored guards and gold-painted iron chains.

“Do you think it’s true?” I asked Mo, after I’d puzzled out the inscription on the stone and the anvil. The merlin had taught me to read, but it wasn’t like there were any books in Orkney to practice on and I was a little rusty.

“You mean, do I think somebody can pull the sword out of the stone and live past the point Uther’s chief steward Gaius slips something into their wine? No,” he said comprehensively.

“But it says that whoever draws the sword gets to be king.”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Mo advised me kindly.

“It isn’t fair,” I said, kicking at a stone. Mo rolled his eyes, then grew thoughtful. “No,” he said reflectively, “it isn’t, is it?”

Lot’s first mistake was bringing Mo, and his second was in giving Mo enough free time to reflect on how much he’d hate going to war as squire to one of his brothers. This meant that by Friday everybody in Caer Londinium had heard a shocking new rumor that Uther was going to give everyone one last chance to draw Guenhwyfar the Shining out of the stone—everyone, not just knights and nobles and well-connected types like that. It was either the exciting new rumor (three guesses on the source) or the sight of his vassals preparing to carve him like a roast out of sheer boredom and uncertainty; either way, Uther geeked and set a date.

By the next Holy Day of the Chrestos a tent city stretched along both sides of the River Tame for half a league and the line to try Guenhwyfar was nearly as long. Uther made an impressive speech for a man who had to be carried out in a litter and swore that he would abide by Guenhwyfar’s choice . . . and that any man who wouldn’t do the same had better ride for the border, because his lands were forfeit.

It was exciting policy decisions like that which got Uther where he was today: no matter which way the cat jumped, all the kings were sworn to peace and mutual assistance. Mo said that Tyndareus had made all the Greek Kings swear a similar oath about somebody named Helen. My opinion is nobody would go to war over a girl. I don’t know where he gets this stuff.

The princes had finished up by noon, and second sons and landless men were trying now, equally without success. Uther had gone back to the White Tower, but there were enough bored guardsmen and White Priests around to make sure he was informed of anything interesting.

“You try it,” Mo said to me.

“Yeah, right,” I answered. Mo’s brothers were in the queue waiting for their turns, and if Guenhwyfar could be wooed by brute force and stupidity, we’d have a new king by tea-time.

“Let me list the reasons,” Mo said, and proceeded to tell me a bunch of things I didn’t know he knew, ending up with: “and since the inscription says ‘whomsoever,’ and Uther says he’ll abide by her choice, you’ve got it taped.”

Assuming I could pull the thing at all, but Mo never let minor obstacles like that stand in his way.

“And what’s in it for you?” I asked suspiciously, because Mo did not generally exert himself for nothing.

“To be your chancellor,” he said promptly. “And not Gawain’s squire.”

I guessed they’d already drawn the lots. So to speak.

“If I can be King,” I said, “you can certainly be Chancellor, Modrat.”

We had to wait until Ingrate, Aggravating, and Garish were out of the way, drowning their sorrows in the nearest ale-butt, but by the time they were well gone the only people who approached Guenhwyfar did so for sport, and it was easy enough to usurp their place. While the sun still stood a good handsbreadth above the horizon, I stood on the platform and clasped Guenhwyfar.

I knew at once that the merlin had left her for me and that Mo’d probably had inside information. One might suggest that if the merlin had wanted me to have Guenhwyfar, it would have been better just to bring her to Orkney, but that wasn’t how his mind worked. And besides, his way had led Uther into a most inconvenient pledge (never piss off a wizard, remember?), and as I have said, rules are rules and prophecies are prophecies, and Uther had been very explicit: who pulled the sword would be king, and king hereafter.

So I did.

Wouldn’t you know that one of my step-brothers would pick then to be thrown out of the tavern? Ingrate—or, to name him properly, Gawain—staggered to his feet, took one look at me, and bawled out for all the world to hear:

“That’s my sister Vivane! She can’t be King!”

So I’m a girl. Sue me. I was amazed he knew, actually. Most people don’t look past the hair and the clothes.

I’d been hoping to put the moment off a little longer—but Gawain has a voice that can stun a sheep at sixty paces (which explains much about his love life), and soon enough Agravaine and Gaheris had joined him, telling anyone who would listen that their sister had just pulled Guenhwyfar from the stone and what was somebody going to do about it, eh?

I found out then that cold steel is a better argument than all the words in the world, because I managed to defend my position beside the anvil until Uther could be summoned back from the tower. By then three of my brothers (guess which) were sitting at the foot of the platform bleeding and howling, and an enormous crowd had gathered to stare at me as if I were the two-headed pig at St. Audrey’s Fair.

Uther’s litter was ringed with torches. He stared at me, and at the sword, and did not say anything for quite some time.

“Well,” he finally said. “Well, well, well, well, well.”

(“That’s a deep subject,” Modrat muttered. I elbowed him in the ribs.)

“What am I to do with you?” Uther said.

The crowd—and my foster brothers—had a number of suggestions, none of which I thought it would do me any good to hear.

“This woman Vivane is the daughter of Nimhue, last wife of King Ambrius, and your heir,” Modrat bellowed loud enough to be heard in Oxford. “And by your law and your oath, she who has drawn Guenhwyfar from the stone and the anvil must rule Lochrin when you are gone.”

Mo was speaking for the broadsheets, needless to say. He never talked like that at home.

Uther smiled as if his face would crack, because Modrat was right, and if he went back on his word now he’d be cold potroast by morning and Cornwall would be on the throne.

So the king beckoned us down to him and the crowd cheered and we all set off for the White Tower—a place a good deal safer to be than Chez Orkney this particular evening, by my reckoning. Modrat walked beside the king, the torches glinting off his fox-red hair, and I carried Guenhwyfar upraised for everyone to see.

“I’ll have to be sure to find her a good husband,” I heard Uther muttered as he was carried off.

“Did I happen to mention,” Modrat asked him, “the ancient Druidic prophecy that states the wielder of Guenhwyfar cannot marry anyone except a man who has defeated her fairly in battle . . . ?”

Yeah, right, and the ancient prophecy was dated about fifteen minutes ago. I didn’t think Uther would go for it, but tomorrow is another day, as the bards say. I had the sword. I’d be king. Simple.

Besides, possession is nine points of the law, and now that I had Guenhwyfar what were they going to do, write me out of history?

So she’s had over two dozen stories published in places like Amazing and Asimov’s and Playboy (!), and she’s co-edited an anthology (Ripper) with Gardner Dozois, and she’s one funny lady. Yet for all that, there’s one thing I fear I’ll never let her forget: “Under Her Skin,” her story about a vampire that doesn’t drink blood but . . . fat.

Wish fulfillment: It works for me.

Why Do You Think They
Call It Middle Earth?

(or how I slew a dragon
and found myself a mate)

Susan Casper

I bet that most of you believe the earth is right side out, solid all the way down, at least until you hit that molten core, and hotter than blazes in the middle? I did too. That is, I did until I fell through a crack one day.

Oh, yes, I did. There I was walking down the street, minding my own business and not really bothering anyone, when . . . Well, actually, I can’t really say what happened. I was walking down the street when this guy comes up to me and says, “Lady can you spare some change?” Can you imagine? I mean, I know I am considered a large woman, but do I look like a bank or something? But hey, I’m not an ungenerous soul. I took a minute of my time to tell him how to get out of his situation, starting with a bath and maybe some clothes, and I was just getting to the part about a job when whammo. I think the earth opened right beneath my feet, but maybe the hole was there all along and I just didn’t notice. I do know I was falling. I was so startled that I didn’t even notice what I passed on the way down, which pissed me off when I landed on account of I wouldn’t know who to sue. It got dark kinda fast and after that I couldn’t see anything until I hit the ground with a thud.

Fortunately, the ground was soft, and after a moment I saw some stars . . . not in the hitting your head kind of way, but actual points of light in the sky. It took a minute to realize what they were. It was morning when I started and I knew I hadn’t been falling all that long, but it was night when I landed all right. The moon was yellow enough to pass for a giant lemon, and after a moment other lights were visible a long way off. Wherever I was, I was damned upset. I was gonna be late for work, for starters. I pulled out my cell phone and tried to call the office, but there must have been some heavy interference in the area. I couldn’t connect to anyone. I tried then to stand up and fell back again, the heel of my shoe twisting right off underneath me. I took them off to look at them. That’s what I get for shopping at Payless. I shoved them into my purse. They would fit if I didn’t zip it, but that meant my stockings were gonna be ruined. I took them off too, sliding them down under my dress, then, shoes sticking half out of my purse, and thank heaven I carried the big one that day, I picked what I thought was the closest of the lights and headed off in that direction. There wasn’t a path, so far as I could tell. Whatever it was I was walking across, it wasn’t any kind of grass my feet were familiar with; it crackled and crunched with every step. I had the horrid feeling that if I stopped for even a moment, I’d feel it moving underfoot.

My name is Emily Prentiss, by the way, and if I do say so myself, I’m one of the best corporate traders in the business. The guys hate the fact that I’ve got more kills than any two of them. I know what they call me behind my back. “Super-bitch,” “Dragonslayer,” and “She-Wolf,” are some of the milder terms they have for me. But the point is, when I set out to do something, I get the job done, which is why I kept walking, lawsuit in hand, ready to take the head of the first person I came across.

“By God, somebody’s gonna pay for this!” I muttered over and over again whenever a rock or thorn caught my tender skin. The light turned out to be from a little wooden shack. I couldn’t see anything through the window, but the light meant someone was there. Boss or worker, I didn’t care. I meant to find out just what the hell was going on. There was no bell or knocker. I pounded on the rough wooden door with my fist, noting how it bent inward with every blow. I’d have it off the hinges if that was the only thing that would work, but after a moment it opened.

“Are you in charge here?” I asked, intending to go on with my tirade until I noticed that no one was there, and then my eyes lowered. A child. Damn! Why on earth would a little boy be answering the door in what was obviously the middle of the night? No, not a child. A small man, maybe a little over three feet tall. He had a short beard and straight blond hair that had probably been cut using a soup bowl.

“Lady, have you been drinking?” The voice was deep and gruff; not at all what I’d been expecting. His jacket was leather, and made him look like a diminutive thug until you looked further down and saw that instead of the usual jeans, he wore green tights that stretched up out of soft, silver boots. I could feel my mouth working, though no sounds were coming out. On his part, he seemed as puzzled as I was.

 “Drinking!” I said. I got as far as “Listen, you little . . .” then stopped myself mid-sentence. No point getting into it here and now. That’s what lawyers are for. Besides, the handicapped are so touchy. Fishing under the shoes, I found my organizer and slid the pen out of its sheath. “Just give me your name and then take me to your boss.” I almost said “leader,” there being something about the place that felt so alien.

“Lobish, son of Frobish, at your service,” he said with a short bow that told me he felt free to make fun of me. He wasn’t gonna get away with it. I made a quick note. “Now tell me, pray, where are you from and how did you get here?” he went on.

“How did I get here? I fell through a damn crack that somebody left in the sidewalk. Now if you will be kind enough to tell me who is in charge here?” I asked him, pleased to see the worried look come over his face. Now we were getting somewhere.

“The Prophecy,” he said. Odd sort of name, but I duly wrote it down. “This isn’t good.” I had to agree. “You’ll have to come with me. It’s a bit of a walk, I’m afraid.”

The nerve of some people! “Oh no,” I said. “I’ve already ruined my shoes. Look at them. And they were expensive imports, too. I’m not walking anywhere in my bare feet. My tootsies are killing me.”

“Tootsies?” he asked. I lifted a foot and pointed. “Ah,” he said, “just a minute. I think I have something here.” He went back into the room. I wasn’t invited, but I followed anyway. It was a strange little room. A slab of wood in the center must have doubled as table and bed, for the only other furniture was a small chair and a large elaborate chest. That chest was a beautiful piece of work, inlaid with light and dark woods and decorated with tiles of marble, it seemed out of place in such spartan surroundings. It opened without a sound; the inside seemingly crammed with more than that small space could possibly hold. With a carelessness that belied the neatness of the tiny room, he tossed objects one at a time over his shoulder. Pots and pans, a pick, a few items of clothing—the pile behind him grew into a mound before he stood triumphantly holding what looked like a pair of small silver socks for a child.

“Those things won’t fit me,” I said, but he had me seated before I could finish my thought, and, with a single motion, slid them onto my feet. I had to admit, to myself at least, they were comfortable. I stood, and the hard-packed earth felt very different than it had when I first walked in. Soft, it felt, almost springy, like fine pile carpet. They probably wouldn’t do much about rocks and stones, and they sure didn’t go with my suit, but I was anxious to get this over with. Besides, they might let me keep them.

It was still quite dark when we started out and for the first hour we didn’t talk much. The only sounds we heard were our own footsteps and the occasional beat of large wings . . . bats maybe, or some very big bird. I didn’t want to know. As the sky started to lighten, I turned to Lobish.

“Hey, isn’t there somewhere to stop,” I asked. I was in pretty good shape, or so I thought, but this overweight gnome had me panting to catch up. “I could really use a cup of coffee.”

“Coffee?” he asked. Was it really possible to live without the stuff? “I don’t know what coffee is, but there’s no time to stop now, my lady,” he said. “The situation is most urgent.” He offered me a flask and I warily wiped the rim and took a sip. Something warm filled my mouth and burned the back of my throat. I spat it out on the grass.

“Getting me drunk won’t help,” I shouted, upending the flask. He made a desperate lunge and manage to pull the flask from me before I’d gotten rid of much of it.

“You may need this later on,” he told me as he screwed the lid back in place and handed it to me. “It’s elvish wine, and it may burn going down, but it will never affect your sense,” he added. “Come, it’s not far now.”

“Finally!” I said as we neared a glade and I could hear talking through the trees.

“Yes, m’lady, please wait here,” Lobish said.

“I think I’ve waited quite long enough.” I pushed past him and entered the clearing. I am ashamed to admit that what I saw there actually stopped me for a moment. Several men stood around in a circle and all were as short as Lobish. The fat ones all had red or dark gold curly hair, the thin and willowy ones were blond, and I swear their ears came to points. Inbreeding at its finest. “Must be rednecks,” I said, to which Lobish’s only reply was “Huh?”

At this they all turned and looked in my direction, and suddenly, every one of them looked nervous. A rather tallish woman—well, tallish for this group, she came up to my nose—walked forward from the crowd. She might have been a model, for her face was beautiful, except for her height, or lack of it, and of course those unfortunate ears. She was wearing a floor-length silver dress, most inappropriate for such a meeting.

“M’lady,” she said, extending her hand. I shook it.

“Oh no! This can’t be right!” one of the short, round, bearded men objected. “She can’t be the one!” He was shouted down by an even smaller man, this one not quite so out of shape, and, thank heaven, beardless. As he stood to speak, I noticed that he seemed to be wearing a pair of furry slippers.

“Sit down and let the lady have her say,” the toddler-sized man shouted.

“Why must I listen to an elf?” the first man sputtered as he sank back to his seat. A fine one he was to mock her lack of stature. Why, he was even shorter than she!

“The Lady Laurelwind speaks for all peoples,” her defender replied in a likewise subdued tone.

She held up her hand for silence, and when it came I heard, off in the distance, a continual banging sound, like a child playing with pots. Laurelwind paid it no notice. “It’s not up to any one of us to say. Our path is clear. It was written in the stars.”

“But she’s a woman,” he protested. “She shouldn’t even be here.”

“The stars are never poor scribes,” Laurelwind said without raising her voice. “We are but poor interpreters,”

All this time I waited quietly to hear what offer I would be given. If there was anything I learned from my years in the business world, it was to wait and let the other guy make the first move. You’d be amazed how often you discover you can jack your price up even higher than you thought. Besides, I was still a little confused which of these factions was going to be more favorable to what I wanted. Nevertheless, the longer this discussion went on, the angrier I got. No one here seemed to care in the least how much trouble they were putting me through. I was gonna soak them for a bundle. There was personal injury, at least a bruise or two, a pair of shoes (expensive Italian pumps, I’d decided), and by now a whole day’s pay into the bargain. But this whole argument was gonna heap a lot of digits onto the pain and suffering claim. The lady seemed to be the one in charge at the moment. I had to hide an evil grin as I made my move.

“Lady,” I said, as it seemed to be their general form of address, though I let my voice make it clear as to my doubt of her claim to that status. “I’ve about had enough here. I want you to tell me, right now, what you’re gonna do about getting me home.”

“Home? But you cannot leave. I cannot send you back until you’ve done a service,” she said as if she were offering me tea and cookies.

“You want me to do WHAT?” annoyed to hear my voice growing shrill. This was just great. Now they wanted me to go to some stupid church before they took me back? I wasn’t gonna do it. No way!

“You must do a service,” she said again, her voice still quite calm. “An act of bravery. Oh, I do hope you’re up to it.”

“Hey,” I said, finally realizing what she wanted. “You can’t do this to me. It’s kidnapping or extortion or something.” I spotted an empty log and sat with a gesture meant to show I wasn’t gonna take any more of this nonsense. “I won’t do it,” I said and folded my arms across my chest.

“See, I told ya,” the fat guy said, with all the grace of a six-year-old. I half expected to see his fingers waggling at his ears.

“You must do as it suits you,” Laurelwind said, waving him off with a gesture that I wasn’t meant to see. “I’m sure we can find shelter for you until you can build accommodations of your own. I’m afraid you will find ours a bit cramped for your needs, but Mantown is far to the other side of the badlands. Those of your race mainly live there, or in the Nicthalene far to the south.”

I felt my eyes roll upward as my head shook from side to side. “Look, I don’t want accommodations, cramped or otherwise. I don’t want to go to the Nickline or whatever you called it. I just want to go home. Home. Back to my own little cramped apartment with my own little cat and my own little bed. So, just put me on a bus, or call a taxi for me—or wave your magic wand if that’s how things work around here—and get me out of here.”

“I know not of what you speak,” she said, doing her best to look puzzled. Not a bad job of it, either. “But I do know that you can not be sent back to your world until you have done a service. It’s not because I wish it this way. It’s simply the way things are. The magic simply will not work unless you prove yourself worthy.

“Okay, you can be sarcastic too. Now let’s get down to business. I want to go home now,” I said, using the tone that always closed deals for me, “and I don’t want any nonsense. How dumb do you think I am?”

“That I cannot answer,” she said, sounding as sad as a Miss America contestant who’d just been asked how to achieve the world piece she longed for. “I only know that if you come from the world above, then magic is the only way back.”

I don’t know how long my jaw hung open. However silly it sounded, she was serious. “What do you mean, ‘the world above’? Look.” I pointed up. Above us the sky was blue. The sun, partly covered by clouds, was already halfway through its climb toward noon.

“The world above, your world, is invisible to us, just as we are invisible to you. Once, long ago, there was free travel between the two and some of your people came here to live. Then, one of your kings tried to involve us in his war. A great Elven sandcaster named Vitalix closed the gap between the two worlds to keep us safe. Travel through is only possible at times of need, and none may return until the need is removed.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding. I let more than a touch of sarcasm creep into my voice. “You’re an elf, then.” She nodded. “And I suppose he’s a dwarf?” She nodded again. I threw my hands into the air and stood up. “And where, pray tell, are the fairies?”

“Fairies?” She blinked a few times then suddenly blushed, looking down at the ground to hide a smile. “Oh dear. Fairies were just a little joke some of our boys cooked up one day. The wings were just some leaves attached with glue. They really flew through magic.” She sounded so apologetic that all I could do was stare up at the heavens and silently ask for help.

“Please sit and let me tell you why you were called here,” Laurelwind said. She dusted the log with her long, flowing sleeve and the two of us sat down. “Several years ago now,” she began with a deep breath and a look on her face that told me this was gonna be a long story, “a man of your world stumbled into ours, just as you have. He was a tailor named Steinberg. We’d had no prophecy to predict his arrival and so we scried to see just what our need for him was. Oh, many goats and chickens were sacrificed as we checked and double-checked, but all answers were the same. Steinberg the tailor would sire a man child who would become a great king of men, and one day, this child would lead us all to greatness. Poor Steinberg. He was not happy here. He told us much of the place whence he came. A great metropolis. So great that even our crystal cities and the great gold and marble mines of the dwarves could not match it’s grandeur. Oh, to one day see such a place! My thoughts are of thee, oh Newark,” she said bowing her head reverentially. Heaven help me, I actually patted her hand.

“Steinberg moved into the Nicthalene, but so few are the human women there, and most of those already taken to wive, he could not find anyone to love. Eventually, he grew so lonely that he decided to make the long journey to Mantown. I suspect he thought his luck would fare better there. Leaving naught but a note behind, he left his home one morning, a pack of goods on his back. We might never have known any more of him, but when he reached the Kra Dunah Di, the dwarves living there took him in. They fed him a great banquet, and clothed him in proper attire for such a journey, and unable to keep him with them, sent four of their best and bravest along to see that he came to no harm. For their sin in allowing him to pass, they have been banished from their mountain home until he is restored to us.” A tear dripped slowly and gracefully down her face, but she sniffed and went on.

“The badlands are a dangerous place. The home of dragons. Dragons are kept out of these lands east and south of the mountains by a powerful spell, but in their own lands they reign supreme. How the party thought to pass those lands, I’ll never know. It was a great fire dragon, the largest and fiercest of all, that came upon them. Steinberg he took prisoner. The dwarves fought bravely, but three of them were killed. The fourth he spared with a message. The dragon wished to meet a man at the Spider Bridge in the mines. Together they would duel in single combat. If he lost, we would get our Steinberg back. If he won, we would cede the dragons all the lands southeast of the mountains, and all the humans and animals therein would be fair game. We would retain all the northern lands, of course. It was just as this message was delivered that the sky split with a great stroke of lightning, and meteors filled the sky. Other omens too, foretold your coming.”

“I am not a man,” I told her, belaboring the obvious.

“But in your tongue man is used for any human, is it not? It was only in our interpretation of the dragon’s word ‘man’ that we were fooled. So, before I can send you home, you must meet this dragon, Bloodsport, his name is, meet him in single combat,” she said.

That stopped me. I don’t think I even took a breath for several minutes. Me fight a dragon? What on earth could she be thinking? I simply stared at her. Finally, I sighed.

“Me, fight a dragon?” I said. “What on earth could you be thinking?”

“But you are called ‘Dragonslayer’, are you not? I saw it in the signs. The stars never get such things wrong.” Everyone was looking at me expectantly. Boy, were they gonna be disappointed! Not as disappointed as I was, though. I had a feeling I was gonna be here a long time.

“Um . . .” I said, then, “err . . .” I noticed that she blinked a lot. It made her look rather vapid. “Well . . .” I went on. “Yes, and then again, no.”

“Well, have you killed a dragon or haven’t you?” she asked, getting right to the heart of the matter.

“You mean a dragon dragon . . . big as a house, scales, huge wings, breathes fire, that kinda thing?” I asked. This had to be the most ridiculous conversation I’d ever had in my life. She had the nerve to look confused. “I’m not even sure I believe there are such things as dragons,” I said to break the stalemate.

“Oh,” she said. She looked bleak. “There are such things as dragons, m’lady.

“Even so, what makes you think this Steinberg guy is still alive? Why wouldn’t the dragon simply eat him, then whether you send someone to fight or not, it’s all the same thing?” I asked, trying to be reasonable.

“Never!” she answered, shocked. “Dragons are perhaps the most honorable creatures that ever lived. Far more concerned with honor than men are, or even elves.”

“Kidnapping is honorable? Killing people and taking their homes, that’s honorable?” I asked.

“But yes, don’t you see? This is their way. They’ve thrown down the gauntlet, but they will not do any damage until we pick it up. If we refuse, then we are without honor and they may do as they wish,” she told me. I shook my head and let this pass. I didn’t think I was ever gonna understand it.

“Anyway, assuming for the moment that dragons do exist, just how would I have seen one?” I asked. Logic didn’t seem to be a big thing here. “Look Laurie, Dragonslayer’s just a nickname. It means that the people I work with think I’m good at taking on the big guys.”

“But that is exactly what we need,” she said, brightening. “Someone who is good at . . . taking on . . . the big guys.” She gave me the kind of piteous look that would have gotten her almost anything from most of the guys on staff. That’s one of the reasons I’m so good. Stuff like that doesn’t get to me.

“Show me someone I can argue with and I can get you almost anything, but a dragon? No way! I didn’t live thirty-four years just to get incinerated now. I don’t do dragons,” I said firmly.

“Then we’re doomed,” she said, hanging her head sadly.

“I’m sorry for ya,” I told her.

“Be sorry for yourself!” This came from the small man with the fuzzy feet. “You’ll be living in Mantown. You’ll go before the rest of us do.”

Laurelwind reached out and took hold of my hand. “Please don’t worry about that,” she told me. “It’s true I cannot send you home as you wish, but we will not send you to live in Mantown to your doom. We’ll make a place for you in the Crystal City, and you can live among the elves.”

I thought about this. It sounded exciting for all of about twenty seconds. I could see the lively conversations with people whose response was to blink repeatedly when you talked about business. No TV, no radio, at least I didn’t think there was. Not even a cup of coffee. And from what I could see in this group, their idea of high fashion was a bathrobe. How could I face the day without my morning latte? And then there was the idea of living somewhere where no one came up higher than my nose. Who would I dance with?

“Okay,” I said with a heavy sigh. “What do you want me to do?”

That banging I’d heard in the distance turned out to be my coffin being prepared. Well, not strictly a coffin. It was mail, woven links surprisingly light, with metal plates to cover my breasts, loin, elbows, and knees. I assumed, being metal, that it was fireproof, but I didn’t think it would do much for its contents in the face of extreme heat. I expected to look like a comic book heroine. It fit over my clothes the way that a melon fits over an orange. I’d had easier times getting into a wet bathing suit that was two sizes too small, but when it was on, it was even less comfortable. With every step, I rattled like a sleigh at Christmas.

“Your sword, m’lady,” Lobish said, and kneeling before me he held out an elaborate jewel-encrusted pommel. I think he lost a finger as I slid the sword out of his grip, but he stoically said nothing, gripping his hand and bleeding quietly. I tried to offer him a handkerchief but my pockets were inaccessible at that moment.

We were to meet with Bloodsport at the Spider Bridge inside the cavern. Assigned to accompany me were one from each of the four dragon food groups.

“Barish, son of Garish at your service,” the dwarf introduced himself with a deep bow. The fuzzy-footed fellow with the big mouth was Ordlow Longdinger, and the representative of the humans—who actually surprised me by being taller than I was—bore the romantic handle Chuck of Grand Rapids. All of them were dressed in armor much heavier than my own, which made me wonder if maybe there wasn’t some benefit to being roasted rather than char-grilled. The last member of the party was an elf named Longshanks, a definite misnomer if you ask me. He wore no armor at all. I guess this was so he could run fast when the time came. Each was just chock-full of dragon-fighting wisdom, which they cheerfully imparted as we made the trek to the mountains.

“My grandfather knew someone who heard about a dragon-killing once, and he said the best place to go for him was right under the chin,” Barish told me.

“Who on Earth told you that?” Chuck of Grand Rapids asked, his voice dripping with scorn. “It’s the eye, you know,” he added to me. “I have it on the highest authority.”

“You’ve . . . got . . . to go. . . in . . . through . . . his . . . mouth,” Ordlow panted as he trotted to keep up with the rest of us.

“Now that’s a good way to get roasted,” Chuck of Grand Rapids said.

Longshanks just smiled to himself and let the others argue.

“Oh, you know something better?” Barish asked him.

“My grandfather actually killed a dragon once,” Longshanks said.

“Really?” Ordlow puffed. He sounded like a heart attack on the hoof. I stopped to let him catch his breath, fishing out the canteen that Lobish had given me and gave it to Ordlow for a sip. His eyes bulged for just a moment and then a broad smile came over his face. I hooked it onto my armor rather than fighting to put it back inside, then turned to Longshanks.

“Well?” I said.

“He got someone to distract it with an argument, and while they were shouting he climbed the cliff and dropped a huge boulder on it,” Longshanks said smugly. I thought about this for a moment.

“This solution does sort of depend on there being a cliff and a boulder nearby, doesn’t it?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” Longshanks said after a pause. “I never thought of that.”

We made our way to the bridge without incident. Leaving my party at the opening, I walked out to the middle and looked around. No dragon, but at the other end of the bridge a man stood by himself. He was tall and slender, almost too thin, with huge, brown, puppydog eyes. He wasn’t handsome in any movie star way, but there was something sensitive and tender about the way his mouth trembled, and a beautiful resonance in his voice as he squeaked “help!” when he saw us. Something odd came over me. Something I’d never felt before. It was quite disturbing. My stomach felt suddenly as if it was crawling with bugs and my knees went decidedly weak.

“Please help me!” he said again, this time in a barely audible whisper. It sent a rather pleasant shiver through me.

“Steinberg,” I called, and was so pleased at the way his beautiful name tumbled from my lips that I said it again. “Steinberg!” I smiled at him. He smiled back and licked his dry lips. That did it. My body began to vibrate. Time seemed to slow like in one of those dreadful movies other people always make you watch, and I found myself running toward him, arms outstretched, as if there was no one else there in the world. I was halfway there when I heard the voice.

“Stop right there!”

It seemed to come from everywhere at once, bouncing off the cavern walls, totally surrounding me. I froze in mid-step, half expecting to see the world’s largest amp when I turned my head into the sudden breeze I felt coming from the right. It was blowing right under my helmet. Most annoying.

“Stop that!” I demanded. “You’re messing up my hair.”

“All right,” Bloodsport boomed. He seemed incapable of making sound any other way. He was huge and red with a very dragony face, an enormous body, and two great wings that were orange underneath and looked like flames when he flew. His belly was covered with yellow and orange scales bigger than my bathroom floor, with bits of gem and gold and the odd foot or hand caught in the cracks between.

He floated down delicately to land right next to his prize and put a wing around him almost affectionately. “Do you wish to challenge me for the life of this mortal?” he asked. With each word a small belch of smoke escaped his mouth and I saw Steinberg recoil in pain. “And, of course, the mortal too has the right to object.”

“Ouch,” was all Steinberg had to say.

“Now cut that out!” I shouted. I could feel myself getting really pissed—something I almost never allowed myself to do since it blurs your judgement and makes you an ineffective arguer—but somehow I couldn’t help myself, watching poor Steinberg rub the burned spots on his arm. “You dragons are supposed to be so honorable. Feh! Scorching that poor man like a tidbit on a pu-pu platter! What’s the matter with you, anyway? Didn’t your mother ever teach you any manners?” I found myself walking toward him, pulling my sword, and using it to emphasize my gestures.

He blew a jet of fire toward me, heating up the metal of my armor. It merely counteracted the chill of the cavern; besides, the warmth of the breastplates felt good against my nipples. For some reason I couldn’t fathom, I threw a smile at Steinberg and felt my insides turn to jelly. I pulled myself together and turned my attention back to the dragon.

“See,” I said. “That’s just what I mean. How childish. What you need is a spanking. I mean, I’ve had indigestion myself. I know it’s uncomfortable, but you don’t have to take it out on everyone else. Take some bicarb, for goodness sake. Have an Alka-Seltzer. Down a couple of Mylanta and take a nap. It’ll be gone by morning. But noooo! You,” I said, pointing with the sword. It caught him between two scales, dislodging a large gold crown and something that looked like the head that had been wearing it when it was collected. “Oops, sorry. My bad,” I said with a shrug, kicking the items aside. “Did I hurt you?”

Bloodsport lifted his head, pulling it way back against his neck, and I could see that he was getting ready to unleash a really big one. This was intolerable! I reached up and smacked him across the mouth with the flat of the sword, just as his mouth began to open. “Stop it this instant!” I said.

Surprised, the dragon sucked in his breath, pulling the gout of fire down into his throat. His eyes bulged, almost popping off his face. His mouth opened, and billows of dark gray smoke came pouring out, but instead of a roar, the sound that accompanied it was a mere hiss. I thought I could make out the cry of “Water!” buried in there somewhere. Shaking my head, I unhooked the flask and handed it to him. He snatched it from my fingers with two little claws at the end of his wing and sucked the contents down, cork and all.

“Yeeeeoooowww!” he shouted, backing away until his feet no longer had ground underneath him and, as he fell into the chasm, opened his wings and headed off somewhere far below.

“Wow,” Steinberg said. “You saved my life. Cool!”

I put my arm around him and we headed back to the wildly cheering men I’d left at the foot of the bridge. Touching him I felt sparks jump between us. No man had ever made me feel this way.

“Come on, Steinberg of Newark. Let’s go home,” I said.

“Oh please,” he said as we neared the party, “call me Oswald.” He put his arm around my waist and I leaned into him.

“Okay, Oswald,” I said. “What do you know about making coffee? I think the Nicthalene could use a coffee shop. And if we’re gonna be raising kings, I’m gonna need a lot of it!”

Author of the mystery novel, St. Oswald’s Niche, Laura has also had her work appear in Analog and numerous anthologies including the first two Chicks books. Talk about curtain calls! She challenges the Gentle Reader to find all twenty theatrical allusions hidden in this story.

Leg Irons, the Bitch,
and the Wardrobe

Laura Frankos

“Your Highness, you’ve missed your mark again!” snapped Cammek.

Princess Louizza of Leffing glanced at the stage. “Oops,” she giggled, and hopped backwards. “Sorry. Let’s start at Jeckie’s line about the costume ball, all right?”

“No, it’s not all right!” Cammek said, throwing the script to the ground with such force that the princess’ bodyguard emerged from the wings, her hand tightening around her sword hilt. “I am the director here and I shall decide . . .” Cammek let his voice trail off, not so subtly reminded of his position by the bodyguard’s steely glare. Barking at King Pennilvath’s favorite daughter was Not The Thing To Do. Louizza wasn’t really a bad sort. She was trying. Often very trying.

Cammek ran his hands through his curly, prematurely graying hair—which undoubtedly would be grayer still assuming he lived to see Away We Go debut at the Combined Kingdoms’ Dramatic Festival. “Break time,” he said at last. “We’ll resume at the top of scene three.”

The actors scrambled to the rear of the theatre, where the king had assigned two flunkies and a cook with a magic hot cart. Having a royal in the cast gave certain advantages; Cammek had never eaten so well in all his years in the theatre.

Jeclyn, the male lead, obviously agreed. “What’s on the menu today?” he asked in a resonant baritone. “Yummy! Stuffed mushrooms!”

The princess chuckled. “I’ve seen you in a dozen plays, Jeckie, reciting wonderful lines, but somehow ‘Yummy! Stuffed mushrooms!’ was never one.”

“Well, Princess,” said Polsiee, the second female lead, “even actors have to eat.”

“Especially actors,” said Clim-bor-pon, heaping his plate.

Polsiee turned to Clim-bor-pon. “I’d have thought you would have said actors had to drink, not eat.”

The comic from Leffing’s far western border did like the bottle. But Polsiee should have known better than to try trading barbs with him. Cammek waited for the sky to fall. Clim-bor-pon licked chopped green onion from his thumbnail. “It is said some wine and some dine. And some whine and dine.” Clim-bor-pon’s western accent made the “h” all the more noticeable. “Speaking of that, my dear, aren’t two mushrooms plenty for a figure like yours? Got to watch the waistline.”

Everyone laughed, even Polsiee, though Cammek was convinced it was merely good acting on her part. Princess Louizza laughed the loudest and helped herself to more mushrooms, neither action designed to endear her to Polsiee’s heart.

A sudden crash made everyone jump. The princess’ bodyguard rushed to her side, sword drawn. A flunky peered cautiously from behind the lighting tower. “Sorry,” he stammered. “I dropped the tea tray.”

Louizza put a hand on her defender’s armored shoulder. “Calm down, Tipsy. I’m not under attack from teacups. Why don’t you help the fellow clean up?”

The bodyguard’s eyes raked the cast members standing near Louizza, searching for trouble. Finally she muttered, “Very well, Princess,” and went to assist the flunky.

“Isn’t it absurd calling such a sober young woman ‘Tipsy,’ Your Highness?” asked Polsiee.

“Her full name is Tip-lea-pon,” Cammek said. “From the west, obviously.”

“Of the Pon clan,” said Jeclyn. “Relative of yours, Clim?”

The comic shook his head. “Maybe a distant cousin.”

“She’s never talked about her family,” said the princess, “and she’s been with me for years. Cammek, I’m off to the necessary before we resume.”

Clim-bor-pon murmured, “Even actors have to eat, even royals have to . . . “

Cammek watched Louizza walk towards the privy. Tip-lea-pon saw her, too. She immediately abandoned the servant to his teapotsherds and followed her charge.

Polsiee shuddered. “It’s creepy. She’s always watching the princess. I couldn’t live like that.”

“It’s her job,” Cammek said. “I’ve gotten used to having her around. In fact, if it weren’t for Tip-lea-pon, I suspect I’d be in hot water—literally—for spending so many hours alone tutoring Louizza.” He sighed. “Hours and hours.”

“Don’t you enjoy late evenings with a beautiful, young, thin woman?” Clim-bor-pon said, with a wicked side glance at Polsiee, who, while still beautiful and female, could no longer lay claim to the other two adjectives.

“Two beautiful women,” Cammek corrected him. “I find Tip-lea-pon stunning.”

“Even though she could break you in two?” asked Jeclyn.

“Maybe because of it,” Cammek said. “Not that I’m likely to find out. She never takes her eyes off Louizza. Besides, I’m not her type. The only sword I’ve ever brandished is a stage prop.”

“Leaving aside the romantic predilections of western warrior women,” Polsiee said with a sniff, “do you feel your tutoring is paying off?”

“What do you think?” Cammek countered. “Louizza’s not . . . impossible. Her timing’s improved. Knows the play cold.”

“She’s good in the funny bit she has with me,” said Clim-bor-pon.

“But she’s not cut out for the romantic lead, is she?” Polsiee asked bluntly.

Cammek sighed. “No, she’s not.” Of course, Polsiee wasn’t right for it, either, no matter what she thought. Twenty years ago, certainly. But that was neither here nor there. “We’ll keep rehearsing. If I truly feel we shouldn’t go on, I’ll tell the king. I’ll resign.”

The others stared. “You’re mad,” Jeclyn finally said. “Pennilvath will never stand for it.”

Cammek drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much. “King or no king, I have a reputation to uphold. Meanwhile, back to work.”

Ten days later, Cammek scrawled his signature across the bottom of a paper that had taken him longer to write than some one-act plays. It expressed, in rather oblique terms, why he felt Away We Go could not open in time for the Combined Kingdoms’ Dramatic Festival and was therefore resigning. He mentioned Louizza’s hard work and that he sincerely hoped her eventual stage debut would be the success she deserved. That done, he summoned a delivery boy. “Take this to the palace,” he said.

“Quick as a wink, sorr.” He tucked it in his pouch.

“Um. Take your time with this one. Really. Here’s a tenner. Have a drink first. Maybe two. It’s hot today.”

The delivery boy stood at attention. “Can’t do it, sorr. Delivery in thorty minutes or less. If one of my supervisors saw me downing a cool one with a hot message in my bag, I’d be out on my ear.”

“Gods above, I should have packed first,” muttered Cammek. “Tell you what: hand the message over and I’ll call you again, in an hour.”

The messenger’s hand moved to the pouch. “Against regulations, sorr. You entrusted this message to our services and it is now officially the property of the re-cip-i-ent. If I gave it back to you, I’d be interferin’ with the post.” He pulled out his watch and exclaimed in horror. “Twenty-seven minutes to go! Good day, sorr!”

Cammek hastily packed a satchel. His cherished possessions were few: his two Perrie awards; two miniatures of his parents; the collected plays of Ghoti; and a cravat that had once belonged to his idol, famed director Father Abbot Jorj, who left a monastery for the theatre. Nearly everything else was replaceable. He wouldn’t have an entry in the C.K.D.F. for the first time in seven years, but better no entry than a ruinous entry.

Twenty minutes later, he was on the coach heading for Ruspecalton. A uniformed guard threw open the door at the border and snapped at him: “You are the award-winning director, Cammek? You are under arrest, sir.”

A bevy of guards—well, a half dozen, anyway—escorted him back to the palace. “What’s the fuss?” he asked. “I’m not a criminal. Shouldn’t you be chasing ax murderers?”

“Some would say cutting the king’s favorite daughter out of her chance to debut at the Festival is worse’n cutting off somebody’s head,” the head guard said. “Like, the king himself would say that. He did say that, in the message he broadcast over the crystal links to all the border stations. So I guess that puts you with the ax murderers, now don’t it? Logical, like.”

Cammek assumed he would be tossed into a dungeon, but the guards dragged him to the throne room. They dumped him in front of Pennilvath, Louizza, and Tip-lea-pon, who stood at attention behind the princess. Let’s work on that entrance again, Cammek thought. The audience is not amused.

Pennilvath scowled ferociously; Louizza was teary-eyed and red-nosed; but was that a hint of sympathy in the bodyguard’s gray-green eyes? Nah, couldn’t be.

The king tossed a parchment to the floor in front of Cammek’s nose. Cammek caught a glimpse of his own handwriting before Pennilvath pointed his scepter at the parchment. The air filled with magical energy; the parchment burst into multicolored flames.

“Resignation denied,” the king snarled.

Louizza stepped forward, evidently afraid her father planned to toast a Perrie-award winning director next, and not with the best bubbly. Like a shadow, Tip-lea-pon moved with her, making sure the royal skirts did not come in contact with the burning parchment. “Daddy, don’t hurt him,” Louizza said. “He’s a genius.”

“Why was this ‘genius’ sneaking across the border?” asked Pennilvath. “I should flame him now. He is guilty of bringing anguish to a royal personage.”

“May I explain?” Cammek asked.

“No, you may not. I am issuing a royal decree. I, Pennilvath of Leffing, hereby order the prisoner, Cammek, son of Orrnun, to eight weeks’ hard labor.”

Cammek glanced up, barely believing his good luck. Eight weeks’ breaking rocks. He could survive that. Better him breaking rocks than guards breaking his bones. Then Tip-lea-pon shook her head ever so slightly. Pennilvath wasn’t done.

“The labor shall take place within the confines of the Royal Theatre, where the prisoner shall direct Her Royal Highness, Louizza, in the play, Away We Go, and open that play at the Combined Kingdoms’ Dramatic Festival. Furthermore, sirrah, you shall make my baby a star! A star the likes of which the C.K.D.F. has never seen!”

Cammek privately reflected that the king’s dialogue got noticeably undecreelike there at the end. “If I fail, Your Highness?” he asked.

The king loomed over him. “If you think you’ve been savaged by critics before, you ain’t seen anything yet!”

Cammek looked around his prison. Leg irons let him roam most of the building, but he couldn’t get to the exits. He’d been told someone was coming later with bedding and that he could dine on leftovers from the cook’s hot cart. When the cook arrived for morning rehearsals, he would bring a supply of Meals Recently Ensorcelled for Cammek to eat; prisoners don’t deserve palace cooking.

Cammek had been too busy fleeing to grab lunch, so he investigated the hot cart’s contents. The glacial unit held leftover mushrooms, meatballs, sliced carrots (what Polsiee usually ate, except when the chef tempted her, which was fairly often), and a rack of beer bottles. He assembled a plate and stuck it in the slot for the micro-dragon to heat. The puff of heat that radiated from the cart gave him an idea. He opened the hatch and removed the micro-dragon, which blinked at him.

“Here, boy, blaze that for me,” he said, pointing its snout at his chain. “Come on, heat it up, that’s a good boy.” The micro-dragon stared in perplexity.

“That won’t work, you know,” said a voice from the doorway. “They only blaze inside their carts. Safety-sorcery—so children won’t burn their houses down. Besides, even on that little fella’s highest setting, he couldn’t do much more than toast bread. You need hotter flames to melt iron links.”

Cammek peered into the darkness. “Tip-lea-pon? What are you doing here? Is Louizza here, too?”

“No. I’m off duty. I brought your bedding. My apartment’s nearby, so I offered to deliver it. Where do you want it?”

Cammek put the micro-dragon away and picked up his dinner. “Doesn’t matter. I won’t be sleeping anyway. Care to join me in a bottle? I’m tempted to drink myself into a stupor.”

“I don’t advise it,” Tip-lea-pon said. “You have no idea how much pleading from Louizza it took to let you keep your head. That was really inept, you know, sending your resignation before you were out of the kingdom.”

“I never dreamed Pennilvath was so blasted efficient, even if he did win the last two wars.” Cammek studied the warrior woman as she opened her own bottle. “Something . . . seems different about you. What?”

“You’re used to seeing me glued to Louizza’s side.”

“Must be. I didn’t think you ever got time off.”

Tip-lea-pon snorted. “Since the rehearsals started, I haven’t had much, but that’s my own choice. I’m officially on from dawn to dusk, but when Louizza’s stayed late here, so have I.”

“Why? Can’t be much fun for you.”

Tip-lea-pon’s muscled shoulders shrugged. “I’m . . . interested in the theatre.” She finished her bottle. “Well, I must go. But I thought you could do with a cheering word. Things will work out. I’ll burn an offering at the temple of the gods of drama for you.”

“Thanks, but to get out of this, I’d probably need to build them a new temple.”

After she left, Cammek arranged his bed on a couch from Act Two. As he drifted off to sleep, he realized why Tip-lea-pon looked different: she wasn’t wearing her armor.

She looked good without it, too. Cammek had pleasant, if wildly improbable, dreams.

Unfortunately, Tip-lea-pon’s offering must have offended the gods. The morning rehearsal was ghastly. The veteran actors were furious with Cammek for abandoning them, and Louizza had cried herself into a bad cold.

Cammek ate his M.R.E. accompanied only by his leg irons. Suddenly, he heard a faint whisper. “Cammek. Listen; and don’t be alarmed. I’m here to help.”

He whirled, trying to see who was talking to him. No one was nearby. Tip-lea-pon stood about ten feet away, but she was staring, tight-lipped, at the princess, who was blowing the royal nose.

“Don’t say anything,” the voice continued, allowing Cammek to determine where it was coming from. The ground? No, his leg irons were talking to him. “I shall explain my plan in full tonight, but you must cancel the evening rehearsal.”

“Cancel it?” Cammek hissed. “It’s eight weeks until the festival!”

“Cancel it,” the irons said firmly. “If you make Louizza sick through overwork, the king won’t stop at putting you in chains.”

“All right,” Cammek said. “I didn’t have much enthusiasm for working late myself. Are you a magical spirit?”

The irons hesitated. “Yes, it must be magic. Or something,” they said finally.

Cammek began walking—clanking noisily—to the stage. He paused as he passed the warrior woman. “Did you, er, hear anything just now?”

“Hear what?” she asked.

“Never mind.” If people knew he was hearing voices, he’d be in more trouble. “Listen, folks, I’m canceling tonight’s rehearsal.”

Scattered applause and rude cheers met his announcement. “Big of you, Cammek,” said Jeclyn. “Most generous.” Sarcasm dripped from his dulcet tones.

“Let it be, Jeclyn,” Cammek said wearily. Of all the professionals, Jeclyn had given him the most grief over his aborted resignation. It made sense: he was best suited for his part, no matter what kind of reviews the rest got, his would be good. Clim-bor-pon was doing his usual outstanding work in the comic role, but there wasn’t much to it, and Polsiee was, in Cammek’s opinion, definitely inadequate as the second lead.

After everyone left, Cammek ate his dinner and waited for the magical spirit or whatever it was to return. Hours passed in silence. He even tried talking to his leg irons. They didn’t answer. Disgusted, he opened another beer.

“Cammek!” came a harsh whisper from backstage.

Chains in one hand, beer in the other, he hurried behind the curtains. “I’m here,” he panted, “Where are you?”

“Nowhere and everywhere. Isn’t that the conventional answer?”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “So why does it sound like you’re coming from the wardrobe?” He flung open the door, revealing nothing but costumes.

The voice continued to come from inside the wardrobe. “Shut up and listen. You have to produce a successful play in two months or die. Moreover, you must make the princess a star. You can, if you’ll take a chance.”

Cammek coughed. “I’m under a death sentence. What’s chancier than that?”

“Good. We think alike,” said the wardrobe. “I’ve known this for some time. Now, what would you say Louizza’s main talents are? You must capitalize on them.”

“She’s too funny for the part. And though she’s pretty, she doesn’t act it, if you know what I mean. Not the type heroes fight over.”

“She can also sing and dance splendidly. She started at the age of three.”

Cammek swigged his beer. “So? This isn’t opera.”

“Bear with me,” said the wardrobe. “Now, what’s wrong with the play?”

“The king’s cousin wrote it. It’s a sweet frothy piece about the opening of the frontier province and whom the local baron’s daughter will take to the costume ball: the handsome dragonrider or the evil minister. There’s a funny subplot with one of the ladies-in-waiting and the captain of the pegasus cavalry. Not much to work with, considering my competition. I mean, Prince Harrold puts on bigger productions every year. His budget for magical effects is ten times mine.”

“I agree, it’s too bland. But you don’t need gimmicks like wyverns swooping out of the sky. Here’s what you do: put every major dramatic or comic scene in Away We Go to music. Have them sing and dance.”

“That’s crazy. I told you, this isn’t opera.”

“Of course not. It will be something new. Not quite an opera, not quite a revue. If people accept that a bard or an opera star can sing of love, why not a dramatic actor?”

“Because it’s never been done!” Cammek drained his beer and wished for more. Maybe if he drank enough he’d see pink mastodons and stop hearing voices.

“You admitted the play needs pumping up. By making it into a musical play, you emphasize Louizza’s best skills. Recast her as the lady-in-waiting; build the part up a bit to play off Clim-bor-pon better.”

“What?” Cammek yelped. “She’s supposed to star. How can I bump her into the second lead?”

“Because she’ll shine there and she won’t as the dreamy daughter. Trust me, she’ll get rave notices, far better than Polsiee would have. Polsiee’s getting too long in the tooth to play man-hungry flirts, no matter what she thinks.”

Cammek began pacing, no easy task in leg irons. “But . . . singing actors?”

“Clim-bor-pon’s a natural—he started out in the western theatrical revues, doing eight shows a week. Put him in charge of the dance numbers, too. Jeclyn’s got good pipes. Did some bardic concerts for charity in Ruspecalton. The only problem’s Polsiee. She can’t sing and she’s way too old to play the lead.”

“Oh, she’d just love seeing the lady-in-waiting role increased and lose it to Louizza! But what could I do with her? Cast her as the baroness?”

“Yes, and cast little Benasbiee as the lead. She played opposite Jeclyn in Prosciutto, and she can sing, too.”

“They’ll never buy it. They’ll walk out, led by Polsiee.”

“They can’t. Check the fine print on that decree—your ‘death sentence.’ It endows you with all powers, fully backed by the throne, to make this play a success and Louizza a star. If they squawk, throw ’em in the dungeon for disobeying a royal decree. All legal.”

“Ooh, when I think of the actors I wish I could have jailed in past productions! But you’re forgetting something.” He peered into the wardrobe, still hoping to find a living presence among the sequined gowns. “I can’t direct a musical play without music! How about that?”

The wardrobe chuckled. “Oh, I’ve been thinking about that for some time. You’ll have your music.”

Cammek yawned. “Listen, spirit, it better come soon. There’s not much time.”

“Go to bed, Cammek. You’ll need your strength.”

Late in the night, a soft noise woke Cammek. He clanked backstage to find a sheaf of papers bound with a silk ribbon and adorned with a single red rose lying in front of the wardrobe. “My angel of music!” he cried. The wardrobe didn’t answer. Cammek glanced heavenward—presumably the best direction in which to address angels, even if they did speak from leg irons and wardrobes—and noticed the covering on the skylight was ajar. Angels didn’t need to use skylights, did they?

Cammek spent half the night poring over the music, the other half rewriting. When the cast arrived, he bluntly told them of the changes. As he predicted, some immediately wanted out. Polsiee was the noisiest, especially upon learning she’d been recast as the baroness. “This is demeaning to an actress of my stature,” she said.

“You’ll play it,” Cammek said. “Or you can reprise your role in that tawdry women’s dungeon drama. In a real dungeon this time.”

Clim-bor-pon, however, waxed enthusiastic. “This is exactly what this play needed. We of the west have a tradition of musical revues. In fact, a couple of these songs have a distinct western air, especially that one of Jeclyn’s about the carriage with the tasseled trim. I like it. And I’m going to like playing opposite you, Your Highness.”

Louizza, Tip-lea-pon at her side, was studying one of the songs. The angelic spirit had been right: the princess could sing. “This one’s so funny: ‘I’m Just a Maid Who Can’t Say Nay.’ What do you think, Tipsy?”

The bodyguard stifled a yawn. “Promising. Palace scribes should make copies of the songs and rewrites, and arrange for musicians.”

Cammek clapped a hand to his head. “Of course!” He scribbled a note, had the princess seal it with her signet ring, and sent it off with a flunky.

That first day, Cammek spent a lot of time with Clim-bor-pon, discussing dance in the show and how to use other traditions from the western provincial theatre circuit. The cast, accompanied by a royal pianist, began learning the songs. By day’s end, everyone felt much better about the play—everyone except Polsiee, who kept shooting Cammek deadly looks.

“I’ll make sure everyone in the Combined Kingdoms knows what you’ve done,” she said as she left.

Cammek shrugged. “I had no choice. Either I try this or I die.”

“You’ve ruined my career! No one will ever see me as anything but a matron after this!”

“At your age, wasn’t that inevitable?” Cammek asked bluntly.

“I had a few more good years, but no more, thanks to your stupid musical play!” She stormed off, brusquely passing the princess and Tip-lea-pon, who came on guard the moment the older actress approached.

“She’s upset,” Louizza observed.

Tip-lea-pon said, “I can’t blame her, but the play is definitely better.”

“Er, yes,” Cammek said. “Tip-lea-pon, might I have a word with you? Alone?”

The bodyguard looked to her mistress for permission.

“Go on.” Louizza giggled. “He doesn’t bite. I’ll wait at the hot cart, with Jeclyn.”

“Very well, Princess,” Tip-lea-pon said. She still kept one bloodshot eye on Louizza as she walked away. “How can I help you, Cammek?”

Cammek pointed to the rose he’d been wearing in his vest pocket. “You already have. Where’d you learn to write songs like this?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Clim-bor-pon’s been telling me about the traveling shows in the west. Said the players rarely specialized, but learned a host of skills. Acrobatics, fencing, composing, and . . . ventriloquism.” Cammek had the satisfaction of seeing six-feet-one of fighting woman warrior blush. He pressed on: “These songs are western in flavor—just what we need, given the setting of the play—and you’re from the west. Only a palace insider would have known about Louizza’s singing ability and the details of the decree that locked me in these chains—and you’re a palace insider. Finally, only somebody in great shape could scale this theatre to speak to me from the skylight.” He looked her over, most appreciatively. “Baby, that’s definitely you.”

If anything, Tip-lea-pon blushed more deeply. She also wasn’t watching Louizza, Cammek noted with pleasure. Wow, I’ve distracted her!

“I grew up in one of those western troupes,” she said at last. “I’ve made it a hobby to take scenes or plays I’ve enjoyed and write music for them. I’ve got about a dozen scores in my apartment.”

“If I survive this —” Cammek shook his leg irons “—I’ll want to see those.”

Louizza skipped over. “Jeclyn says you have to try the fried tomatoes. Whoops, am I interrupting something?”

Tip-lea-pon coughed delicately. “Master Cammek is trying to invite himself over to my apartment.”

Louizza grinned. “Hey, that’s a great notion! Take him up on it.”

“I may, Princess,” Tip-lea-pon said, “if you shine brightly enough to get those chains off him.”

“Aw, leave them on,” Louizza said. “Sometimes it’s fun if they can’t get away.”

As she walked off, Cammek fixed a quizzical gaze on Tip-lea-pon.

“Royal Bodyguards are sworn to secrecy,” she said. “And a good thing, too.”

Pennilvath didn’t trust Cammek, for the director remained chained (muffled with velvet cloth to prevent clanking backstage) on opening night. But by intermission, they felt as light as a feather: the audience had cheered every song and the cast oozed confidence. The princess, in particular, got a huge hand. Pennilvath bellowed delightedly from the royal box: “Sing out, Louizza! Smile, baby!”

Then, just before the second act curtain, a worried Tip-lea-pon approached him. “Polsiee’s disappeared. I’m afraid she may be out for revenge, since Louizza’s stealing the show. Find the understudy; I’ll keep an eye out for Polsiee.”

“Gods save me from temperamental actresses!” muttered Cammek.

Act Two opened with the costume ball, a romantic exchange between Jeclyn and Benasbiee, then a comic one between Clim-bor-pon and Louizza. The audience was roaring with laughter when a creaking noise drew Cammek’s eyes to the flies above the stage. A great enameled ostrich, emblem of the western province, hung over the actors. It swayed slightly, once, twice . . .

Before Cammek could shout a warning, one of the tall noblemen in the chorus, Sir Borstler, plucked Louizza out of harm’s way as the bird crashed to the stage. The cast members stood, stunned. The audience watched in confusion, unsure if the action were part of the play.

Sir Borstler peered at Louizza through his helmet. “You’re not my gel,” he ad-libbed in a terribly snooty eastern accent. He handed her back to Clim-bor-pon. “Terribly sorry. Thought that buzzard was about to smash me best gel to bits. You know, I’m only visitin’ here, but I thought your ostrich-birds were flightless.”

“And that one proves it,” Clim-bor-pon ad-libbed. “We of the west need a new emblem, something more aerodynamic. An albatross would be dandy, if only we weren’t a land-locked province. Meanwhile, let’s clean up and get back to dancing!” He gestured frantically for the curtain.

“Get Louizza’s understudy!” Cammek said as the crew swept away the debris. “She’s not going back out there while Polsiee’s on the loose.”

“Oh, yes I am!” The princess writhed in the protective grasp of the nobleman. “Let go, Tipsy! My big number’s in the next scene.”

“Your father would never permit it if he thought you were in danger,” said Tip-lea-pon, tugging at Sir Borstler’s ill-fitting stage armor.

“If I cower like a rabbit, I won’t get any notices, and my father will fry Cammek,” Louizza said. “Besides, if you try to stop me, I’ll have you arrested for violating Father’s decree ordering Cammek to make me a star. The show must go on!”

Cammek and Tip-lea-pon gazed at each other in confusion. Clim-bor-pon clapped the princess on the back. “That’s the spirit. Gods, you’re a born trouper. I’m sure Polsiee’s long since fled, but to be safe, we won’t go on until we’ve searched backstage and alerted the guards at the doors. Sound good?”

“Yes!” Louizza said enthusiastically.

Tip-lea-pon waggled a finger at her. “I’m sticking to you like glue, even if we have to rewrite scenes so ‘Sir Borstler’ is onstage every time you are.”

The search turned up nothing. Polsiee had vanished. Knots in his stomach, Cammek prepared to resume the second act as soon as the enameled ostrich fragments were removed from Louizza’s gown. Tip-lea-pon kept guard at the dressing room door. Cammek whispered to her, “This is madness. If Polsiee tries again, Louizza will be dead as an act of revenge; I’ll be dead for not following the decree; and you’ll be dead for not protecting the princess.”

“But you can’t argue with Louizza’s logic,” Tip-lea-pon said. “If you put in the understudy, you’re a dead man anyway. And frankly —” she looked down on him fondly “—I’m damn glad Louizza’s got guts. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to save your hide. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste. Besides, if the princess chickened out and her father zapped you, she’d feel guilty forever and end up a rotten queen.”

“So the future of Leffing is at stake. That makes me feel worse.” He kicked at his chains. “None of this would have happened if I’d managed to leave the kingdom.”

“Hey,” she said softly. “It hasn’t all been bad, has it? Some things are worth taking a chance on.”

He gulped as she slid an arm around him. “You’re right. But in the meantime, I’m still the king’s prisoner and we’ve got to get through the second act without anyone getting killed. How can things get worse?”

Tip-lea-pon grimaced. “Guess who I saw in the sixth row?”

“A frustrated, homicidal actress?”

“Worse. It’s that renowned scribe, Creek, son of Attkins. Isn’t he one of the judges for the Perrie awards?”

“Swell. Pennilvath might as well blast me now and save all the bother. Creek’s hated four out of my last five festival entries.” Cammek rested his head against Tip-lea-pon’s chest. True, it was covered with Sir Borstler’s pasteboard armor, but Cammek always had great powers of imagination.

Louizza opened the door of her room. The pair jumped apart, Cammek falling backwards over his chain, Tip-lea-pon instantly at attention. “Come on, Cammek,” the princess said as she swept past him, her bodyguard hot on her heels. “Time for me to go out there and knock ’em dead.”

“Let’s hope that’s all,” Cammek said weakly.

Much to everyone’s relief, the second act went as smoothly as the first, in spite of “Sir Borstler” popping up at odd times. Cammek dared to peer out at the audience a few times. Pennilvath thumped his royal seat with glee every time Louizza appeared; even dour Creek was seen grinning.

The only hint of trouble came during the curtain calls, when the enchanter in charge of lighting botched the spotlight several times. Louizza got a standing ovation, but didn’t stay on stage to enjoy it very long; Tip-lea-pon whisked her into the wings as soon as possible.

Cammek stepped out to deliver a few closing words. He normally would have relished the resounding cheers he got—especially those from the royal box—but he was unconscious of any other feelings than profound relief. Then something whooshed by his head. He hadn’t had an audience pitch things at him since that brilliant but unpopular thriller he did about the demon Berber and his companion, the mad cook. A second whoosh and his chained legs were yanked out from under him and his face slammed into the stage. He heard screams from the audience and caught a glimpse of Tip-lea-pon slashing at the curtain ropes. The curtain fell with a thud.

Dazed, he slowly sat up. His nose was bleeding all over his best shirt and Abbott Jorj’s cravat. Clim-bor-pon knelt by his side and offered a hanky.

“Whad happened?” Cammek said.

The comic spread his hands. “If I had to guess, I’d say Tip-lea-pon just saved your life. Somebody—care to wager who?—started shooting crossbow bolts from the lighting tower. Not to worry: our multitalented composer is storming the tower even now.”

Cammek struggled to his feet, intent on following. Clim-bor-pon stomped on his chain with his heavy boots and brought him to a complete stop. “Stay here, you twit,” he said. “Let the girl handle it. She’s the expert. Listen: I think things are settling down.”

The ear-splitting roar of confusion in the house was indeed dimming. Jeclyn, among the tallest in the company, was peeking out and delivering a running commentary: “Tip-lea-pon’s coming out of the tower. She’s got Polsiee. There are guards everywhere. The king’s standing in his box, shouting and pointing. Polsiee’s screeching. Gods, here come the scribes! I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to wait for the chronicles to record what she has to say. Maybe I can get quoted a few times myself.”

Following the male lead’s lead, the cast stampeded in search of publicity. Cammek wearily trudged after. Polsiee, in the grip of three guardsmen, held forth on her injustices, with the scribes hanging on every word. When she saw Cammek near, she hissed, “He had it coming! He had it coming! The Festival is no place for wild innovations!”

“Don’t know about that,” said Prince Harrold. “I’ve been quite inspired by the novelty of Away We Go. I’m considering an aquatic musical for my next entry. My kingdom has many sea legends, and I have this fabulous merman with a big brassy voice for whom I haven’t found a spot in a traditional play.”

“I agree: a most impressive experiment,” said Creek. “I shall give it my highest approval, especially the debut of a new comic star.” He actually smiled at Louizza.

“Your Highness!” Tip-lea-pon dashed to the princess, sword drawn. “What are you doing out here, unprotected?”

“Mingling with my public,” Louizza said. “You’ve caught Polsiee. What do I have to fear?”

The naiveté of her question, offered up in a crowd of often-vicious scribes and fellow actors (many of whom were known backbiters), made Cammek laugh, though it hurt his nose. The princess had a lot to learn about show biz.

A fresh group of royal guards cleared a space in the mob for the king. Everyone bowed, which set Cammek’s nose off again. The king pointed at Polsiee. “I’m not sure what went on there at the end, but I hear you had something to do with it. I never did like you; always posturing instead of acting. Take her away, men, and we’ll get the details later.”

A group of scribes chased after her, intent on getting further details now. The rest waited to hear what the king would say.

“Well, Cammek,” Pennilvath said, “tonight, old man, you did it. My Louizza was a joy to behold. Loved the play. A glorious victory. Can’t wait for the Perrie awards.” With regal nods to everyone, he departed.