IGMS Issue 27 Read online

  Issue 27 - March 2012

  http://www.InterGalacticMedicineShow.com

  Copyright © 2012 Hatrack River Enterprises

  Table of Contents - Issue 27 - March 2012

  * * *

  A Memory of Freedom

  by D.B. Jackson

  Our Vast and Inevitable Death

  by S. Boyd Taylor

  The Salt Man

  by Melissa Mead

  In the Fading Light of Sundown

  by Nancy Fulda

  By a Thread

  by Flávio Medeiros Jr.

  InterGalactic Interview With Theodora Goss

  by Darrell Schweitzer

  Guest Letter From The Editor

  by Christopher Kastensmidt

  A Memory of Freedom

  by D.B. Jackson

  Artwork by Wayne Miller

  * * *

  Ethan Kaille was halfway through this week's issue of the Boston Gazette when he finally took note of the date on the front page. Monday, 4 August 1760. That made this the seventh. He had been a free man for exactly three months.

  A quarter of a year gone. The days had flown by too fast. He should have been able to account for each one, and he couldn't. They were a blur -- wasted and forgotten, gray and indistinguishable. For fourteen years he had wished away the hours, desperately coaxed the scorching sun across tropical skies, endured days of unending labor and nights of unbearable longing. Fourteen years. They might as well have been fourteen lifetimes. And now he had squandered three months of precious freedom.

  Doing what?

  For a panicked moment, he couldn't remember any of it -- it seemed that he had slept the months away. But no, he had made his way on foot from the plantation to port, where the ship to Charleston, South Carolina, waited. That took two days. The voyage from Barbados to Charleston took closer to two weeks, as did the second voyage up the coast to Boston, where he had lived before prison, before the Ruby Blade mutiny. In between, he spent nearly a month working the wharves in Charleston trying to earn money for the second voyage. Then there were nights spent in Boston's Almshouse, days when he limped through the cobbled streets of the city, making his way from wharf to wharf, warehouse to shipyard, seeking employment. And finally, weeks of tedium working at the Silver Key, serving food and drink, clearing tables, mopping floors, rolling and hefting barrels of ale, repairing tables and chairs damaged by the tavern's patrons during nights of drunken revelry.

  It wasn't that time had slipped by, Ethan realized, but rather that thus far freedom, at least as he had imagined it during his incarceration, had eluded him.

  "Kaille!"

  Ethan lowered the paper. William Keyes, owner of the Silver Key, stood in the doorway to the small alcove where Ethan reclined on his rope bed.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Ya can laze around on yar own time. When ya're workin' fer me, ya'll do just that: work."

  Ethan had sailed in His Majesty's fleet and served as second mate aboard the Ruby Blade, a three-masted merchant ship of some repute. Back in his native Bristol, his family had been known and respected. This man, Keyes, on the other hand, his breeches stained and ill-fitting, his linen shirt threadbare, was a brute who ran his tavern the way the plantation foreman had overseen labor in the cane fields. Except that rather than relying on fear of the whip to intimidate others, he used the threat of dismissal, and an underlying suggestion of physical violence.

  Ethan had encountered too many men of this sort throughout his life. In the navy, on the wharves of Bristol and Boston, and again and again during his years of forced labor. He despised them, but he had learned that he was best off keeping his head down and staying out of their way.

  Keyes stood half a head taller than Ethan; he towered over Simon, the Silver Key's mouse-likechef, and Sarah and Della, the two serving girls. His features were blunt, homely, except for his eyes, which were small and brown and watchful, like those of a street cur. Though his hair was silver -- hence the name of the tavern -- he couldn't have been much past his fortieth year.

  Ethan thought him shrewd; he had seen him bargain with brewmasters and bread peddlers, butchers and rum distillers, and more often than not Keyes seemed to come out ahead. But Ethan wasn't entirely convinced that the man could read the newspaper he held, or even the bill of fare posted on the wall beside the bar.

  He also knew for a fact that these few late afternoon hours belonged to him, not to the barkeep. Still, that wouldn't stop Keyes from throwing him out on the street if he refused to work. He didn't make much working in the tavern. Nor did it help that Keyes extracted the full price of every meal he ate and every ale he drank from Ethan's wages. But at least he had a place to sleep; he couldn't afford to lose that.

  He laid the newspaper aside and stood. "What is it you need me to do?"

  "Ya need t' ask?" Keyes gestured back toward the great room. "The place needs moppin'; the tables need wipin', as does the bar. An' I want the brass polished before the regular night crowd shows up."

  Ethan had cleaned the floors and tables earlier, but he kept this to himself. "Yes, sir," was all he said.

  Keyes remained in the doorway. As Ethan tried to walk past, the barkeep put a hand on his chest, stopping him.

  "I don' normally hire convicts, Kaille. Don' give me a reason t' put ya back on the street."

  Ethan held Keyes's gaze, saying nothing. He had put larger men on the floor with a single blow, without ever resorting to a conjuring. He had survived fourteen years in a living hell that would have broken a man like Keyes in a fraction of that time. The barkeep couldn't intimidate him.

  Perhaps Keyes realized this. He lowered his hand and let Ethan pass.

  Ethan started on the floors, keeping his gaze lowered, his expression flat, dead. He would have preferred a job on the waterfront, but work was harder to find in Boston than it had been in Charleston. Had he not been drawn back to Boston by his vain hope of reconciling with Marielle -- Elli -- who had been his betrothed before the mutiny, he might have stayed in South Carolina. But here jobs were scarce.

  Surely his limp made matters worse -- who would want to hire a lame ex-convict? Nor did it help that so many of the wharf owners remembered the Ruby Blade mutiny and the tales of the male witch who had thrown in with the mutineers. If he could have told them that he hadn't cast a spell in fourteen years, he might have convinced Boston's merchants to hire him. For it was true: Having entered into a devil's pact with the men who led the Blade insurrection, men who had wanted him on their side solely because he could conjure, he had vowed never to cast another spell. His powers had cost him his youth and his love; they had left him scarred and half-crippled.

  Once in prison, however, he became desperate to break this oath. Conjurings might have won him his freedom. Certainly healing spells could have cured the infection that left him lame. But surrounded by prisoners who looked for any opportunity to improve their lot, even if it came at the expense of one of their brethren, and watched constantly by vicious overseers, Ethan hadn't dared cast at all. Even one spell would have led him to the hangman's gallows, or to a public burning. Fear of witchcraft ran as deep in the Caribbean as it did here in New England.

  For that same reason, Ethan knew he couldn't offer any reassurances to Boston's merchants. As long as his powers remained a rumor, he was safe. But a promise that he would not conjure was tantamount to an admission that he could if he chose to, and would lead to his execution.

  So he mopped William Keyes' tavern, and when the floor was clean he set to work on the tables and then the bar.

  By the time he finished polishing the brass, the Key had begun to fill up with the usual evening crowd. Wharfmen and day laborers clustered around the bar ordering ales and oysters. A few craftsmen -- mostly smiths and ships' carpe
nters -- sat at tables in pairs and in small groups, some drinking Madeira wine, others drinking flips, most of them eating fish chowder and bread. Ethan slipped into the kitchen, tied on an apron and began to help the girls serve.

  When Simon finished preparing a second pot of chowder, Ethan helped the cook carry it to the bar and the two of them ladled out fresh bowls.

  While they were working, the door opened and three hulking men walked in. Immediately conversation ceased. The three took positions near the bar and the door, their gazes sweeping over the tavern's patrons. A moment later a fourth man entered.

  John Gray.

  He was known in the South End as Hawker Gray, in part because he was said to run a profitable trade in stolen goods, and in part because in his youth he had earned a reputation as a skilled street fighter whose blade was as quick and deadly as a hawk's talons.

  He was shorter than his three toughs, but thick around the middle, with long powerful arms. His black hair, which he wore tied back in a plait, was streaked with silver. The years had etched lines into the corners of his eyes and mouth, but otherwise his face remained boyish. Unlike the three toughs, he was dressed neatly in a white silk shirt, black breeches, and a matching waistcoat. As he crossed to the bar, workmen fell over themselves getting out of his way.

  "I'll take a bowl of that," he said. "And a whiskey."

  Simon nodded and filled a bowl, his hands trembling slightly. Ethan poured out a dram of Scotch whiskey.

  Both of them knew better than to ask for payment. Hawker was a regular in the Key, but Ethan had never seen him pay for anything. He and Keyes seemed to have some sort of arrangement. Hawker ate and drank what he pleased, and conducted his business in the tavern as he saw fit. The barman, Ethan assumed, took a share of Gray's earnings.

  One of Hawker's toughs shooed two men away from a nearby table. Gray positioned his chair so that he had his back to a wall and a clear view of the door.

  Ethan and Simon went back to serving chowder. Gradually the voices that had been silenced by Hawker's arrival rose once more, until the din in the tavern returned more or less to its normal level. Ethan wiped up a few spilled ales, cleared tables and helped Simon with yet another huge pot of chowder. The crowd in the great room swelled.

  Near to eight o'clock, another man entered the tavern, pausing in the doorway to survey the throng. He was bald, with a grizzled face and thick, muscular forearms, and he stood nearly a full head shorter than Ethan. As the man lingered near the door, his mouth hanging open, Ethan saw that he had a large gap where his front teeth should have been. His breeches and shirt were stained and worn -- the clothes of a laborer.

  Spotting Hawker Gray at his table, the man stalked toward him, fists clenched. Before he had covered half the distance, two of Hawker's toughs intercepted him. They towered over the man making him appear as a mere child beside them.

  Unable to get any closer, the stranger pointed a bony finger Hawker's way.

  "Where are my toolth, Gray?" he demanded with a pronounced lisp. "I know you've got 'em, and I want 'em back!"

  The tavern went quiet again. All eyes turned to Hawker and this bold stranger.

  Hawker's expression remained mild. "And you are . . . ?"

  "You know who I am, you bathtard! Now where are my toolth?"

  Hawker glanced at one of his toughs, raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. That was enough.

  The tough dug a fist into the stranger's belly, doubling him over. The man fell to his knees and retched.

  "I remember you now," Hawker said, standing with a scrape of his chair on the wood floor. He stepped away from the table and walked to where the stranger knelt, his hands braced on the floor. "You're the cooper, the one who talkth funny."

  He grinned briefly; his men laughed.

  But otherwise, the tavern was so quiet Ethan could hear Simon breathing beside him.

  "You need to learn some manners, old man," Hawker went on, deadly serious now. "No one comes in here and calls me names. I think you owe me an apology."

  The cooper didn't look up. "I want my tools back."

  Hawker glanced around at those watching him, a smile fixed on his face. He opened his hands, as if to say What could I do? Before anyone could speak, he raised his foot and stomped on the cooper's hand with the heel of his boot. Ethan heard bones crack. The cooper howled like a wild creature, clutched his hand to his chest, and toppled onto his side. Several patrons groaned; one of the serving girls began to cry.

  Hawker nodded to his toughs again. One of them hoisted the cooper to his feet, pinning his arms at his sides. Another man pummeled him. In mere seconds the poor cooper was a bloody mess, his lip split, his nose probably broken, his eyes already starting to swell.

  At a word from Hawker, the toughs broke off their assault and threw the man out the door.

  "I doubt he'll be back here making accusations," Hawker said, loud enough for all to hear. And I doubt any of you will ever think to cross me. This last hung in the tavern air, unsaid, but as pungent as pipe smoke.

  Ethan strode toward the door only to feel someone grab his arm. Whirling, he found himself face-to-face with Keyes.

  "Where d'ya think ya're goin'?" the barkeep asked. "Ya got work t' do."

  Ethan shook off his hand and glared back at him. "The old man needs help."

  "It's no bus'ness o' yars."

  Hawker had stolen the cooper's tools and Keyes stood to profit from the theft. Ethan was sure of it. In that moment, it was all he could do not to incinerate the man with a fire spell.

  "If he dies on your doorstep," Ethan said, reining in his rage, "it'll be bad for business."

  Keyes eyed him a moment longer before dismissing him with a wave of his hand and turning away. "Ten minutes. An' it comes out o' yar wages."

  Ethan shoved the door open and strode out into the warm night air. Whip-poor-wills sang overhead, and the stink of fish and tidal mud soured the city air.

  The cooper lay in a heap at the mouth of an alley that ran between the tavern and a milliner's shop next door. He didn't move as Ethan knelt beside him, and for a moment Ethan feared that he was dead. Then he saw the shallow rise and fall of the man's chest and allowed himself to exhale.

  "Nearly got yourself killed, you old fool," he whispered.

  No response.

  The cooper looked a mess, but Ethan knew that his hand was what needed healing most. Left to mend on its own, it would be mangled and useless for the rest of the cooper's life; he would never set another hoop, or plane another stave. Even a doctor might not be able to set it properly.

  Which left conjuring.

  What of his oath? What of all that he had endured because of the spells he had cast? Imprisonment, estrangement from his family and friends, the loss of Elli, his one love, who had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with a mutineer and conjurer. This man was a stranger, a reckless fool who had brought these injuries on himself. After fourteen years without casting, why should he risk conjuring again for him?

  So you'll leave this man to live the rest of his life maimed, unable to work, just to uphold a promise made in your youth, when you too were a reckless fool?

  Susannah's voice. Of his two sisters, she was the one who also conjured, who would understand the choice he faced.

  Not long after Ethan was convicted and transported to Barbados to toil in the sun-baked cane fields, an older man, a fellow prisoner, sliced his foot open with a cane knife. It was an accident; the man apologized again and again, no doubt fearing that Ethan would repay him in kind, or would simply kill him and be done with it. But accident or not, the wound quickly worsened. It oozed foul ichor and grew hot to the touch.

  Within a couple of days Ethan's entire leg was bloated and tender. In the end, the plantation surgeons removed three of his toes and so managed to save his leg. Ever since, Ethan had walked with a pronounced limp.

  He could have spared himself great suffering had he healed his foot with a conjuring before the wound beca
me infected. He never made the attempt. And now, years later, faced with a choice of casting or leaving another man to live the rest of his life as a cripple, he had to admit that it wasn't his vow to foreswear conjuring that had stopped him so long ago. It had been his fear of being marked as a witch; it had been the very fact that he was a prisoner, watched at every moment and subject to the whims of cruel, narrow-minded men.

  There was nothing he could do now to make his foot whole again. But he could heal the cooper. He knew how to speak the conjuring; and he was a free man. For too long he had struggled to divine just what that meant. Perhaps the answer lay hidden in the simple act of casting a spell.

  He reached for his knife, then thought better of it. How would he explain if someone saw him cut himself? Better to use the blood on the cooper's face. God knew there was enough.

  His own hands shaking, he gently took hold of the cooper's shattered hand.

  "Remedium ex . . . ex cruore evocatum," he whispered. Healing, conjured from blood.

  His Latin was rusty; it had been too many years since last a spell had crossed his lips. And yet the sensation was as familiar as the sound of his own name. Power thrummed like a bow string, humming in the cobblestones beneath him, in the walls of the buildings around him. At the same time, a spectral figure appeared at his shoulder, a ghostly form glowing with a deep russet hue. The shade was tall, lean, dressed in a coat of mail and a tabard bearing the three lions of the ancient kings. His beard and close-cropped hair might have been white had it not been for the radiance clinging to him.

  This figure, too, Ethan remembered. The power necessary to cast spells dwelled at the boundary between the living world and the realm of the dead, the ephemeral plane of spirit and soul. Every conjurer was served by a spectral guide, and this old warrior with his bright, glowing eyes was Ethan's. He might have been an ancestor; he reminded Ethan of his mother's prickly brother, Reginald. So Ethan had taken to calling the ghost Uncle Reg.

  The ghost glowered at him, a parent scowling at a wayward child.