Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe (28 page)

In the first moments of my long sleep, other events I had set into motion transpired.

Behind the saloon waited Vasquez and Mr. Simmons with the buckboard. As soon as he heard my gunshots, Vasquez consulted his pocket watch and waited for one minute to the second. He informed me later that it was the most nervous minute of his storied career.

When that time had elapsed, he retrieved a dire object from under the blankets in the wagon bed—Thaddeus Hobart’s body. In the long hours of the previous night, Vasquez had pressed Mr. Simmons and Miss Eliza into service. They had dug Thad out of his grave, removed his outer garments, and cleansed him of the dirt we had heaped upon him—a gruesome, cheerless series of tasks.

Eliza and her father had entered town with the morning light and made purchases with money from me and Vasquez: gray garments closely resembling Renault’s and a pair of ivory pistol grips. Meanwhile, at the farm, Vasquez performed the most grisly act of all, firing both barrels of the shotgun into Thad’s face.

Yes, Morris, you do not have to convey to me your discomfort at these words. Please weigh my plan against the benefits it has brought us, and will continue to bring, before issuing your final judgment.

At the farm, Vasquez and the Simmonses assembled these components into a credible simulacrum of Renault’s body, a replacement for the body I believed did not exist in physical form. Then Vasquez loaded the body onto the wagon, the revolver and shotgun into the bag. He and Mr. Simmons drove into town.

Now, one minute after the gunshots, Vasquez carried the body through the back door of Bust, bolting the door behind him. Mr. Simmons drove on.

Vasquez deposited the body on the floor. In those same moments, the Kid, out front and knowing nothing of these activities, held the citizens of Salt Creek at bay with his guns and force of will.

Finding me unresponsive at my table, Vasquez still nobly did as instructed. He took Thad’s Colt from my table and placed it near Thad’s hand. He returned my derringer to my pocket. He carried me to the floor opposite the false Renault and deposited me there, then lay the shotgun across my breast. Finally, he returned my ink and pen to the manuscript box. He concealed himself in the storeroom to wait.

There it was, my solution. It had seemed to me that even if my speculations were entirely correct, if the townsfolk came into Bust and found me there alone, with Renault gone, they would never believe him dead. This, perhaps, would allow him to return. My thought was that if all saw a body they thought was his, they would believe Renault truly dead, leaving him no place on this earth to return to.

Mademoiselles Sophie and Laurette did not awaken until after the body was buried and so were unable to issue denials that it was his.

I knew none of these details. For three days, I lay unmoving. I am informed that during this time the Baghdad Kid wrote you with dire misgivings about my fate. Yet I recovered.

News of my mysterious accomplishment did reach the capitals at Austin, New Orleans, and Washington in rapid fashion. Upon my regaining consciousness this morning, I was informed that as soon as I was fit to travel, I would be escorted by a unit from Fort Montague to Austin and a conference with President Hogg at the new Capitol building.

So now I, possibly the most valuable man for thousands of miles in any direction, am packing for a trip to the Texas capital, where I will tell my story.

Nor, if mishap befalls me en route, will the secret of Renault’s death be lost. You have this letter, and other letters of instruction I have written have now been dispatched to trusted friends to be opened in the event of my death or disappearance. The paladins are doomed, and the stranglehold the French Empire has on the world is, though they know it not, is at an end.

What, you ask, of the other participants in these events?

The Baghdad Kid carries one of my letters with him. He has chosen to stay at Salt Creek for now. He enjoys the attention the townsfolk lavish upon him, but the confusion in his eyes suggests he now considers steering a new course with his life. From his spoken thoughts, I would not venture to say it will be a better course, merely a different one. He has given me Thad’s Colt in payment of the bet he owed me.

Vasquez rides with me. He asserts that soon I will be at the center of calamity, and it is at such places that profit can be made. I suspect he is correct, but I think, too, that he longs to put my methods to the test against other paladins. He wishes to see this part of the world shake itself free of the Empire.

Ma de moiselles Sophie and Laurette chose to depart Salt Creek but also eschew French-controlled territories. Their brief words on the subject suggested that they are delighted to be free of Renault but might have cause to fear French punishment. Laurette is bound for Nuevo Mexico in the hope of making a new life there. Sophie, greatly daring, has chosen to dress as a man and will accompany a cattle drive bound for Kansas. Her destination from there is Chicago. If, Morris, you are reading this letter and a comely Frenchwoman has placed it in your hands, it is she, and I ask of you that you use my resources and your influence to help her begin her new life.

As for me, the life I knew is over. From now until the last paladin is gone, I will be too valuable to the Republic of Texas and the United States of America to control my own destiny.

Too, I have noticed changes in myself. With each room I enter, some part of my mind tells me, were I to pluck the Colt from my holster, I could in an instant calculate the exact angle, elevation, and timing I would need to place a bullet in the heart or brain of every individual I saw. I had not that facility before.

Renault is within me. And, too, I know he is in the pasteboard box I carry among my possessions. I confess that the link between us makes me fear that someday I, too, will find myself trapped in leaves of paper, never to escape.

Au revoir.

Your friend,

Chester Lamb

Aaron Allston is a New York Times bestselling novelist known in particular for his work in the Star Wars universe. Before making fiction his full- time career, he wrote role- playing game supplements, contributing to the Dungeons & Dragons, Champions, and GURPS lines. He has been inducted into the Academy of Adventure Gaming Arts and Design Hall of Fame. He teaches writing workshops across the United States. More information is on his website: www.aaronallston.com.

TODD McCAFFREY

On Gene Wolfe:
Gene Wolfe’s Book of the New Sun, including The Shadow of the Torturer, The Claw of the Conciliator, The Sword of the Lictor, and The Citadel of the Autarch, reinvigorated and defined a whole genre, raising the bar for all who came after him and uniting his works with those of Dickens, Lewis, Swift, and Tolkien. Gene’s style and wit and his willingness to invent new words that seem like they ought to exist is charming to read and frustrating to emulate. Truly he’s one of the genre’s great treasures.

T
he elfish girl walked spritely up the path.

“Gran!” she called, stopping for a moment to peer ahead and then starting forward again with a skip in her step. “Gran, where are you?” There was no sign of him in the front of the stone cottage. “Eilin?” an old voice called in surprise. The doddering old man, steps quick but wobbly, rounded the corner from the back of the cottage. He had a guarded look on his face and then smiled as he spotted the girl. “Eilin, what brings you here?”

“My lady was worried,” Eilin replied, peering up at the silver- haired man. “She didn’t see you in the garden.”

“Oh, I was around back, just pottering.”

“Pottering?” Eilin repeated. It was a strange word, like so many of the other words he used.

“Aye, nothing more,” Gran replied, gesturing toward the front door. “Come in and I’ll put on some tea for ye.”

Eilin nodded, not trusting her face. Gran was forever going on about “tea,” but it was always hot water poured over strange roots and never quite the amazing brew he made it sound like. She glanced back over her shoulder down the path she’d taken. Finding no respite—no signs of her lady mother beckoning her back imperiously—

Eilin knew she had no choice but to accept her gran’s offer. “And what brings you here on such a fair day?” Gran asked as he opened the door to his cottage and bowed her in.

“My lady mother—”

“Ach, lass, that’s what ye said,” Gran interrupted. “I meant the real reason.”

The silver-haired man followed her into the cottage, waved her to her favorite seat, bustled about near the stove and came back, beckoning for her to stand again, while he settled in the one plush chair and settled her on top of him.

“Was it the spiders?” Gran asked softly as she rested her head on his warm shoulder.

“No,” Eilin said in a half-drowsy voice. Her lady mother said that they kept Gran because he was so good with children. Perhaps it was true: Eilin could never listen to his singsong voice for long before falling asleep on his lap. “Not spiders.”

“The prince, then,” Gran decided.

“The baby, actually,” Eilin allowed. Her brother the prince was no more a pest after she’d discovered that he was more afraid of spiders than she—one night harvesting the worst of them and then laying them over him as he slept cured the prince of any desire to annoy her—which was as it should be.

A whistle from the kettle on the stove disturbed them and Eilin allowed herself to be manhandled as Gran stood, deposited her gently back on the warm chair, sauntered over to the stove, and poured steaming water into a clay pot.

Eilin’s nose crinkled as the strange smell came to her. Another of Gran’s terrible brews, she thought.

How long had it been now? Twenty years? Forty? More? Once his hair had been red, his eyes keen, his face fresh like a new apple.

Now it was lined, his eyes were dimming, his hair all white and lanky. Even his body seemed smaller than once it had been, as though time had forced it to curl in obeisance.

Changelings never lasted very long. She’d only just gotten him properly broken in and now he was all worn out.

The smell shifted and Eilin sniffed again, her eyes open and senses curious. This time Gran’s brew did not smell so bad. Gran came back with two mugs on a tray and set them near the sofa. He scooped Eilin back up, settled himself, and pulled a mug over in one hand.

“If you’d care to try . . .” Gran offered.

“Of course,” Eilin said, never one to refuse a graciousness. She sniffed, took a quick, thin sip and—amazed—her eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise. She took another sip, a bit deeper but only just— the liquid was piping hot.

Gran chuckled at her evident pleasure.

“Rhubarb and beet,” Gran said. He took the second mug for himself.

“What’s it for?”

“It’s for the unicorns,” Gran said.

Eilin took another sip. It was always unicorns with Gran. Always the same joke.

“Do you think they’ll like it?” Eilin said, deciding this time to play along.

“We’ll see,” Gran said, taking another sip. “We’ll see.”

“Tell me about the unicorns,” Eilin said as she’d said most every day she came to the cottage. She sipped her tea and wondered why in the Elvenworld Gran could ever come to the notion that unicorns might drink such brew.

“What’s to tell?” Gran teased her.

“No one can see them,” Eilin said, repeating his old story. Days and years he’d told her, put her to sleep with his singsong, sad, sorry voice telling her about the unicorns.

“No one can see them,” Gran agreed. “Their horns take them from Elvenworld to our world and back.”

“They brought you here.”

“When I was just a lad,” Gran said in agreement.

“And now you’re here and you’ll never leave,” Eilin finished. She leaned back, resting her head on his warm shoulder companionably. “You belong here, with us.”

“Forever in Fearie.”

“With the Elves and the unicorns, my lady mother, lord father, and the prince, my brother,” Eilin concluded. “This is your home and we love you.”

“I had a home,” Gran reminded her, his voice going soft and a bit hoarse, “and those who loved me.”

“Long gone, time slips differently here,” Eilin reminded him. “Drink your tea,” Gran said, raising his mug to his lips and draining it impatiently.

For once, Eilin did as he said.

“No one can ever see a unicorn,” Gran said to her as she drifted off into pleasant slumber.

It was weeks later when Eilin came again. Her brother the prince had discovered thorny roses and had tormented her by hiding them in her bed as she slept.

The pricks and pains of the thorns had sent her crying to the comfort of Gran’s cottage in the distance.

“Gran!” she cried. He had the greatest cures and poultices; perhaps he could pull the sting out of her. “Gran!”

No answer, no movement from the cottage. Alarmed, Eilin picked up her pace.

No sign.

She ran around the cottage to the back, crying, “Gran!”

“Sssh!” Gran called from the far end of the garden. “I’m here, no need to shout!”

“What are you doing?” Eilin asked, eyeing the green growth and dirty ground in surprise.