The Shadow Conspiracy II Read online

  The Shadow Conspiracy II

  Edited by

  Phyllis Irene Radford

  &

  Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  Book View Café

  ISBN: 9781611380439

  Copyright © 2011 Book View Cafe

  February 2011

  Editor’s Introduction

  Phyllis Irene Radford

  Last year I dove head first into Steampunk, a vibrant and fresh genre that has many definitions and defies most of them. I grew up with Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and The Wild, Wild West (the original TV series not the movie remake). The audacious rewriting of history while keeping the action and events plausible tantalized my sense of “What If.”

  Now here I am again up to my eyeballs in an anthology rich with detail, fun, and thoughtful alternatives. We revisit the shared world of transferable souls and intelligent machines that attract lost souls with some familiar characters. Judith Tarr’s irrepressible Emma Rigby prances through a new adventure with automata. Nancy Jane Moore brings us more missions for the mysterious warrior woman, Jane Freemantle. We have new characters to play with too. Chris Dolley brings to life a wonderful parody reminiscent of P.G. Wodehouse. Then there are the historical characters that keep popping into our works of fiction. Amy Sterling Casil introduces us to insane artist Richard Dadd and makes us redefine madness. Irene Radford visits Dr. John McLaughlin and his wife Marguerite in the Oregon Country with some questions about when is no government too much government. Pati Nagle gives us some more insight into the life of mystical Marie LaVeau. And always, Ada King, Countess of Lovelace, hovers in the background along with her father, Romantic poet George Gordon, Lord Byron.

  Come join us in the fun, the gadgets, the adventure, and the Romance of Steampunk in the second volume of The Shadow Conspiracy.

  Editor’s Introduction

  Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  Well, here we are with another volume of Steampunk fiction from the writers at the Book View Café.

  When we rounded up stories for our first volume, I wasn’t exactly sure what Steampunk was except that a card game that we played (Girl Genius) had something to do with it. As I researched the genre while working on my Shadow Conspiracy I story (“The Accumulating Man”) I realized that I had already written at least one Steampunk story without even realizing it. I further realized that my favorite fiction growing up was, in essence, Steampunk — that tasty combination of Victorian sensibilities with engines and devices and technologies that owed nothing to computer chips and silicon.

  What else is Jules Verne if not the great grandaddy of Steampunk?

  I’ve heard people say that Steampunk is popular because it combines speculation about the future with the gentility and hopefulness that characterizes a past age in which we believed science and technology would solve all our problems. I can’t really speak to that, but I can say that when I read a Steampunk story, I experience a peculiar sense of comfort and coziness combined with an equally powerful exhilaration. Which is why Steampunk has become, to me, synonymous with Tea Time. For tea, as any fan of Dr. Who knows, is capable of solving any problem, rejuvenating any spirit, and righting any wrongs.

  So, brew yourself a pot of good English tea (none of that wimpy American stuff), fire up your eBook reader of choice and slide into another world where the writers of the Book View Café ask “What if...” What if the science envisioned by Mary Shelley and Jules Verne — among others — was real?

  Mad Bad Richard Dadd

  Amy Sterling Casil

  It was inevitable that Sir Thomas would take us to the storied city of Missolonghi in Greece — for the ruins. And of course, he must see the place where the hero Byron had died of fever. As a hero himself, Sir Thomas had a natural interest in the doings of others of like mind.

  I had not wanted to go to that place. You may think I possessed a ghoulish fear of war and blood and the ghosts of Greek maidens weeping over fallen heroes — but assuredly, no. Sir Thomas wished me to document our travels into piquant and foreign lands and had utmost confidence in my abilities. How was I to explain to him that there was no painter alive who would not have known the work of Delacroix depicting the hero’s magnificent form and figure at Missolonghi? Although I had a good esteem of my abilities as a painter — as all in our clique did — I was, perhaps, concerned that my scribblings would meet with disfavour in comparison with the French master’s work.

  It was for my pleasant nature as well as my excellent draughtsmanship that Sir Thomas agreed to engage me upon this trip. He could have selected any of our clique — Egg, for example, Ward, O’Neil, or my dearest friend, Frith. Billy was as much of a draughtsman or better than I, and most excellent company. But it was I who had been chosen, despite my doubts and fears.

  For nearly the entire trip, my mind had been somewhat unsettled. I attributed this to the uncommonly rich food we had consumed throughout our travels on the Continent. With simpler fare at hand, I found some comfort upon arriving in Greece. Also, in Attika, they had a fine and fiery distillation which I found quite to my taste.

  As we undertook the fortnight’s journey to Missolonghi on a stinking, lurching vessel, even fortified by the spirits as I was, a fever had settled upon me like a rotten, mouldy blanket. My bones ached and sometimes felt as though they would work themselves free from my taut and cracking skin. Upon arrival, the nights in Missolonghi were long and hot and dark. In them, I heard many whispers.

  After our arrival, as we rested on some picturesque and mossy columns amid the famous ruins, my patron’s kindly blue eyes filled with concern.

  “Why so pale, Dicky?” Sir Thomas demanded. He had seen my hand shaking as I limned the cracked and overturned monoliths in silverpoint, the steps broken and tossed asunder by time, the great stones nearly strangled by vines, amid the shadows of ancient men falling across the grey-white stone.

  The evening light is soft and strange in Greece, and it cast longer, deeper shadows than I had ever seen before.

  In such light, I imagined that the shadows I saw amid the ruins were those of otherworldly men. I imagined that they smiled at me softly with a sideways glance, but when I turned to hold them more firmly in my gaze, both shadow and man were gone.

  “You have hardly eaten for days,” said Sir Thomas. I allowed as this was true.

  He urged me to put a cool cloth on my head, and bade me to rest in a grotto of columns. I closed my eyes for a moment and dreamed of Kent. This was strange, as I had ever loathed the place of my birth.

  The next day I awoke and dressed rather hastily, following Sir Thomas from our lodgings overlooking the lagoon to a picturesque whitewashed Taverna in the town. A number of the town’s important men had gathered, and we were regaled over cups of strong, sweet coffee by tales of the great hero and his last, fevered days. George Gordon, Lord Byron would have been the King of Greece, they said, had he but lived.

  One grizzled fellow sat in the shadows of the Taverna, far older than the others. He had a nose as crooked as a shepherd’s staff. This long and gnarled object jutted below dark, glowing coals of eyes, barely escaping meeting up with his prickled gray chin. The wretched creature fixed his lemurian eyes upon me and would not look aside.

  Sir Thomas, engrossed in the tales of the townsmen, did not notice him, but rather saw the sudden look of surprise and alarm upon my face.

  “Dicky,” he said, leaning across the table as he waved at the waiter to pour us more coffee. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

  I laughed though, even to my own ears, it had a false and hollow sound.

&nb
sp; “No,” I said. “That fellow will not stop staring at me.”

  Sir Thomas, never very quick to imagine a slight, looked about at every figure in the shadowed Taverna, winking at a buxom and dusky young woman, until I finally managed to draw his attention to my elderly inquisitor, who had by this time scooted his withered old loins nearly to the edge of his rustic stool and pointed at me with a long, crooked finger terminating in a cracked and yellow nail.

  “Ekino,” he said in a tremulous, accusatory tone. “Ekino!”

  “I say,” said Sir Thomas. “Perhaps he’s gone senile.”

  The others ceased their chatter and stared at the old man, who repeated his accusation. “Ekino!”

  I knew not what the word meant, but a wave of terror washed through my very core. My knees went weak, and my stomach turned to ice.

  “What — what does he mean?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing,” said one of the townsmen, shaking his head as if to say the old fellow was barking mad. The others all nodded vigorously.

  “It must mean something,” said Sir Thomas. “Is it Dicky’s hair?”

  This was not an unreasonable guess, for I was in my youth, quite blonde and slender. Many had commented on the flaxen waves that fell to my shoulders. One may have taken me for a girl in a dim light, if it were not for my trousers, boots — and moustache. As some of the women I had seen in Greece seemed to possess hirsute upper lips, I wondered if I had indeed been taken for a girl — especially in the Greek dress that Sir Thomas had insisted that we adopt.

  “He’s just saying, ‘that one,’” said a confident, moustachioed fellow, whom I supposed must have been the mayor of the town or something very like it. It seemed that the tales of Sir Thomas’ heroism with the Welsh rioters had reached even this distant port.

  “Eh?” asked Sir Thomas. “Why would he say that?”

  “Ah, who can know?” said the mayor. “It’s old Iakos. He often sees things that are not there.”

  “Not — there?” I asked.

  “I doubt he is pointing at you,” said the mayor. “Possibly he sees a nymph, calling for him to kiss her.” Then he laughed, showing a great many fine white teeth. “Come,” he said, pulling a flask from deep within the folds of his massive linen blouse. “It’s nothing a little raki will not cure.”

  I took his flask and sipped the fiery liquid.

  “Ekino!” said old Iakos once again. He rose from his stool and advanced toward me, his yellow — tipped finger as pointed as a sword.

  Slamming his fist on the table, the mayor growled a few rough words in Greek. They were spoken so rapidly I could not have hoped to know what he had said. But my inquisitor seemed to understand, as he stopped mid-step and retreated, his eyes dark and hooded, but still flashing with a terrible accusation — of me!

  “You must excuse old Iakos for his poor and rustic manners,” said the mayor. “However, perhaps it is best for you to return to your lodgings. We will prepare some goat for you later.”

  “Ah,” said Sir Thomas, clearing his throat. He looked at me, and I saw in his eyes that he intended to accept the mayor’s offer and the suggestion that we leave the Taverna and avoid any trouble by those means.

  “You are most kind,” said Sir Thomas to the mayor, standing and bowing briefly. I followed suit, and for some reason, all of the men at the table smiled, and a few even laughed.

  Upon returning to our lodgings, I declined to dine with Sir Thomas, as I felt faint and the smell of the goat, which the mayor had delivered as promised, put me in mind an old and rotten leg of mutton which my father had once forced me to eat.

  Once in my room, I lay on the narrow bed and pulled the ragged mesh curtains close. They smelled terribly of camphor, which is said to have some effect in warding off pestilent insects that are constantly present throughout this part of Greece. Evening shadows played about my face, and I amused myself by imagining that their owners were smiling at me until I fell into a dreamless sleep.

  I scarcely knew if I still slept, or if I had awakened from my slumber when he came.

  Tall, he was, and dark. The candle was nearly burned to a stub, flickering and sputtering. By this I guessed that it was the small hours of the morning. His shadow flickered and seemed to move independently of his form as he walked slowly back and forth near the shuttered window.

  Have you ever heard the sound of a chandelier when it is disturbed? The music of a thousand tiny crystals joyously striking each other is the only thing to which I may compare his voice.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  I shook my head, mute.

  Then he sat upon the end of my bed and drew the curtains aside.

  Oh, how shall I describe him?

  He was like a man, yet not a man. His smooth and shining limbs were perfectly formed. The only imperfection was a slight limp and a curious crooked bend in his trousers below his right knee.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  His dark eyes fixed upon mine. “I am the Lord Osiris,” he said. “I have been reborn.”

  “Lord Osiris,” I said, and I laid my hand across my breast. My heart began to drum so quickly that it seemed that it would leave my chest and fly into his smooth hands.

  “I have a task for you, Richard,” he said.

  “How do you know my name?” I asked. I wanted to ask how he had entered my room as well, but I thought again — if he were indeed the dread Egyptian Lord of the Dead, he could go anywhere he pleased.

  “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be dead, Richard?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Of course not,” he said. “You are very young. When a man reaches the age of your master sleeping next door, he thinks about such things.”

  “He — he is not my master,” I said. “He is my-–” I had been about to say “patron,” but Osiris stopped me with a brief gesture of one dark and graceful hand.

  “You follow him and do his bidding, do you not?” Osiris asked.

  I nodded.

  “Then he is your master. But I suggest to you that a far better master is here at hand.” He inclined his smooth, dark head toward me and leaned over the bed. I heard the tinkling of crystal once again and, even stranger, the whir and buzz of — I scarcely know how to describe it — clockwork.

  I must have looked amazed, because he smiled in return, a terrible, awesome grin.

  Then his long dark fingers reached out for mine. He took my hand and raised the palm to his cheek and made my fingers to stroke across the smooth dark skin.

  His flesh was unlike any flesh I had ever felt before. It was cool and vaguely moist to my touch. There was not a pore to be seen. Imperceptibly except to my fingers, the face was ever-moving — ever-changing. I looked into his eyes, and it seemed as though they were made of glass, not flesh, and in them was a gaslamp flicker, yet nothing of life.

  “You are...not alive,” I said.

  He grinned a fearful grin.

  “Oh, Richard,” he said. “But I am. And you — if you follow as I say and do everything that I tell you to do — you may yet discover as I have...” and here, he paused.

  “Discover what?” I whispered. I scarcely dared to meet those odd, lambent amber eyes again, in which the flickering of infernal candlelight lit them from behind with an unholy, unwholesome glow.

  “Eternal life,” said my Lord Osiris.

  He placed his cool, damp, lifeless hand upon my forehead. Though I wished to scream, I did not. I heard myself murmuring, murmuring, as he began to sing to me, and I fell once again into a dark slumber with noisome dreams.

  They said that I did not wake again for another day. When I did wake to see Sir Thomas and the hostler’s wife hovering over my poor, narrow bed, my visitor was gone.

  I nearly blurted out the truth of the strange night visit, but the looks of joyous surprise on their flushed and honest faces silenced me. I knew they would not understand. There was no one alive who could possibly understand my first
meeting with the Lord Osiris — he who showed me the shadow of everlasting life — with the slightest movement of his slender, dark and wicked hands.

  Ever after, I watched for him. I realised that he had been there all along, in the shadows of the ruins at Missolonghi. At first, as we travelled through ’Stanbul and on to the Holy Land, I saw him but seldom. On the steamer to Jaffa, I saw him not at all; I hoped that perhaps, he might not be able to travel by sea.

  A foolish hope. There is nowhere that the great God Osiris cannot travel and — I fear — nothing that he cannot do.

  Upon our arrival in Jaffa, Sir Thomas conceived a fancy for the dress of the Arabs. Not only did he outfit himself with a red silk robe, absurd woven leather gaiters, and the most ridiculous slippers ever invented, with pointed and curled toes that reminded me of cloven hooves, he bade me wear similar garb.

  Thus, on we went through that desert land, accompanied by garish and fearsome tribesman, the mahout of which was a fierce-faced fellow who blew smoke from his nostrils and seemed more like a dragon than a living man. The land was more barren than any I had ever seen; it seemed capable of growing nothing but rocks, save for the few oases here and there that cropped up as a miracle when one least expected.

  We camped at such a place, not far from the city of Jericho, a leaden collection of mud-daub huts surrounded by countless dreadful, reeking pens of goats, sheep, and camels.

  The tribesmen with whom we travelled smoked like fiends. They used a tall and finely worked ceramic pipe, much grander than anything else they possessed including their long, curved blades. It was a nightly ritual to remove this pipe from their packs, light a merry fire, and sit around it, passing the pipe from one to the other.

  As they lit the pipe and began to talk, I felt his presence. He was standing somewhere in the oasis, just beyond my gaze. He watched, but would not come into the light.

  I joined Sir Thomas in a smoke and, all night, we sat by the fire with the strange and fearsome tribesmen, partaking of the “hubbly-bubbly” or hubble-bubble and talking of war.