Son of a Witch Read online

  He glanced up over the top of his lenses and fastened on Shell for the first time. “I am sorry about your sisters, though, Shell. Both of them meeting their ends within such a short time. It can’t be easy.”

  “We weren’t close,” said Shell, studying his nails.

  “Munchkinland’s in revolt, now that Nessarose is dead. It has to be said she ruled with an iron fist, for all her piety.”

  “Spare us the civics class. I’m in a hurry, Chyde,” said Shell. “Can I leave the boy here for you to finish with?”

  “Some poor widowling just aching for your attention, I know, I know…”

  Liir put it together at last. What a dolt am I! “Are you sleeping with your patients?” he blurted out. “I mean—you know—”

  “Patients,” mused Chyde. “Nice touch.”

  “I am seeing to their needs,” said Shell, without apology or shame. He patted the satchel. “The comfort I supply is greatly appreciated. And of course they want to show their gratitude. What else does a lady in chains have to offer? She couldn’t accept charity. It isn’t done in polite circles. So she pays as she can. I’m not so cold as to deny them the chance to show their appreciation. It seems a fair exchange to me.”

  I’m not sticking with him even if he is my maybe-uncle. Forget it. New plan needed. I’ll improvise. “You’re disgusting,” said Liir. “I mean, really. That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting. I can’t believe it. It’s—it’s monstrous.”

  “Oh, I’d need to be a good sight more ambitious to make it to monstrous.” Shell laughed. “Chyde? Sometime this week would be nice.”

  “Might as well leave him.” Chyde turned to another volume. “Nothing is coming to light. Are you sure she’s here?”

  “I’m not sure of anything, but this is the natural first place to start, I suppose,” said Shell. He stood and smoothed down his clothes, and offered his hand to Liir. “So we take our parting now, comrade. I hope the rest of your day is as amusing.”

  Liir thought about biting the hand, but Shell would only make another joke. So the boy tucked his own hands high up in his armpits. “We’ll meet again,” said Shell. “Likely it’ll be down here, since it isn’t easy to obtain an exit visa. Sweet dreams, Liir-boy.”

  He spun on his heel and disappeared almost at a run.

  “Oh, the energy of the young,” said Chyde, sighing and continuing to flip pages. “You know, I’m not coming up with anything so far. What did you say her name was again?”

  7

  IN THE WESTERN DISAPPOINTMENTS, on the last evening of this jackal moon, the Scrow herders sent their dogs out to round up the sheep earlier than usual. Other workers erected a double row of pliant, bindweed fencing around the far edge of the fold’s perimeter. Unless cloud cover prevented it, the celestial beast would brighten the night more brilliantly than at any other time in a generation. It would make a good night for scavengers.

  Sister Doctor and Sister Apothecaire had done what they could. They had provided comfort to the old Princess that her own staff could not. She was happier, though the mood in her tent, when she was asleep, was ugly. The Scrow were a proud people—well, what people weren’t?—and they were suspicious of foreign clinical practices.

  The interpreter put it to the women as gently as he could.

  “You should move on,” said Lord Shem Ottokos. “We have told you what you came to learn—that we know nothing of the scrapings of those colleagues of yours. If your profession is the extension of charity, you have performed your mission. You’ve benefited Princess Nastoya mightily. There is no reason to linger, and danger to you if you do.”

  “We’re told you are hospitable to strangers,” Sister Doctor reminded him.

  “Strangers, yes; that is the way of the Scrow,” said Ottokos. “After several days, you are less strange than you once were. You become familiar, and therefore, like family, less agreeable. I’ll be happy to provide you with a supply of food, but I recommend that you start home this very evening and take advantage of this unusually bright night.”

  Sister Doctor said, “In the question of scrapings, we haven’t convinced you that the Yunamata are blameless. So why would you send us into danger?”

  “You’ve been so good; we’ll provide what we can manage by way of an escort,” said Lord Ottokos, and left.

  “The nerve!” said Sister Apothecaire. “We’re being disinvited. I believe I’m offended.”

  “Are you going native?” Sister Doctor asked her Munchkin colleague. The tone verged on the cruel.

  “They’re adorable heathen,” said Sister Apothecaire, somewhat wildly.

  “Yes. Well, they’ll seem less adorable if they conquer their aversion to scraping the faces of their visitors. After all, when you were a child you were an adorable heathen, too, but you got over it.”

  “I don’t appreciate your wit, Sister Doctor.”

  It began to seem for a short while as if the maunts might disobey the instructions of their superior and split up. However, the Princess Nastoya requested a final interview with them, and she felt well enough to sit up on her pallet.

  “Have you taken the full measure of my ailment?” she said, through Shem Ottokos. “To avoid the pogroms of the Wizard against the Animals, I went deeply underground many years ago, accepting a witch’s charm as a way to hide myself. I am an Elephant, and want to go to my death as an Elephant, but I am cursed to remain in this human body. I used to be able to change for a brief time, but infirmity and age have eroded those talents, and now I am trapped. I fear the Elephant within me has been dying for some time, and may be in part dead already; but I would join it, if I could only have help. Ten years ago I asked the Witch’s boy for help, but he disappeared. Now through your exotic skills you have helped me rally, and so I must press this request. Please return to your hive and collect the boy, the man, Liir. Bring him here or send him here; get him here safely. He may not be able to help me, but even the most blessed of witchcraft has gone underground in these trying times, and he is the only one I know who might be able to help.”

  “Do you really think he is Elphaba’s son?” asked Sister Doctor.

  “He had her cape, he had her broom,” said Princess Nastoya. “Maybe he wasn’t her son, but he cared about her life, and he may have learned something anyway. What other course can I take?”

  “We’ve never even seen him awake,” admitted Sister Apothecaire. “It would be hard to promise we could persuade him when we don’t know what he’s really like. Yet.”

  “In return for his help, I’d promised him something in exchange.” She began to wheeze a bit, and Ottokos collected her phrases haltingly. “I want—to tell him what I’ve heard—about—the word on the street in the Emerald City.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fascinated,” said Sister Doctor. “If he ever wakes up.”

  “The threat to Animals during the Wizard’s reign crowded me—humanward—and I have been safer than many. Now, as our violently holy Emperor demands all our souls, I want to go to my death as an Animal: proud, isolate, unconsecrated. Find him for me. Hurry. I will give you—two rare male skarks to ride—and a panther to travel by your side as far as the forest. You will travel faster on the backs of those beasts than you did on foot or on mules. If you aren’t ambushed by soldiers or wolves or any other enemy, you may make it by sunrise. At the edge of the forest the panther will turn back, but the skark will keep on, and by then the worst of the jackal moonlight will be spent.”

  The maunts nodded their heads and rose to take their leave. They didn’t expect to see Princess Nastoya again, dead or alive, an Elephant or a human. They didn’t want to tire her with further discussion. But it was she who raised the last point, when they were almost beyond addressing.

  “My friends,” she said. They turned. “You have been kind to me, and good to each other. I am not so far dead that I haven’t seen this. How can you perform such works in the name of the Unnamed God, whose agents belittle us so?”

  “The Unn
amed God does not descend from the Emperor,” explained Sister Doctor. She was afraid that an obscure point of contemporary unionist theology might be lost on a pagan, but she was reluctant to treat the Princess like a fool. “The Unnamed God, whatever they may say in the Emerald City these days, is still in its essence unnamed. We have as much a right to work in its name as anyone else.”

  “Hardly seems worth the bother to believe,” murmured Princess Nastoya. “Still, life itself seems more than patently fantastic, and we believe in life, so I’ll let the matter drop.”

  THE RIDE WOULD BE SWIFT but rollicking. These skarks were large of pelvis, supported by longer back legs than other skark varieties. Around their legs circled the panther like an eddy of black oil, constantly swishing by.

  Lord Shem Ottokos escorted them safely out of the camp. Sister Apothecaire was disappointed that there were so few Scrow to wave good-bye to them. “You’ll have noticed the creatures circling,” said Ottokos. The maunts looked uneasily at each other. “In the sky, I mean.”

  “Vultures?” said Sister Apothecaire. “Sensing the carrion of Princess Nastoya? She would supply a healthy portion of carrion to a bevy of vultures.”

  “They are higher up than vultures, I think,” said Ottokos. “So, according to the laws of perception, they must be larger than vultures. Besides, vultures wait for the body to die before approaching. I fear they are a squadron of attack creatures who don’t wait until the meat is dead. Perhaps—well, I hardly dare say it. Dragons.”

  “Dragons are rare in the first place, and in any case docile,” snapped Sister Doctor. “Menacing dragons are only mythology.”

  “Myth has a way of coming true,” said Ottokos. “I’m merely saying Be careful.”

  “How kind to set our minds at ease, just as we depart from your protection.” Sister Doctor looked livid.

  “You have the panther. Nothing will get by her.”

  “Good-bye, then,” said Sister Doctor. “I hope you have learned something from us.”

  Sister Apothecaire sniffled into a souvenir shawl that she’d bought at an inflated price from a Scrow weaver.

  Shem Ottokos watched them leave. He did wish them well, at least as far as the mauntery, and the completion of their task for his Princess. Beyond that, he wished them nothing at all: Let their Unnamed God go on unnaming their lives for them.

  THE SNOUT OF THE JACKAL moon poked over the line of the trees.

  Liir was nearly grey. The bleeding was staunched, but his heart was lurching. Candle worked at her throat, trying to scream for help, but she could not make that strong a sound.

  No, she thought, the poor cold boy, no. Not this.

  She put her domingon down and rubbed his shoulders. Then she removed his splints and braces and massaged his arms and legs. The air was turning from chilly to icy, and the extra blankets were in the hallway, beyond the locked door. She felt something lurch in him—he, who had been absent for so long—something kicked and resisted the death that seemed to be settling upon him. His breath was halting. A long moment without a breath; another.

  She leaned over his brow from above, and held his newly bearding cheeks in both hands, and laid her nose next to his, and breathed into him, and kissed him besides.

  “WELL, THERE’S SOMETHING FOR YOU, NOW,” said Chyde. “It never hurts to read the small print, my lad. Jibbidee, my walking stick? And it’s not even that far, though in a quarter I rarely get to visit myself. Let’s go.”

  The elf came forward with a walking stick, and Chyde stood erect, or as erect as he could. Long years of desk work had crushed his hips cruelly, and his posture was poor. Still, at a new angle, he was able to look Liir over a bit more thoroughly than he’d yet managed.

  “You hadn’t ought to have arrived with a firearm,” he said with sudden harshness. “You’ll leave that with Jibbidee at once, my lad-ee-oh.”

  “It’s no firearm. It’s a broom.”

  “Show it me.”

  Liir opened the satchel and displayed the top end of the charred broom-pole.

  “Let me see the length of it, to be sure it’s not a blunder-bulleter in disguise.”

  The broom was withdrawn and Liir handed it over. “A right wreck of a thing, but for the new growth,” said Chyde, handing it back.

  “What?”

  Liir didn’t ask again, but felt it. The broom handle was notched with young nubs, and two of them had split, revealing modest embellishments of pale green leaf, like tiny rare broaches pinned to an old bit of scrap wood.

  “It can’t grow!” said Liir in amazement. “It can’t do that.”

  “Put it away,” said Chyde. “Some folks haven’t seen a green leaf growing in twenty years. You don’t want to get them all weepy now, do you? Mercy is the name of the game in this trade.” He kissed a vulgar emerald on the knuckle of his own middle finger, paying obeisance.

  They set off, not in the direction of the waterway, but along a broad passage that served as a commercial parade for the underground settlement. More humans in evidence now, part of the vast employment network that kept Southstairs running, though the shops and stalls were largely staffed by elves who seemed to have raised obsequiousness to an art form. Here and there, the nice contrast of a grumpy dwarf. The noise was ordinary chatter and gossip, and it was some time before Liir realized what made it seem strange. For once, there was no little strain of music playing off to one side. Well, who would play music in a prison, after all?

  The roofs of the cavern rose higher overhead, passing out of view into darkness. More of the structures were freestanding, supplied with their own tiled roofs, like buildings on any aboveground street. It felt like a city of the dead. Eventually Liir could see why: this must be the oldest district in Southstairs. It certainly seemed the most decrepit, so far. Above it, all at once, the claustrophobic blackness of cave-dark gave way to the blackness of a different sort: a moonless night, with scratchy scarves of cloud being drawn by the wind across ancient, disaffected stars. It was the middle of Southstairs, the original geologic bucket that must have suggested itself as a natural prison to the first settlers of the Emerald City.

  “Stars, they give me the creeps,” said Chyde. “I hate to come this way.”

  They found a set of steps leading farther down. Chyde asked for directions once or twice, and sent Jibbidee scampering to check the marks on buildings. “This’ll be it, I guess,” he said. “It’s an Animal district, so you’ll forgive the stench. Hygiene isn’t their strong suit, as you know.”

  The air was so cold, though, with a wind whipping in from above, that the smell seemed negligible. At any rate, Liir was too excited to care. He found himself bobbing up and down, and once he nearly grabbed Chyde’s hand to squeeze it. So what that Shell was a bounder, that Lady Glinda was a glamorous airhead! They’d done something good; he’d gotten here. He’d find her, his only peer and friendmate, his half-sister if that version of history was true—the girl who befriended mice, and shared her gingerbread, and who had giggled at bedtime, even when threatened by a spanking. He would liberate Nor, and then—and then—

  He couldn’t think beyond that. Just to see her, someone he had known once, back when the world had been something other than tragic, back when Elphaba had been stalking about the castle out west in her robes and rages! Back when home was still home!

  Jibbidee skittered forward, back, anxious and irritable. “What, what’s the matter, thingy?” asked Chyde. “Cat got your tongue? Ha-ha.” He turned to Liir. “It did, you know. That’s why he can’t talk. It’ll grow back in time, but at the moment it’s a bloody little stump.”

  They pressed into a building, more a pen than a set of salons. A Sow was lying in straw trying to warm some Piglets, most of whom looked to be dead. Improbably, the runt had survived, but it was not long for this world.

  Chyde voiced what Liir was himself wondering. “An odd place to put a girl child. What was I thinking of? You. Sow. We’re looking for a girl, a human girl child. Name of Nor. Th
e register puts her in this unlikely spot.”

  “She had some developmental problems,” explained the Sow without opening her eyes. “Some lodgings coordinator decided that, among the likes of me and mine, she wouldn’t seem as offensive.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I would construct a good story if I had the strength,” said the Sow, “but I’m conserving what energy I have left for my litter. In fact, the girl’s own story is good enough. Do you remember when the butchers came through a week or ten days ago to cull the crop because a roast of loin was required? Some celebration Upside. It was the Wizard’s deposal, wasn’t it?”

  Chyde looked slantwise at Liir. “We don’t sacrifice Animals for ceremonial meals, don’t be silly,” he said hastily. “You’re talking through your postdelivery deliriums, Sow.” He twisted rings on his fingers, turning some jewels palmward, other jewels out.

  “Whatever,” she said. “My deliriums remind me about a couple of Horned Hogs, long in the tooth if they’d still had teeth, who were going to make better rump roasts this year than next, I’ll tell you. They knew their days were numbered. One of them had broken off a horn trying to escape, and the bone spur was sharp and useful. Didn’t you read the report on this?”

  “I’ve fallen behind. Terrible workload, and no one to pick up the slack. Jibbidee’s next to useless. Where is the girl, that’s what I want to know.”

  “I’m telling you. The Hogs entered a kind of suicide pact, and the bull killed the bitch and then himself. They arranged it to be done on the same slab of old door on which they’d have been carried out for slaughtering anyway. A kind of final comment on the quality of life at Southstairs.”

  “Only the best is good enough,” said Chyde.

  “So they let themselves putrefy, and we neighbors left them to it for as long as we could stand it. It bought us all some time. But you know as well as I that the entrails of Horned Hogs breed a kind of maggot that likes to burrow into human orifices, especially the airless ones—”

  “Stop…”