FSF, January-February 2010 Read online

  “Yes,” he says. “Now I remember, yes.”

  I am tired enough to weep, but my head is full of ideas, questions, and possibilities waiting for a voice to shape them. I want to sleep and cannot, and then, believing that I will never again close my eyes, I fall away into a deep slumber that ends soon enough with a hard shake of my shoulder.

  “He wants to speak to you,” the dark voice announces.

  General Hawthorne is a powerful man, even in his latter years. He has always been a presence in the court, a disciplined force that approves of very little, and just now, for some reason or another, he seems to despise me utterly. But when I don't climb to my feet immediately, he repeats the order. “He wants your ear. Just yours. It's important, and I don't know why, but if you see any weakness, don't let Him talk. Tell me. Tell Zann. At the first sign of trouble.”

  “How is the patient?” I ask.

  The general surprises me. A smile breaks out, sudden and brilliant, as he admits, “Better. The fever broke. Just a few moments ago, in fact.”

  Sure enough, the man on the blankets has better color, and while weak, He can smile as always, beckoning me with one hand, then the other.

  I approach, and kneel.

  He watches as His knuckles are kissed twice, and then He says, “Castor. I have a question for you, my boy.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Do you wonder why I never promoted you to captain or colonel or some level more appropriate to your mission?”

  I shake my head.

  “Has the matter ever occurred to you?”

  “It has,” I admit, wincing with shame.

  “Well, there are good reasons, believe me.” Then He winks before casting His gaze at the three men sitting at the opposite end of that very little boat. “I must tell you something, Castor. Now is the time.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Someone onboard this vessel is going to try to kill me.”

  This deep, awful lake has more impossibilities swimming in it than it has fish. No one else could offer these words and make me believe them. Even He, and even on this desperate day, strains my sense of place and purpose.

  I say, “No,” too loudly, the others glancing over their shoulders now.

  The Emperor says, “Quiet.”

  “No,” I repeat in a breathless whisper.

  He watches me, and waits.

  “Which one?” I manage.

  “If you were to guess, which man would you select?”

  I consider the matter, just for a moment. There is no way that I could feel more paranoid than I am now.

  “Are you armed?” the Emperor asks.

  “Yes.” But I force my hand not to touch my holster and the firearm inside it.

  “Loaded, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don't quite recall, son. Are you a good shot?”

  He does recall. His mind seems designed to recollect details like these. But He wants me to tell Him, “I'm an excellent shot, Sire.”

  That bolsters me, that subtle praise.

  Our boat runs into a tall wave, and at the crest, we drop slightly. The Emperor lifts and then hits the deck, cursing softly. “How much longer do we ride this tub?”

  I have a solid estimate, but the journey seems less important now. What I want is guidance, which is why I ask, “How do you know about this assassin? And for how long? On the shoreline, did you realize...that one of them is entertaining this kind of...?”

  I can't say, “Crime.” The word is too tiny, too mild.

  “I knew it on the beach,” He responds, enjoying His own opacity. “And that's why I picked who I picked to come on this voyage.”

  “Tell me who, Sire.”

  He shakes His head and lies back on a rough little pillow.

  I sigh and shiver, wondering what else to say.

  “Lieutenants are perfectly respectable officers,” He offers, answering his own long-ago question. “Your rank places you near the top of any hierarchy, but not so high that you are blinded. It is the perfect station from which to watch and learn. And that's why I kept you as such. Because if I made you more than that....”

  His voice falls away.

  General Hawthorne has come up behind me. “Enough, son. Enough.” The powerful hands grab me by the shoulders, almost dragging me to my feet. “You don't mind my interruption, do you, Sire?”

  “Not at all,” the Emperor allows.

  “Rest,” Hawthorne advises, “and I'll bring you some cold broth from our stores.”

  Says the Emperor, “I can't tell you how nice that sounds.”

  * * * *

  The assassin is here, and it must be Rake.

  That was my first guess, and for a little while nothing else makes sense. But why would the Emperor invite His would-be killer onboard? A small man with odd ideas can easily be pulled aside and dealt with by other small men. But Zann and Hawthorne are different conundrums. How would the Emperor deal with a traitor so close to Him? What action could he take to defeat a figure so important and famous and loved...so vital to the nation that the simple accusation of crime would throw the court into an uproar?

  The situation is impossible.

  My burden seems immense. But when I close my eyes and think about nothing—willfully emptying my head of distractions and self-pity—the obvious answer waits, smiling at me like a cherished friend.

  To the field marshal, I whisper, “We must talk, sir.”

  The old face regards me with suspicion. What did the Emperor tell me a few moments ago? He wants to know, as does Hawthorne. With a circumspect nod at his associate, he says, “Here.” A single step puts us as far from the others as possible, but when we lean across the boat's railing, eyes peering down into the swift gray water, he can whisper into my ear and I can return the strangely intimate gesture, the future of the nation balanced upon these next phrases.

  “I've been given an order,” I begin. Then I look back across my shoulder, making certain that no one is overtly watching.

  Zann nods, barely enough patience to hold his tongue.

  “It's a difficult order,” I say.

  “Often they are,” he agrees, trying to coax more from me.

  “No,” I say. “This is not like His other commands. We aren't abandoning cities or good men for the sake expediency. This is much more personal and more terrible, and I want you to tell me something. Please, sir. Is that man lying behind me...is that our true Emperor?”

  Zann starts to straighten and then thinks again. “Yes. Of course He is.”

  “And He has full possession of His faculties? Which is to say, this isn't just the fever throwing words at me.”

  “The Emperor isn't well, but He's lucid and sane.” The old man touches my forearm, assuring me, “The illness has been difficult, but He is as clear-minded as any of us. Really, we should marvel at the Great Man's capacities to endure, and feel blessed in so many ways.”

  “I'm not blessed,” I say.

  “That is your failure, not His.”

  I nod.

  The field marshal watches me, and waits.

  With a measured tone, I pose the central question. “If you were given charge over the Emperor's fate—if He told you that no one else could be trusted with this critical mission—then would you accept the task and do it, without hesitation?”

  “Without hesitation,” Zann claims, “and with joy in my heart. How else can one do the bidding of his master?”

  “I'll search for the joy, but I don't think that I'll find it.”

  Zann shrugs, unconcerned by my palpable weakness.

  Unfastening my holster, I lift my pistol from my hip and turn and shoot Rake in the back of his skull. He has no warning. He dies and slumps forward, and the boat attacks the next large wave too brazenly, our little boat starting to turn in response, threatening to come around and collide with the towed skiff. It is all that I can manage to throw the body aside and grab the wheel, and then with the hand that holds my weapon
, I shove the throttle up until the big engines are idling.

  We have existed inside a war of sudden and vast violence, yet neither officer can react to something this close, this sudden. Hawthorne tries to rise to his feet, and in doing so drops the cup of cold soup into the Emperor's lap. He looks down, offering some quick apology. Then he looks up again as I shoot him in the forehead, sending him off into the cold, bottomless water.

  “Son?” Zann exclaims. “What is this—?”

  I shoot him last. I shoot him twice. That second shot is revealing. I have never liked the field marshal as an officer: too talented for armies that deserve less brilliance at the helm, too much genius stubbornly achieving wonders when what is required is to change the nature of this endless conflagration.

  Zann's body crumbles into a uniformed heap.

  I go to the Emperor, kneel, and say, “Sire. I didn't know what to do. And then I realized you weren't sure which man was your enemy....”

  The handsome, badly weathered face stares at me carefully.

  “To save you and your office, I killed each one of them.”

  “Yes, I see,” he whispers. Then a little louder, “Your weapon, Castor. Give it here, please.”

  I place it in His hand.

  He says, “Yes, I thought you might take this wise course. Which is why I like you, son. Why I trust your good sense and your rational soul. You adore the nation that you serve, enough even to do this awful deed.”

  “Thank you, Sire.” I bend low, I kiss His soggy, water-bleached feet. “Thank you.”

  “But here is the crux of the matter,” the Emperor continues. “I have fallen out of love for this collection of worshipping and foolish people. My feelings, in fact, are nothing but bitter anymore. And how can I serve such a throng when I know another being is more suited?”

  My eyes lift.

  He smiles at me. “You misunderstood what I told you, yes. Which is entirely reasonable, yes.”

  “Sire—”

  “None of the dead were the assassin,” he claims.

  And in another moment, He gives me the most terrible proof.

  * * * *

  The mist lifts in time to reveal a flat, wet island of no possible significance. Even from offshore, Marvel betrays the comfortable poverty common among places that barely belong on any map. My first inclination is to continue on my way, shepherding my fuel until I reach more fruitful destinations. But the boat's engines hesitate again, and one simply refuses to start up again. I sit at the wheel, aiming for what looks to be a small city. Locals gather on the wharf, watching the approaching fishing boat. But nobody seems particularly interested in this stranger. I am just another refugee: a curiosity and a small distraction from their little days.

  Suddenly my last engine chokes on the nefarious water. I drift nearer, and one last time, I spin the dials on both radios, learning nothing except that our enemies have improved their jamming techniques.

  When I can make out each face, I stand.

  The gasp is audible, prolonged but full of doubt. Could it be? Is such a thing remotely possible? Each man and woman asks the same inescapable question, but it is the boy standing in front who thinks to yell at me, demanding answers.

  “Where are you from? Who are you? And why do you wear the Emperor's uniform and crown?”

  I say nothing. When it serves my interest, I will answer. What matters most is to study those who study me, employing that calm parental glare that I have seen used every day in the Emperor's court. Then to the boy, I call out, “Swim to me. Grab my line and tow me in.”

  To his credit, the boy hesitates.

  Then some older fellow says, “Do it,” and the boy launches himself, covering the cold water with a few strong strokes, grabbing the soggy rope and fixing it in his teeth, turning and grunting as he serves my bidding.

  Others join in, although not always the best swimmers. Legs kick and hands fight for their hold, and the effect of so much confusion and wasted energy gets me to the wharf no earlier than I would have on my own. Yet by the end, a portion of my audience is saving the Emperor. I am He, the heart of our nation. Despite my own pounding heart and a mouth parched as a hot stone, I have the authority to thank all of my helpers and watch others drag their cold, suffering bodies into the air.

  Kneeling is easier than swimming; most of my audience pays respect to my jeweled crown, if not to me.

  Each wants to know where I have been.

  “Between Jicktown and Illig,” I say, motioning toward the mainland. “The rest of the court is following me in other boats.”

  My conviction meets doubt and some pain.

  Then a young woman steps forward, kissing the back of her hand because mine has not been offered. “But Sire...that shoreline was taken this morning. One of the enemy's lightning brigades struck while your generals were on the beach, still loading their boats—”

  “How do you know this?” I roar.

  “A fisherman friend of ours was watching. He was offshore, and he saw it all.”

  “We thought you were dead,” another woman admits.

  Everybody stares at me, and in particular at the stains left behind on my one-of-a-kind uniform, blood and shredded brains refusing to surrender to soap and determined scrubbing.

  “How do you know what this fisherman saw?” I inquire.

  “He came straight back here,” she says. “He arrived almost one bell ago. But he didn't see you out on the water.”

  The mist must have hidden me. And I wasted moments drifting, disposing of bodies and changing my clothing while piecing together what still feels like a ludicrous plan.

  Yet it is a plan, and what does an Emperor do better than make ready?

  With a firm voice, I claim, “There is good in this awful thing. My court is dead, yes, but perhaps our enemies believe I am dead too.”

  Confusion twists their faces.

  “We have been given extra time,” I point out. “There are no boats to be had on the mainland, and it will take the invaders days to bring new boats overland. They won't realize I am here, with you, until I have left for safer ground. With my new court beside me, of course.”

  This city of modest fishermen and bakers and machinists and smart, soggy children is beginning to crowd near me, each one of them wondering how it would be to belong to my chosen few.

  “First,” I say, “I need food and a bath.”

  They nod willingly.

  “Next, a number of trustworthy boats.”

  A small fleet floats in this little harbor.

  “And I want those boxes and my other luggage unloaded and guarded. And while I rest, you will begin to build a militia, arming your men and women however you can over these next few days.”

  With a few words and barely enough breath to fill a child's balloon, the Emperor has changed the character of everyone's life.

  Noble delight bubbles forth, and that first boy asks, “So how soon will we attack the bastards, Sire?”

  “Very soon,” I promise. Then, pointing to the north, I add, “There is a valley waiting for us, son. Between high mountains, and it is the only important place in the world. But you and I will go there together and bring down those mountains, closing it off and winning the war for All Time...!”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Department: BOOKS TO LOOK FOR

  by Charles de Lint

  Relentless, by Dean Koontz, Bantam, 2009, $27.

  A Big Little Life, by Dean Koontz, Hyperion, 2009, $24.99,

  * * * *

  Relentless is the new Dean Koontz, a fast-paced thriller about what happens when a writer lets a bad review get to him. It has great characters and writing, mixes humor with drama, and goes at a rollercoaster pace in places. But we've talked a lot about Koontz's novels in this column and I don't know that we need to discuss another at this time except to say that if you enjoy his style of thriller, Relentless won't disappoint you.

  At the moment I'm more inter
ested in talking about A Big Little Life, a nonfiction love letter to the memory of his golden retriever Trixie. Trixie was an assistance dog, trained by Canine Companions for Independence in California, who was retired after three years due to an injury. She went on to live with Koontz and his wife Gerda for another nine years before succumbing to cancer.

  Any dog lover is going to appreciate Dean's memories of Trixie, though how many readers of this magazine will do so purely on the basis of its subject matter is up for conjecture since most people in the f/sf field appear to prefer cats. Perhaps it's because cats are completely content to spend long periods of time sleeping while you read or watch a movie—so long as you absently scratch it behind the ear, or let it sprawl out beside or on top of you while you're doing so. Dogs require a larger commitment of time.

  I'm generalizing, of course. I grew up in a rural setting where we always had cats and dogs, and we have one of each as I write this. My cat's content to spend hours sleeping on her bed on one of the bookcases in my office while I work. The dog would rather go for a walk or play, and gives me mournful looks when I can't do either.

  But I'm drifting away from the real reasons I want to talk about A Big Little Life in this column.

  For one thing, it's a wonderfully positive book, without being saccharine—something that's a bit of a rarity in this cynical age in which we find ourselves. And if you catch yourself groaning as you read that, well, point made (if not necessarily taken).

  But the reason A Big Little Life should be of particular interest is for the insight it gives into the mind and heart of one of the major writers of the f/sf field.

  Wait a minute, you might say. Isn't Koontz a horror writer?

  Well, he's written books that might be considered such, but he started in this field by writing sf, and most of his novels fit under the somewhat larger umbrella of speculative fiction. The stories take a simple scientific principle, something we might see in the newspaper, or it was given a passing reference on the evening news, which Koontz then spins out in the best tradition of “what if?”

  Even referring to his books as thrillers is somewhat of a misnomer since they tend to contain a lot of humor without sacrificing “the ticking clock” that a thriller requires.