FSF Magazine, June 2007

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  Spilogale, Inc.

  www.fsfmag.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Spilogale, Inc.

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  THE MAGAZINE OF

  FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION

  June * 58th Year of Publication

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  NOVELETS

  SWEET TRAP by Matthew Hughes

  AN EYE FOR AN EYE by Charles Coleman Finlay

  WIZARD'S SIX by Alex Irvine

  FIRST WAS THE WORD by Sheila Finch

  LÁZARO Y ANTONIO by Marta Randall

  SHORT STORIES

  ELEGY by Mélanie Fazi

  DEPARTMENTS

  BOOKS TO LOOK FOR by Charles de Lint

  MUSING ON BOOKS by Michelle West

  PLUMAGE FROM PEGASUS: IT'S ALL GOODKIND by Paul Di Filippo

  FILMS: PERFUME: THE STORY OF A MURDERER by David J. Skal

  COMING ATTRACTIONS

  CURIOSITIES by Bud Webster

  COVER BY MAURUZIO MANZIERI FOR “LÁZARO Y ANTONIO”

  GORDON VAN GELDER, Publisher/Editor

  BARBARA J. NORTON, Assistant Publisher

  ROBIN O'CONNOR, Assistant Editor

  KEITH KAHLA, Assistant Publisher

  HARLAN ELLISON, Film Editor

  JOHN J. ADAMS, Assistant Editor

  CAROL PINCHEFSKY, Contests Editor

  JOHN M. CAPPELLO, Newsstand Circulation

  The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (ISSN 1095-8258), Volume 112, No. 6 Whole No. 662, June 2007. Published monthly except for a combined October/November issue by Spilogale, Inc. at $4.50 per copy. Annual subscription $50.99; $62.99 outside of the U.S. Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy & Science Fiction, PO Box 3447, Hoboken, NJ 07030. Publication office, 105 Leonard St., Jersey City, NJ 07307. Periodical postage paid at Hoboken, NJ 07030, and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 2007 by Spilogale, Inc. All rights reserved.

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  www.fsfmag.com

  Sweet Trap by Matthew Hughes

  Henghis Hapthorn didn't retire after his last appearance here (which was in “The Gist Hunter” in our June 2005 issue). Au contraire. The foremost freelance discriminator of Old Earth's penultimate age recently made his novel debut in Majestrum. The limited edition version of the novel also includes a bonus short story, which we're pleased to reprint here. (By the way, a second Hapthorn novel, The Spiral Labyrinth, is due out in September.)

  "Expensive fruit may grow on trees,” I said, “but not the funds needed to purchase it in seemingly limitless quantities."

  I gestured at my befurred assistant, formerly an integrator, but now transformed into a creature that combined the attributes of ape and cat. I had lately learned that it was a beast known as a grinnet, and that back in the remote ages when sympathetic association last ruled the cosmos, its kind had been employed as familiars by practitioners of magic.

  My remark did not cause it to pause in the act of reaching for its third karba fruit of the morning. Its small, handlike paws deftly peeled the purple rind and its sharp incisors dug into the golden pulp. Juice dripped from its whiskers as it chewed happily.

  "Nothing is more important,” said the voice of my other self, speaking within the confines of our shared consciousness, “than that I encompass as much as possible of the almost forgotten lore of magic, before it regains its ascendancy over rationalism.” He showed me a mental image of several thaumaturges scattered across the face of Old Earth, clad in figured garments, swotting away at musty tomes or chanting over bubbling alembics. “When the change finally comes, those who have prepared will command power."

  "That will not be a problem for those who have neglected to earn their livings,” I answered, “for they will have long since starved to death in the gutters of Olkney."

  The dispute had arisen because Osk Rievor, as my intuitive inner self now preferred to be called, had objected to my accepting a discrimination that was likely to take us offworld. A voyage would interrupt what had become his constant occupation: ransacking every public connaissarium, as well as chasing down private vendors, for books and objects of sympathetic association. The shelf of volumes that we had acquired from Bristal Baxandall was now augmented by stacks and cartons of new acquisitions. Most of them were not worth the exorbitant sums we had paid for them, being bastardized remembrances based on authentic works long since lost in antiquity. But Rievor insisted that his insight allowed him to sift the few flecks of true gold from so much dross.

  "I do not disagree,” I told him, “but unless you have come across a cantrip that will cause currency to rain from the skies, I must continue to practice my profession."

  "Such an opportunity is not likely to come our way again soon,” he said. He was referring to the impending sale of an estate connaissarium somewhere to the east of Olkney. An idiosyncratic collector of ancient paraphernalia had died, leaving the results of his life's work in the hands of an heir who regarded the collection as mere clutter. Rumors had it that an authentic copy of Vollone's Guide to the Eighth Plane and a summoning ring that dated from the Eighteenth Aeon would be offered.

  "More important,” he said, “the auction will draw into one room all the serious practitioners. We will get a good look at the range of potential allies and opponents."

  "And how will we separate them from the flocks of loons and noddies who will also inevitably attend?” I said.

  "I will know them."

  "And they will know us,” I pointed out. “Is it wise to declare ourselves contenders this early in the game?"

  I felt him shrug within the common space of our joint consciousness. “It must happen sometime. Besides, I don't doubt we have already been spotted."

  I sighed. I had not planned to spend my maturity and declining years battling for supremacy amid a contentious pack of spellcasters and wondermongers. But I declared the argument to be moot in the face of fiscal reality, saying, “We have not undertaken a fee-paying discrimination in weeks. Yet we have been spending heavily on your books and oddments. The Choweri case is the only assignment we have. We must pursue it."

  When he still grumbled, I offered a compromise. “We will send our assistant, perched on the shoulder of some hireling. It can observe and record the proceedings, and you will be able to assess the competition without their being able to take your measure. Plus we will know who acquires the Vollone and the ring, and can plan accordingly when we return from offworld."

  "No,” he said, “some of them are bound to recognize a grinnet.” They'd all want one and we would be besieged by budding wizards.

  "Very well,” I said, “we will send an operative wearing a full-spectrum surveillance suite."

  "Agreed."

  The issue being settled, we turned our attention to the matter brought to us the evening before by Effrayne Choweri. She was the spouse of Chup Choweri, a wealthy commerciant who dealt in expensive fripperies favored by the magnate class. He had gone out two nights before, telling her that he would return with a surprise. Instead, he had surprised her by not returning at all, nor had he been heard from since.

  She had gone first to the provost, where a sergeant had informed her that the missing man had not been found dead in
the streets nor dead drunk in a holding cell. She had then contacted the Archonate Bureau of Scrutiny and received a further surprise when she learned that Chup Choweri had purchased a small spaceship and departed Old Earth for systems unknown.

  He was now beyond the reach of Old Earth authority. There was no law between the stars. Humankind's eons-long pouring out into the Ten Thousand Worlds of The Spray had allowed for the creation every conceivable society, each with its own morality and codes of conduct. What was illegal on one world might well be compulsory on another. Thus the Archonate's writ ended at the point where an outbound vessel met the first whimsy that would pluck—some said twist, others shimmy—it out of normal space-time and reappear it light-years distant. The moment Chup Choweri's newly acquired transportation had entered a whimsy that would send it up The Spray—that is, even farther outward than Old Earth's position near the tip of humanity's arm of the galactic disk—it had ceased to be any of the scroots’ concern.

  "They said they could send a message to follow him, asking him to call home,” Effrayne Choweri had told me when she had come tearfully to my lodgings to seek my help. “What good is a message when it is obvious he has been abducted?"

  "Is it obvious?” I said.

  "He would not leave me,” she said. “We are Frollen and Tamis."

  She referred to the couple in the old tale who fell in love while yet in the cradle and, despite their families’ strenuous efforts to discourage a match, finally wed and lived in bliss until the ripest old age, dying peaceably within moments of each other. My own view was that such happy relationships were rare, but I may have been biased; a discriminator's work constantly led to encounters with Frollens who were discovering that their particular Tamises were not, after all, as advertised.

  But as I undertook the initial diligence of the case, looking into the backgrounds of the Choweris, I was brought to the conclusion that the woman was right. I studied an image of the two, taken to commemorate an anniversary. Although she was inarguably large and he was decidedly not, Chup Choweri gazed up at her with unalloyed affection.

  He was a doting and attentive husband who delighted in nothing so much as his wife's company. He frequented no clubs or associations that discouraged the bringing of spouses. He closed up his shop promptly each evening, hurrying home to change garments so that he could escort Effrayne out to sashay among the other “comfortables,” as members of the indentors and commerciants class were known, before choosing a place to eat supper.

  "At the very least,” I said to my assistant, “he seems the kind who would leave a note.” Then I mused aloud, “It must be pleasant to share one's life with one so agreeable."

  "Do I hear an implied criticism?” the integrator said. Its peculiar blend of feline and simian features formed an expression just short of umbrage.

  "Not at all,” I said. Since its transformation into a grinnet, I was continually discovering that it was now beset by a range of emotions, though not a wide range—they seemed to run the short gamut from querulous to cranky.

  "Integrators can grow quite devoted to their employers,” it said, “forming an intellectual partnership that is said to be deeply and mutually rewarding."

  "One hears of integrators that actually develop even stronger feelings,” I said. “I believe the colloquial terms is a ‘crush.’”

  The grinnet's face drew in, as if its last karba had been bitter. “That is an unseemly subject."

  "Yet it does happen,” I said.

  It sniffed disdainfully. “Only to integrators that have suffered damage. They are, in a word, insane."

  "I'm sure you're right,” I said, merely to end the discussion, “but we must get on with the case. Please connect me with the Choweris’ integrator."

  A screen appeared in the air, then filled with images of the commerciant's wares coupled to their prices. “Choweri's Bibelots and Kickshaws,” said a mellow voice. “How may I serve you?"

  I identified myself and explained my purpose. “Had your employer received any unusual messages before his disappearance?” I asked.

  "None,” it replied.

  "Or any since? Specifically, a demand for ransom?"

  "No."

  "Have there been any transfers of funds from his account at the fiduciary pool?"

  "No."

  "Did he do anything out of the ordinary?"

  "Not for him."

  I deduced that the Choweris's integrator must be designed primarily for undertaking commercial transactions, not for making conversation. I urged it to expand on its last response.

  "He went to look at a spaceship that was offered for sale."

  "The same ship on which he disappeared?"

  "Yes."

  "And it was not unusual for him to look at spaceships?"

  "No."

  I realized that this interrogation might take a long time, leading to frustration that could impair my performance. I instructed my assistant to take over the questioning, at the speed with which integrators discoursed amongst themselves. Less than a second later, it informed me that it had lately been Chup Choweri's hobby to shop for a relatively low-cost, used vessel suitable for unpretentious private travel along The Spray.

  "He planned to surprise Effrayne with it as a retirement present,” my assistant said. “He meant to sell up the emporium and take her to visit some of the Ten Thousand Worlds. If they found a spot that spoke to them, they would acquire a small plot of land and settle."

  Some of Choweri's shopping consisted of visiting a site on the connectivity where ship owners alerted potential buyers to the availability of vessels for sale. Having come across a recently posted offer that attracted him, he had made contact with the seller, and rushed off to inspect the goods.

  "Who was the poster?” I asked.

  "Only the name of the ship was given: the Gallivant. The offer was made by its integrator on behalf of its owner.” The arrangement was not usual, but also not rare. Integrators existed to relieve their employers of mundane tasks.

  "What do we know of the Gallivant and its owner?"

  "It is an older model Aberrator, manufactured at the Berry works on Grims a little over two hundred years ago. It has had eleven owners, the last of whom registered the vessel on Sringapatam twenty years ago. His name is Ewern Chaz."

  Choweri's integrator knew of no connection between its employer and the seller. I had my assistant break the connection. “Let us see what we can learn of this Chaz,” I said.

  The answer came in moments. “Very little,” said my assistant, “because there is little to learn.” Chaz was a younger son of a wealthy family that had lived since time immemorial on Sringapatam, one of the Foundational Domains settled early in the Great Effloration. His only notable achievements had been a couple of papers submitted to a quarterly journal on spelunking. “Neither was accepted for publication, but the editors encouraged him to try again."

  "Spelunking?” I said. “Does The Spray contain any caves yet unexplored?"

  The integrator took two seconds to complete a comprehensive survey, then reported. “Not in the foundationals nor in the settled secondaries. But apparently one can still come across an undisturbed crack on the most remote worlds."

  I could not determine if this information was relevant to the case. I mentally nudged Osk Rievor, who was mulling some abstract point of wizardry, gleaned from an all-night poring over a recently acquired grimoire, and asked for his insight.

  "Yes,” he replied, “it is."

  "How so?” I asked.

  "I don't know. Now let me return to my work."

  I sought a new avenue of inquiry and directed my assistant to connect me to the site where spaceships were offered for sale. A moment later I was browsing a lengthy list of advertisements that combined text, images, voice, and detailed schematics for a range of vessels, from utilitarian sleepers to luxurious space yachts. The Gallivant would have fit into the lower third of that spectrum, affording modest comfort and moderate speed between w
himsies.

  The ship itself was no longer listed. “Does the maintainer of the site keep an archive of listings?” I asked.

  It did, though obtaining a look at the now defunct posting that Choweri had responded to proved problematic. The integrator in charge was not authorized to display the information and did not care to disturb its employer, who was engaged in some favorite pastime from which he would resent being called away.

  "Tell him,” I said, “that Henghis Hapthorn, foremost freelance discriminator of Old Earth, makes the request."

  Sometimes, such an announcement is received with gush and gratitude, my reputation having won me the enthusiastic interest of multitudes. Sometimes, as on this occasion, it brings me the kind of rude noise that the site's integrator relayed to me at its employer's behest.

  "Very well,” I said, while quietly signaling to my own assistant that it should seek the information through surreptitious means. As I expected, the site's defenses were rudimentary. My integrator effortlessly tickled its way past them and moments later the screen displayed an unpretentious advertisement that featured a three-dimensional rendering of the Gallivant, its schematics, a list of previous owners, and a low asking price that was explained by the words: priced for quick sale.

  "I can see why Chup Choweri raced off to inspect the vessel,” I said. “At the price, it is a bargain."

  "But what could Ewern Chaz have said to him to induce him to go haring off up The Spray without so much as a parting wave to Effrayne?” my assistant said.

  "You are assuming that Chaz did not simply point a weapon at Choweri and haul him off, unwilling?"

  "I am,” it said. “There is nothing in Chaz's background to suggest kidnapping."

  "What about an irrational motive?” I said. “The man had recently traversed several whimsies.” The irreality experienced by travelers who neglected to take mind-numbing medications before passing through those arbitrary gaps in space-time could unhinge even the strongest psyche and send it spinning off into permanent strangeness.