400 Boys and 50 More (107 page)

His gaze returned to the Ghost Queen of Spectralia, to her regard.

“Come forward, supplicant, and state your business,” said the husky, hidden voice he had heard the night before. He gladdened at the sound of it. Toby and some others produced a heavy mantle which they laid upon his shoulders. Tufted with fur and feathers, it suited the wildness he felt in his heart, the wildness of the creatured wood. Further, they rested on his crown a headpiece set with horns, and secured a griffin’s beak of papier-mâché that covered up his nose.

“I bear a letter,” he said from within the mask.

His voice appeared to echo from somewhere far out in the night. The rocky chamber had become a stage, but he could not tell if it were an opera house or a puppet theater. Hewell had lost all sense of scale.

“To whom is it addressed?” said the Queen.

He looked down to reaffirm what he had written. But what it said was not what he remembered having writ:

“To . . . to the Ghostmaster,” he said.

“Open it, then,” she said. “Open it and read what your heart has written there.”

His finely etched hands tore open the envelope. He started to hold out the letter, to show her that it was blank—but instead he discovered words crawling over it, characters engraved in violet ink. It was his own script, but somehow more beautiful than he had ever before accomplished. He stroked the words with his fingers and tasted violets; even his eyes filled with the flavor. The night reeked of wormwood and forest mold and the blood-tang of the sea. He was gazing too deeply into the letters. Retreating slightly, he began to read aloud to the assemblage, clinging to the words as if they would bring him back to some familiar footing.

“At the behest and pleasure of Her Majesty, Queen of Spectralia, I am honored to accept the post of Ghostmaster General. I swear to execute my duties with all honesty and to the utmost of my ability as Her Majesty’s agent in the realms beyond these borders. This post is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. In defense of Spectralia, I rest my soul in the hands of the Silent Ones. May they end my life horribly should ever I betray the Spectral Lands. Your obedient servant, Lord Hewellian, Ghostmaster General.”

“Your heart’s wish has been revealed and granted, all in the same instant,” said the Queen. “Now come forward and prove your fealty.”

Two waifs in black garb with porcelain faces appeared from the darkness. Between them, hunched over so he looked no taller than they, was a prisoner. Their captive was blindfolded, muffled with a kerchief, his hands bound behind him. They forced him to his knees before the stone seat.

As if from a great distance, across a gulf of years, Hewellian recognized the private detective, Deakins.

“Let the prisoner account for himself,” said the Queen. The guardian twins undid first his gag, at which he gasped and began to plead incoherently, and then his blindfold. His eyes rolled but he did not appear to see them. When at last his gaze settled on the bonfire, he gave a little jerk and suddenly stilled. A moment later, he looked straight up at the moon and said accusingly, “You!”

And a moment after that: “We!”

And then: “It is . . . but we . . . I saw
a hill of faces
!”

“So have we all,” said the Queen. “But where does your path lead you?”

The detective’s confusion was so extreme that Hewellian stepped forward with a surge of pity and put himself between the captive and the Queen. “It takes him far from Spectralia, Your Majesty. I will lead him there safely. You may release him into my care. Come, my poor dear man.”

But as Hewellian stepped forward to untie the ropes, the prisoner started screaming.

“There can be no Initiation for him!” said the Queen in disappointment. “Fall back, Ghostmaster. He cannot see the truth of Our land and therefore cannot serve it. ’Tis unfortunate, for We are in need of a Spymaster, or even a plain Detective. Instead We find ourselves with a Prisoner. It is the one category of subject for which We have no use. There are no prisons here.”

“There are the Serpent Dungeons!” said one of the doll-faced girls.

Deakins swayed and subsided into a heap on the stones. His sprightly guardians tittered. “He has fallen into a swoon!”

“Not the mark of a Spymaster, surely.”

“We should dress him as a beast and turn him loose in the woods!”

“He would startle the ponies,” said the Queen. “That will never do.”

Hewellian bent to the fallen prisoner and loosened his bonds. It was impossible to care for the man while balancing the heavy griffin mask, so he set it on the ground and was shocked by the fierce face it presented. It was no wonder Deakins had collapsed when Hewellian approached.“Your Majesty, with my deepest respect, I request permission to restore Mr. Deakins to his bed, and thereafter ensure his safe return to London.”

The Ghost Queen inclined her hooded head. Some trace of violet magic still worked its way across her pale features. “You have your charge. We will communicate from time to time, but the Concordance must serve you in outlying regions. In the main, you must determine your own way. Tobianus will instruct you further.”

She offered her hand, and he kissed it, finding it cold and thin and ivory-white, the fingers stained with violet ink. Her crimson eyes flared at him. The night’s etched aspect was fading, releasing its grip, the world falling back into tones again, more mezzotint than engraving. He was losing hold of something ineffable, even as he secured his grip on Deakins. Prevailing upon Tobianus to take the detective’s legs, they lifted the man between them and headed out of the crevasse.

It was not far to Pellapon Hall across the ragged sward. They reached the house to find several stewards having hurried ahead to admit them. Slightly revived yet profoundly incoherent, Deakins was taken off to bed. Hewellian made hushed arrangements to retrieve him in the morning. Somewhere in the house, Lord Pellapon snored on, oblivious.

“And now, Master Tobianus, I believe I will require some instruction in my duties?”

“To the post office then, if it please you, sir.”

“Conduct me there, post haste!”

* * *

Hewell and Toby were still at work poring over tables, notebooks, and gazetteers when the strutting cocks of Binderwood began to crow in the courtyards and from atop the homely stone walls. There were several such false alarms before the sky truly began to brighten. It felt unwise to let Merricott find them buried in work at such an hour, so they arranged to part and join up again soon. While Toby went to borrow a cart from the livery yard, Hewell returned to the inn for his belongings. Only Mrs. Floss was awake to see him enter, and it was clear from her demeanor that she was none too pleased with having all the morning’s travails left in her hands. More comments were made about the shirking of responsibilities, but he felt quite sure this time that they were not intended for him. As he sipped scalding tea, with his luggage at his feet, he pondered the logistics of the day ahead. He would have to ride with Deakins in the mail car, no matter that it irked the sorting clerks.

Opening his valise, he gazed inside at the sheets of violet Ghost Pennies. These, Toby had assured him, were safe for common distribution, lacking the curious properties of those prepared by the Queen expressly for state ceremonies. Along with the stamps were several volumes full of tables to explicate various courses of action. Once Hewell left the region, there would be innumerable decisions that must be made in less time than it would take to send and receive Concatenated Motivations via mail from Binderwood. The telegraph might one day be a more efficient means of determining outcomes and charting choices, but in the meantime, there was a ghost-route to be inaugurated and administered. In return for service to Spectralia, he would keep a penny for every five Ghosts he sold. And Hewell expected to sell quite a few once he had expanded her reach to London—or, as it would henceforth be known, to Greater Spectralia. The Ghostmaster General had a great deal of work ahead of him.

Hearing the clatter of hooves and the squelching of wheels, he rose, bade his hostess good day, and helped Toby lift his trunk into the back of the cart to which he had hitched Madame Eglentine. Binderwood was soon out of sight behind them. Not long after that, they turned onto the hornbeam drive.

It was a strange, sullen morning at Pellapon Hall, the staff moving in an exhausted daze and the twins nowhere in evidence. Lord Pellapon strode up and down the corridor from the parlor to the foyer, irked as much by the private detective’s deterioration as by his defection. Nor did he appear overly grateful for Hewell’s offer to see Deakins safely back to London, and even into Bethlem Royal Hospital if need be.

“Nervous collapse is always a danger in one so entirely dependent on his imagination,” Hewell said discreetly, out of Deakins’ hearing.

“Then what about you? Do you not also rely on your wits?”

“Wits are not the same thing, Lord Pellapon. I am but a civil servant, dependent on my superiors. Thus I avoid the burdens of too much independence and leave the difficult decisions to others more visionary.”

Hewell led the docile, wide-eyed detective down to the cart and left him comfortably seated, humming to himself and counting his fingers until he proved he had hundreds of them. Hewell remounted the broad steps to take Lord Pellapon’s hand in farewell.

“I apologize for the twins,” said the elder man. “They both complain of exhaustion or they would be here to see you off. Deakins was a great favorite of theirs until . . . well, they cannot understand how such afflictions may affect a grown man. A shame about his investigation. You know, he claimed to be on the verge of some revelation. And now the matter of my wayward mail’s no closer to resolution. It’s all a muddle.”

“I don’t think the mail will trouble you any longer, Lord Pellapon. Upon thorough review of Merricott’s methods, I have suggested several procedural improvements—all minor, true, but cumulative in effect. Toby will see they are implemented immediately; you may rely on him to address your concerns. I believe you will note a distinct improvement from this moment forward.”

“Well, that’s fine news, then! Dull procedure triumphs where fancy makes no headway!”

“A sentiment worthy of enshrinement,” Hewell said, and stopped short, caught by a movement at an upper-story window. A face floated behind the glass. She was watching him, he realized with pride. His Queen!

As if sensing how his heart leapt out to her, she slowly opened the window so that he might see her without the distortion of glass or darkness. Her skin was paler than any ivory, her hair so white as to be almost blue, and her eyes glinted faintly like twin red stars. From either side of the window frame, two pairs of smaller hands reached in to settle a bright three-pointed crown upon her head.

“If I may,” said Hewell, “please tender my respects to the eldest Miss Pellapon.”

“The eldest?”

Hewell gave a slight wave to the Queen, but she responded not. He realized that her gaze, and her smile, were directed past him, to the cart, where Toby sat holding the reins. The lad grinned back, then noticed Hewell’s eyes upon him, whereupon he flushed and turned away, covering his sudden change of color by clucking imperiously at Madame Eglentine. When Hewell’s gaze returned to the upper window, he saw it had been shut and shuttered. The crowned white face was gone.

“Ah, so you have seen Eliza,” said Lord Pellapon. “She reveals herself to very few. She was always a fragile child, but by some miracle she survived the contagion that carried off her mother. I am fortunate to have the three of them as reminders of Lady Pellapon, God rest her.”

“Is it albinism that keeps her hid away?”

“The doctor assures me that her condition does not preclude fresh air and sunlight, but she would almost always rather stay indoors, composing these tales of hers, these . . . games. The servants and her sisters appear to find them engaging. I suppose she has a talent for it.”

Hewell received the impression that Lord Pellapon did not entirely disapprove.

With paternal pride he added, “I must admit, she is a help to me, especially when it comes to ordering about her diabolical siblings and keeping the staff in line when they have tired of my commands. Frail she may be, but not so frail she cannot rule the house.”

And more than that
, thought Hewell, putting his hand to his heart, of which he silently acknowledged she was now the very queen.

* * *

“The Ghost Penny Post” copyright 2016 by Marc Laidlaw. First appeared in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction
, Mar./Apr. 2016.

THE FINEST, FULLEST FLOWERING

A sour note shrieked from the limousine’s speakers, making Milston’s fingers curl in his lap. He took a moment to compose himself before rapping precisely, and with a now steady hand, on the glass separating him from the driver. The tone had droned into a hum that tunelessly dreamt of someday becoming hypnotic. “What is this we are listening to, and is there any way to turn it off?”

“Down, sir, but not off, I’m afraid.” The driver lowered the volume to a level barely audible; this was in some respects even more annoying. “Part of the colony’s ambiance, sir. Part of the design. Won’t be much longer though, sir. We’re almost there.”

“There” turned out to be a pale brown stucco bungalow, unremarkable except for the roof of green ceramic tile. From overhead, you might not see it among the trees. Everything here—from the hidden runway to the matte and muted colors of the limousine—bespoke discretion, if not outright camouflage. As he stepped from the car, and the driver came around to retrieve his single suitcase and worn black valise from the trunk, he heard the volume of the music increase again, and he realized it was everywhere, moaning from speakers in the trees. There was no turning it down. The sour notes, still plentiful, were also now unavoidable.

His luggage was placed on a cart. “Your bags will be waiting for you in your suite. But first, sir, your tour.” The driver bowed, ducked back into the limousine, and executed a turn that took the car back toward the airfield. Milston looked about, waiting for a word or direction from the plump older man who stood watchfully by the cart, presumably a concierge. “Am I to meet my patron here?” he asked finally.