Apex Magazine Issue 17 Read online

  Tink awoke with Valentine’s hand brushing her cheek. At first she thought she had died and had gone to someplace better. But when she touched his face and saw her aged hand, she knew she was still an old woman. Her pillow was moist with tears.

  His eyes gleamed. Perhaps not as brightly as they once had, but enough to cause a stutter in her metronome heart. “I’ve come to take you to the Festival.”

  That caused a jolt of alarm. “But my work—”

  “Is finished. Completed to your every specification. Although nobody can tell me what your instructions mean.”

  His face was smudged with dirt.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “I’ve been gardening,” he said, and winked.

  Valentine carried her to her cart. She dozed with her head on his shoulder as he drove to the Palazzo. Once, when the jouncing of the cart roused her, she glimpsed what might have been an honor guard with shining epaulettes and flapping pennants. It may have been a dream.

  Tink dozed again during the funicular ride up the Spire. The view did not transfix her: she had seen it every year for the past sixty (measured, as always, by the beating of her failing heart). She preferred the drowsy sensation of resting in Valentine’s arms, no matter how chaste the embrace. Her glimpses of Nycthemeron, between dreams and sighs, showed an unfamiliar city.

  Ah, she recalled. Yes. The Festival. It had seemed dreadfully important once, this final gift. But she was too exhausted and too full of regrets to care.

  “Why do you cry, Timesmith?”

  “I’m a foolish old woman. I’ve spent my entire life just to have one hour with you.”

  She closed her eyes. When next she opened them, Valentine was setting her gently upon a cushioned chair in the gilded grand ballroom. It was, she noticed, a place of honor beside Queen Perjumbellatrix. The queen said something, but it was loud in the ballroom. Tink nodded, expressed her thanks, then returned to her dreams.

  A jostling woke her, several minutes or decades later. Her chair floated toward the balcony. Valentine lifted it, as did the courtier in the scarlet cravat, and several others whom she felt she ought to recognize but didn’t.

  Silence fell. All eyes turned to Tink.

  She stood, with Valentine’s assistance. (His hands were so strong. So warm. So young.)

  “This is for you,” she said to Nycthemeron.

  The fog brightened, then thinned, then dissipated. A brilliant sun emerged in a sky the color of Valentine’s eyes. The Spire cast a shadow across the sprawling castle-city. Its tip pierced the distant gardens where so many had labored according to Tink’s specifications.

  Nycthemeron had become a sundial.

  Cheers echoed through the city, loud even to Tink’s feeble ears high atop the Spire.

  Everyone understood what Tink had done. She had ended Nycthemeron’s exile. She had given the people a future.

  Tink collapsed. Her metronome heart sounded its final tickticktick. Her time had run out.

  But not quite.

  Time understood that this magnificent work, this living sundial called Nycthemeron, was an expression of her love for Valentine. She had set him free.

  Tink found herself in a patch of grass, staring up at a blue sky. The grass was soft, the sky was bright, and her body didn’t ache.

  “Ah, you’re awake.” Valentine leaned over her, eclipsing the sky with his beautiful face. He wasn’t, she noticed, wearing the cormorant mask. Nor his ribbons. And his shirt was new. “I have something to show you,” he said.

  When Tink took his hand, she saw that her skin was no longer wrinkled, no longer spotted and weak.

  These were the Spire-top gardens. But everything looked new and different in the sunlight. Even the trees were strange: row upon row upon row of them. Strange, and yet she felt she somehow knew them.

  Valentine saw the expression on her face. He said, “They’re intercalary trees. It seemed a waste to toss the seeds after they’d been spent. So I planted them.”

  Seeds? Ah... Tink remembered when she’d first met Valentine, decades ago, when he’d wanted to charm a flaxen-haired beauty. Back when Tink had been young.

  The first time she had been young.

  And time, knowing it had failed to win Tink’s heart, had given her a parting gift, then set her free.

  AUTHOR BIO

  Ian Tregillis is the son of a bearded mountebank and a discredited tarot card reader. He is the author of Bitter Seeds, and the forthcoming sequel novels The Coldest War (October, 2011) and Necessary Evil. He is also a contributor to the Wild Cards novels Inside Straight, Busted Flush, and Suicide Kings. He lives in New Mexico, where he consorts with writers, scientists, and other unsavory types. He has sunburn.

  The Girl Who Had Six Fingers

  By Brenda Stokes Barron

  And when the girl who had six fingers saw the grizzled fisherman, she knew he was the right one for her. The way his eyes set on the water like pins. How his bent frame showed little strain against the constant pull of the catch. How his hands gripped the pole with defiant might.

  He was strong in spite of his age and she loved him for it. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the round stone and grasped it between the two fingers of her right hand. Though her grasp was tenuous, she did not perspire. She knew what she must do.

  “Good morning Old Fisherman. How is Blue Fish biting today?”

  “He’s reluctant, I say. Reluctant as a frost to melt in the dead of winter.”

  The girl, whom many simply called Hardly Handed, smiled at his pleasantries.

  “I’m sure he’ll latch on soon enough.” Her voice lilted, but her face dropped all expression. The stone in her hand turned fiery in an instant. The deep sting singed her skin but she made no noise. And as smoke rose from her charring flesh, she did not scream.

  “I reckon it will,” Old Fisherman said, keeping his eyes on the still water. “And what have you—” he started, but when he looked up to where the girl they’d named Hardly Handed at the ceremony almost sixteen years ago had stood just a moment before, only an empty space remained. A small clearing in the brush and spindly trees.

  Then the stone slapped onto his arm. The soft linen of his shirt frazzled immediately, connecting the red-hot stone with his flesh. His skin sizzled, imitating a roasting pig or snapping, popping eggs.

  But when she looked into his eyes, he knew the round spot on his forearm—which would always leave a circular scar like a brand—was the least of his worries. Her eyes relayed a clear message. He had something only he could give her.

  And when the girl who had seven fingers passed the potter’s shop, she knew she was the right one for her. Her hands sat poised on either side of the pot, molding the clay into something functional, something usable. The girl peered through the open window at row after row of completed pieces, each with the sharp geometric shapes so signifying of her heritage.

  As Potter worked, her fingers shaped the rim, being careful to smooth out any bumpy indentations an individual finger left. Hardly Handed had learned when she was a child that it was important to leave no mark of the human hand on the pot, the vessel from which water was to be delivered to the village. The pot that stored healing salves and potions. The pot was of the earth, merely shaped by the potter then given back again. She knew this and respected this.

  “Well are you just going to stare at me all day or are you coming in?” Potter asked.

  “I’m sorry, Good Potter.” She walked over the threshold, her hands buried beneath the fabric at her waist. “How are you this morning?”

  “Fine, fine. Working it away,” she said, smiling but never looking up from the emerging shape in front of her. “What is it you’ve come to see me about?”

  Hardly Handed seized the opportunity to pull the round stone from her pocket. It was blazing hot, but its radiant surface did not burn her. Not this time. “I’ve come to speak with you about a new basin, Good Potter. My mother requires it.”

  Bu
t there was no new basin to be made. Good Potter gasped more in surprise than in pain at the prickly heat of the Melding Stone—the stone of all Keepers. It would be done quickly, at least.

  And when the girl who had eight fingers saw the carpenter poised with his hammer in the air, she knew he was the right one for her. His back bent with the work. He reached far with each arc of the hammer. His body shook as the blunted metal tool hit the wooden surface. The young girl, whom some had called Hardly Handed, smiled. “Good afternoon, Strong Carpenter. How has the world treated you on this fine day?”

  Strong Carpenter paused mid-stroke and turned to the sound of her voice. His eyes widened. “W-why hello, young maiden. The world has treated me fair. How has it been received by you?”

  “It’s been received with graciousness,” she said, providing the customary reply.

  “Good,” he said, eyes downcast at his hands. He flexed the right one around the hammer, shook his head then set the tool aside. “Are you to lay the Melding Stone on me now?” he asked, eyes finally meeting hers.

  She didn’t reply. Instead, she pulled the smooth rock from her pocket and rubbed its surface with her left forefinger. She was so close her steamy breath made contact with his neck. He shivered. Then came the pressure of her partly-handed grip on his forearm, the heat and the sizzle. The smile never left her face.

  And when the girl who had nine fingers saw the blacksmith hunkered over the anvil, sweat dripping from his brow, she knew he was the right one for her. Dirt smudged his muscular arms. Constant work heat had permanently darkened his face. He didn’t so much as look up when she spoke.

  “Good day Young Blacksmith. How are you?” Her expression strained in the heat. She wanted to bypass the formalities. But that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be carried out.

  “I’m fine, m’lady. I’m awfully busy though. Mind stating your business so I can maintain my living wage?” he said, in between the harsh strikes of his hammer against the molten metal.

  As she pulled the rock from her pocket, it warmed up immediately. The Melding Stone had a memory for its task. It got to work.

  “I know you’ve come to take the last one,” Young Blacksmith said. “But I’m here to tell you one thing, young lady. Some of us are born more fortunate in life than others. And if you ask me, the way you come out of your Mother Dear is how you ought to stay. How you’re meant to stay.”

  The girl who had nine fingers was only missing her right thumb now. The Melding Stone rested in her palm, clenched tightly by four fingers. One was strong and another gnarled and old, but this only made the hand more beautiful. A patchwork quilt of flesh and bone. And on her left hand, one was good and the rest her own. And though she felt more complete than she ever had, it still wasn’t enough. There was no question she was to be Fully Handed by day’s end.

  “I’ve a right to it,” she said.

  “More than me, who was born with all ten?” Young Blacksmith asked.

  “Even more than you. Because I am the Keeper in the darkness. I need the steadiest of hands. The Keeper must lay her hands on the flesh of the wicked. Don’t you see? Without your thumb, I cannot be whole. I will still be Hardly Handed, and that is not enough.”

  “But I think it is, child. It is enough.”

  “It’s not.” And she slapped the stone against his arm, and he recoiled in pain. “My mother was Keeper so I will be Keeper. My mother wielded the stone, so I will wield the stone. My mother became Fully Handed so I will be Fully Handed. This is the only way to fulfill the burden as laid before me at my birth.”

  “I refuse to be a part of this. I require my thumb to work and create the metal-works you use each day and night. I require it!”

  But his yells were futile, for once the girl who had nine fingers set on something, she was not to be distracted or turned away.

  “I require it more,” she shouted, covering his pleas with her own.

  The girl who had ten fingers saw the milkmaid and knew she was the right one for her. Her hair was long and golden, catching the sun’s rays and reflecting them in shiny tendrils. Her hands moved along the cow’s udders with care and elegance. She made a mundane task beautiful, and that was enough to set Once Hardly Handed in motion. She had enough now to keep the town for another generation, yes. But more would be better. More was always better.

  AUTHOR BIO

  Brenda Stokes Barron is a writer from southern California. She enjoys long walks across forgotten lands and making up stories about the people who inhabited them. She also likes planning imaginary Halloween parties with her husband, playing with her pet rat, and drinking way too much coffee. She has work forthcoming from Electric Velocipede and you can find out more about her at The Digital Inkwell (digitalinkwell.wordpress.com).

  Citizen Komarova Finds Love

  By Ekaterina Sedia

  The very little town of N. was largely bypassed by the revolution—the red cavalries thundered by, stopping only to appropriate the ill-gotten wealth of Countess Komarova, the lone survivor of N.’s only noble family. The wealth was somewhat less than the appropriators had anticipated—a ruined mansion and no funds to repair it. The Countess fled to the only N.’s inn, and the red cavalry moved on, but not before breaking all the windows of Komarov’s mansion and allocating it for the local youth club.

  Everyone knows what N.’s youth is like, and by fall most of the Countess’ furniture was turned into firewood, and by mid-December the mansion stood abandoned and decrepit, and a turd frozen to its parquet floors served as its only furnishing and a testament of gloria mundi transiting hastily.

  The countess herself, stripped of her title and now a simple Citizen Komarova, was used to poverty—before the revolution, she made her living as a piano teacher, but that winter, savage and bloody, pianos were turned into firewood, their strings now disembodied garrotes. In search of new means of gentile sustenance, she turned to seamstress shops, but no one was hiring. Nearing despair, she finally settled as a clerk in a consignment shop at the outskirts of N.

  The owner of the shop, a man as old as he was ornery, let her rent the room above the shop, where the wind howled under the roof thatched with a ragtag team of tiles and shingles. There was a small and round metal stove, known colloquially as “bourgeoisie,” as indiscriminate and insatiable as its namesake: it burned books, pianos, furniture, twigs and entire palmate fir branches, crackling birch logs. It gave back cherry-red heat that spread in waves through the room over the shop and broke over the stained walls, much like the distant Mediterranean over its rocky shores.

  Citizen Komarova thought of the Mediterranean often—these were the vague memories of early childhood and its naive surprise at the shiny, tough leaves of the olive trees, over the white wide-brimmed hats and mustachioed men on the beach, over the mingling of salt and sun; memories almost obscene in the frozen and landlocked N. It was the only frivolity she allowed herself, and only when the metal stove made the air shimmer with concentrated heat before it dissipated in the cold, cold winter nights. Then, Citizen Komarova hugged her bony shoulders, wrapped in the spider web of a pilling black crocheted shawl over the spider web of wrinkles etched in her dry parchment skin, and rocked back and forth on her bed and cried. The rusted springs beneath her, wrapped in a thin layer of torn and colorless rags, cried in unison.

  During the day, when she was done crying over her lost Mediterranean family vacation, she minded the shop downstairs. It was a single room, but much larger than her garret above it, and its contents ebbed and flowed depending on the fortunes of the citizens of N.

  By the middle of January, the lone room, echoey just this past December, became stifled with all the things people brought in, hoping that Citizen Komarova would somehow manage to sell them to someone more fortunate, even though whose fortunes were good remained to be seen. There were leather-wrapped yokes the collectivized farmers had managed to keep for themselves and now were forced to let go off by bitter cold and steadily declining expectations; ther
e were books with pages forever gone to hand-rolled cigarettes and missing title plates. Chipped china, pockmarked kettles, knives, scissors, ribbons, baskets and moth-ravaged furs. Whatever nobility survived in the environs had gravitated toward N., bringing with them heavy brocade and monogrammed silverware. Several fox skins, both platinum and regular, stared at Citizen Komarova with their amber-colored glass eyes from dusty corners. She moved between the shelves, adjusting this and that, and casually swatting at pottery with a feather duster.

  The first customer of the day surprised her—he stomped his feet and clapped his hands on the threshold, dislodging a small mound of snow off his boots, held together by long cloth wrappings, and his long military coat, its chest although still covered in white powder, sporting the recognizable chevrons and ribbons of the red cavalryman, one of Budyonny’s fighters. His hat and the red star decorating it gave Komarova momentary chills, and her knotted fingers curled around the feather duster defensively. She took a deep breath and stepped forth from behind the shelves to meet the gaze of the cavalryman’s clear eyes. The dead foxes stared too, transfixing the people in the crosshairs of their amber pupils.

  “What can I do for you?” said Komarova. The flame of the kerosene lamp on the counter guttered in the draft from the door, and the cavalryman shut it without being told to.

  “I have something I’d like to pawn,” he said.

  “It’s a consignment store,” she answered. “Which means we can sell it for you, but we cannot offer you any payment straight away.”

  “I can take it to the market then.”

  “You could, I suppose.”

  The two of them considered each other at length.

  “What is it then?” citizen Komarova asked eventually; by then, the shadows had grown longer, and the fox eyes glittered in their corners.