Beneath Ceaseless Skies #76 Read online

  Lillian and I went back to my parents’ town home in silence. Despite her protests, we were both too weary to talk much—and I was wondering how long she would stretch my patience with this duel.

  It is no good to expect Lillian to quit when she has started something. It simply will not happen. Either Lord Benderskeith would have to concede, or we would be here until one of them won.

  The thought filled me with trepidation the next morning when we took our places once more on the dueling ground. And as they threw firestorms and basilisks at each other, I stifled a yawn, Sir Graham began to look as though he had sat upon something deeply awkward, and the two were still incredibly evenly matched. Not a touch for either of them.

  At the inevitable lunch break, I ignored Lillian completely and marched over to Lord Benderskeith’s party.

  “If you bring terms—” said Sir Graham.

  “I do not,” I said. “Look at her. Does she look ready to offer terms?”

  “Of course neither are we,” said Sir Graham hastily.

  “Of course,” added Lord Benderskeith in a voice so dry it would turn grapes to raisins in a heartbeat.

  I cocked my head and looked at him. Forthrightness would be my best asset here. “What exactly did you say to her?”

  Lord Benderskeith looked flustered. He apparently had a great deal of practice at it; when he raked his hand through his hair, it stood up in peaks that looked as though they’d been there daily since he was a boy. “I don’t even recall what it was, honestly. It seemed so commonplace to me, just making conversation about what I’d been told was an interest we shared. And for some reason she took it as a slur on her abilities, and the next thing I knew—here we are.”

  “It likely was a commonplace thing to say,” I said. “That was almost certainly the problem.”

  He sighed. “I cannot think that I would have been able to avoid this, then. I have very little conversation with those I don’t know, which puts me in a tight spot when it comes to the sort of marriage market affairs at which I met your Miss Traskedor.”

  “Lady Lillian,” Sir Graham corrected him almost absently.

  “Yes, I see,” I said. “You are talking to me readily enough.”

  “You have made your purpose clear, for which I am grateful, and I need not rely upon platitudes.”

  “I do strive to be purposeful in all things.”

  He smiled at me. It was a nice smile, but he looked as though he wanted to go away and shut himself up with his spellbooks for a week. It’s a shame when a man like that has to go around and around making himself pleasant to the young women his mother has picked out.

  “And Lady Lillian?” asked Sir Graham. I did not like the sharpness in his tone.

  “Lillian is also purposeful in all things,” I said, “but her purposes and those of the rest of us... well. We cannot always find ourselves clearly aligned.”

  Lord Benderskeith laughed, but Sir Graham glared at me. I do not care whether he thought me disloyal. There is the loyalty of a friend, and then there is foolish insistence that one’s friend must be always right, and I hope that I am a good enough friend to Lillian not to be a fool.

  “I don’t suppose you’d concede the duel,” I said to Lord Benderskeith, ignoring Sir Graham completely.

  “Not concede, no,” he said. “I could see my way to calling the thing off, but conceding says that I lost, and if I’m to do that, I’m afraid I’ll have to do it outright.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  When I rejoined Lillian, she said, “Well? Reconnaissance?”

  “No, Lil,” I said, helping myself to an egg sandwich. “No reconnaissance here. Just trying to see a way out of this for either of us.”

  “You could have a little faith in me,” she protested.

  “Lil,” I said around my mouthful of egg and bread. “You had exactly the same size energy dragons. Exactly. They battled to a complete standstill. We are in the middle of day two of what is supposed to be an hour or two worth of duel at most. And now you want me to say, blithely, ‘oh, well, you’ll crush him, dear’? No. I can’t. You should never have gotten us into this.”

  She didn’t answer, which in Lillian mostly means she sees that I am right and does not want to admit it.

  She was particularly ferocious after the lunch break, hurling spell after spell with a grim determination that would have impressed the servants, if we’d brought any. But Lord Benderskeith parried them coolly and sent her scrambling for her own defenses.

  Again we stopped at dusk.

  The next morning Mama took me aside as we broke our fasts before dawn, weary and silent. “Darling,” she said, “where is she getting with all this?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted.

  Mama sighed. “Well, her opponent has sent a very kind note asking after your health in this difficult situation. I call that considerate.”

  I tried not to betray my surprise. So did I.

  The third day caused me to retreat to higher ground. There were ankle-high tides bearing grasping nixie fingers, and there were waves of orange goo bearing heavens knew what. The higher ground was no protection for me and the other observers, however, when Lillian summoned swarms of battle fairies from above, and Lord Benderskeith responded by raining treacle upon them to foul their wings—and my dress and hair. It was intended that duels should affect only the participants, but both of ours seemed to have forgotten that in their desperation to get the whole thing over with—or to win. I didn’t know which preoccupied Lord Benderskeith’s mind more.

  But before the judge could call time again for a third day’s dusk, I marched through the damp and gooey grass to very deliberately rub out part of Lillian’s circle with my shoe.

  “Honor has been satisfied on our side,” I said loudly.

  “It has not!” said Lillian.

  “With three days of dueling, it is utterly clear that neither is a superior wizard to the other,” I continued. “If we kept at this, it would only prove that one or the other of them had gotten in a lucky shot. If Milord finds himself satisfied, we are also.”

  “Quite, utterly satisfied,” said Lord Benderskeith. “From the beginning I swear to you, I meant no insult, Lady Lillian.”

  She sniffed and turned her head away.

  “Lillian,” I growled.

  She glared at me.

  “Shake his hand and call pax,” I said. “Truly. Do it. Or you’ll have to find another second for your next scheme. I mean it.”

  Lillian shook hands with Lord Benderskeith, unbending a bit when she got to the judge, the doctor, and Sir Graham. I also shook hands all around, lingering where I saw fit despite Lillian’s glares.

  “Would that I had met you under more pleasant circumstances, Miss Elwrym,” said Lord Benderskeith. “Perhaps in future, we will find a way to spend time together that does not, ah....”

  “Do quite such damage to my coiffure?” I said, gesturing at my treacly hair. He had the grace to blush. “I look forward to more pleasant circumstances with you, my lord.”

  He blushed again. I admit I was rather taken with how handsome he looked when he blushed; so much so that I almost didn’t notice that Lil was talking to Sir Graham rather animatedly. I caught Lord Benderskeith’s eye and nodded in their direction; he put a finger to his lips.

  “That’s a perfectly ridiculous way to arrange a garden,” Sir Graham was saying. “It wants for even the very rudiments of taste.”

  “Nonsense!” Lil retorted, tossing her head in a manner that managed to be fetching despite the duel’s effects upon her person. “There is no reason a functional sorcery garden cannot be perfectly charming. Why, I’ve half a mind to show you my cousin’s, just to prove you wrong!”

  Lord Benderskeith quirked a smile at me, and I murmured, “More pleasant circumstances may be forthcoming more quickly than we had dared to hope.”

  I am not at all sure I was meant to hear him say, “I dare to hope quite a bit.”

  Lor
d Benderskeith’s first name turned out to be Jack. Lillian would have taken longer to forgive me, but she was distracted by the attentions of Sir Graham. His horses are under the tender care of their groom for the moment, and he spends a great deal of time in our parlor, much to my annoyance.

  Jack is not the least bit annoyed, so I am learning to tolerate Sir Graham with goodwill. This probably also does a great deal towards Lillian’s forgiveness of me. As for me forgiving her for putting me through the whole ordeal—well. Lillian and I have been friends since we were girls at school, and I am accustomed to forgiving a great deal from her.

  Especially when it got me so cordially introduced to Jack.

  Copyright © 2011 Marissa Lingen

  Read Comments on this Story in the BCS Forums

  Marissa Lingen lives in the Minneapolis area with two large men and one small dog. Her work has appeared in Analog, Baen’s Universe, and Nature, among others. “The Witch’s Second” is her eightieth story sale.

  Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies

  THE ANGEL AZRAEL RODE INTO THE TOWN OF BURNT CHURCH ON A DEAD HORSE

  by Peter Darbyshire

  The angel Azrael rode into the town of Burnt Church on a dead horse, followed by a pair of buzzards. The buzzards trailed him everywhere. They knew a good thing when they saw it.

  The day was hotter than the time he’d ridden into Hell, which was maybe why Azrael hadn’t seen a soul since passing the sign announcing the town’s limits: Burnt Church Pop. 32. There were other numbers on the sign, but they’d been crossed out. The houses at the edge of town looked empty, their doors hanging open, but Azrael knew that didn’t mean much.

  Not all of the inhabitants were in hiding. A man in black sat on the step of a burned-out church that Azrael took to be the inspiration for the town’s name. The spire was just ash held in shape by memory. A metal cross was still at the top, though, if a little melted. Azrael noted the claw marks on it, but they didn’t mean much of anything either. Not in this land.

  The preacher lifted a bottle to his lips as he stared at the field of wooden crosses surrounding the church. He caught sight of Azrael, but that didn’t stop him from taking a pull.

  “You’re a little fucking late,” he said, but Azrael didn’t answer. His mouth was too dry to waste moisture on words.

  He rode on and felt the preacher’s gaze on his ruined wings. He doubted an angel had ever wandered this way before. It was a long fall from Heaven to here. But he was out of whiskey and in danger of sobering up, so here he was.

  Azrael stopped the horse outside the building that was obviously the saloon. It didn’t have a sign, but none of the buildings had signs. It was that kind of town.

  He didn’t bother tying the horse to the hitching post. It wasn’t going anywhere. It hadn’t been going anywhere when he’d found it in the desert, shot through the head and half-eaten by the buzzards that followed him now. They’d squawked and taken a few runs at him when he’d raised the horse, but they’d gotten over it. He’d given them plenty of meals since then.

  He left the dead horse standing in the street, the burning sun shining through the holes in its rotting flanks, and he went inside the saloon.

  There were a few men lean as skeletons playing cards at a table. Another man sat hunched over a glass of whiskey at one end of the bar, asleep. Azrael settled himself onto a stool at the other end.

  The bartender was a woman as pale as the dead. She wore a scarf tied around her neck. She looked at him but didn’t offer any greeting.

  “Whiskey,” he said.

  “I thought your kind could make that all by yourselves,” she said.

  “That’s wine,” Azrael said. “I prefer the harder spirits.”

  She nodded and poured him a drink.

  “I think we may have some cans of beans left,” she said.

  Azrael shook his head. He didn’t need to eat. Didn’t need to drink either. But need and want were different things.

  He slammed the whiskey back and put the glass down for another. She hesitated, so he took out some coins he’d found in the remains of a coach a few days earlier. He’d cleaned the blood from them and now they were shiny as the sun. He tossed them on the bar, and she put them in a pocket of her dress. She slid the bottle across the counter to him.

  “How long you been a zombie?” Azrael asked, studying her.

  Her hand went to the cloth around her neck.

  “I ain’t,” she said.

  “I can smell it in you,” Azrael said.

  “It’s just a bite,” she said. “We had an infestation last year. But it ain’t taken me yet.”

  “It will,” Azrael said and poured himself another drink.

  She looked at the men playing cards. He could have read her thoughts even if he wasn’t an angel.

  “You let me know if you want anything else,” she said and moved down the bar to polish glasses.

  He’d downed half the bottle when the demons came through the door. Three of them, because demons always move in packs. They were infernals, all horns and talons and skin like rock. Nothing he hadn’t faced down before. But he was tired of that kind of trouble.

  He watched them in the mirror behind the bar as they went for the card players. One of them swept all the money from the table while another grabbed the cards and ripped them to shreds. The third pushed one of the men from his chair, then picked up the table and threw it across the room.

  Azrael sipped his drink. Not his problem.

  The other card players got up and walked through the wall without a backwards glance. Ghosts. The man who’d been pushed to the floor wasn’t a ghost though. Or a man, really. He growled at the demons and his fingernails lengthened into claws. His ears got pointy and hairy. A werewolf. But then he relaxed and looked down at the floor, and those ears and fingernails went back to being human. Azrael didn’t blame him. Maybe the werewolf would stand a chance if it were pack on pack. But odds like this would just add another cross to the graveyard.

  The demons laughed, and the one who’d thrown the table mock-lunged at the werewolf. Then it caught sight of Azrael.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned—again,” it said. It sharpened its claws on its horns as it came up behind him. The other demons followed, and the werewolf used the opportunity to slip out the door. That left just the bartender and the sleeping man. Azrael could see why people weren’t moving here.

  “I’m just passing through,” he told the demons.

  “Why don’t you keep on then,” one of the demons said. It leaned against the bar, beside Azrael. The other one who had spoken set up shop on the other side. The last one stood behind Azrael, close enough it brushed against what was left of his wings.

  “Once I’m done my drink,” Azrael said. He shifted his coat so they could see his guns. Forged from the metals of Hell itself, which accounted for his trip there.

  They looked at the death-dealers and then back at his eyes. He could tell they saw his weariness there, because they all grinned.

  “So you ain’t going to get in the way of us having a little fun then,” the one who’d thrown the table said. It was a statement, not a question. It reached across the bar and ran a claw down the bartender’s cheek. A line of blood stained her rouge.

  She looked at Azrael. He looked at himself in the mirror.

  “Not my problem,” he said.

  “That’s too bad,” the demon said but turned away from Azrael anyway. It hopped over the bar and dragged the bartender down. She wore a look that said this happened too many times for her to fight back.

  The demon on the other side of Azrael looked at the sleeping man.

  “I could use a drink too,” it said.

  Azrael shoved his bottle toward the demon. “Have some of mine,” he said.

  “Keep your piss to yourself, Fallen,” it said. “I want a real drink.” It sprang down the length of the bar and grabbed the sleeping man’s head and wrenched it back in one motion. By the time the man opened his e
yes, the demon had ripped out his throat and was guzzling down the blood that jetted out.

  “Jesus,” the man said, looking around. “Not again.”

  Another ghost, Azrael realized. This town was full of them. He wasn’t surprised the demon was able to grab hold of the ghost like that—their claws could hook into anything.

  The third demon laughed at all this, until Azrael spun on the stool and shot it in the gut. The demon tried to keep on laughing, because normally bullets had no effect on its kind.

  But Azrael didn’t load his guns with normal bullets. His shells were made of bone he’d taken from the remains of a creature older than the angels, a creature so ancient it didn’t even have a name. It may have been a god once, but no living thing really knew. Bones like that were ideal for killing demons, although truth be told, the bones of any mystical creature would do. Azrael had a knife made from the same bone in his boot. He used to have two knives, but the world never stopped taking things.

  The demon fell to the floor, clutching itself, and Azrael spun and fired again, this time at the one at the end of the bar. It was almost on him by then, but his shot tore out its heart, so it was just dead meat that slammed into Azrael and knocked him to the floor.

  From his new vantage, he saw the demon who’d taken the bartender behind the counter leap up onto the ceiling. It turned its head to find him, and he shot it between the eyes. It hung on to the ceiling afterwards, even though it was dead. Those claws again.

  The demon he’d gut-shot swore some names Azrael hadn’t heard in a while.

  “I thought you said this weren’t your problem,” it said.

  Azrael stood, keeping his gun trained on the demon’s face.

  “I keep telling myself that,” he said, “but I just can’t believe it.”

  “Well, it’s your problem now,” the demon said. “Hell’s going to be coming for you, and we are legion.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Azrael said, and put a bone bullet through the demon’s head.