Naked City: Tales of Urban Fantasy

“Black Jack” Quinlan and he would be about the same age. If he was here. He had to be here. Once he explained things, once he showed this face, Sean Quinlan couldn’t imagine them denying this fugitive a welcome.

The Duke of Riverside BY ELLEN KUSHNER

Ellen Kushner‘s first novel, Swordspoint, was hailed as the progenitor of the “mannerpunk” or “fantasy of manners” style. Its eventual sequel, The Privilege of the Sword, won the Locus Award and was a Nebula nominee and a Tiptree Honor book. A third novel, The Fall of the Kings, set in the same unnamed city, was cowritten with Delia Sherman and explores the fate of the city and its people in the next generation. “The Duke of Riverside” is set shortly before and after the events of Swordspoint.

Ellen Kushner is also the host of the long-running public radio series PRI’s Sound & Spirit and a cofounder of the Interstitial Arts Foundation. Her original spoken-word performances include Esther: The Feast of Masks and The Golden Dreydl: A Klezmer “Nutcracker” for Chanukah (with Shirim Klezmer Orchestra, on Rykodisc CD). A popular speaker and teacher, she lives in New York City with Delia Sherman and no cats whatsoever.

* * *

That kid never belonged here. We all knew that from the moment he walked through the door, looking nervous and madder than hell. Bad combination. Everyone figured he had a weapon, because people like that usually do. The drinkers stopped drinking, the barmaids stopped serving, and the dicers held up their dice mid-roll. Sukey moved a little closer to Annie, as the girls like to protect each other when they can.

Rosalie stepped forward. It is her bar, after all. “What can I get you?” she asked.

“What can you get me?” His voice told everyone that was the stupidest question he’d ever been asked. “What can you get me?” All sneer. And that snooty Hill accent. Definitely not from around here. “Do you happen to have Ludlow’s treatise, On the Causes of Nature? Oh, no, they banned it. How about a roast peacock, then? Or a cup of really strong poison?”

Rosalie rolled her eyes. “I’ll go see,” she said. Like she’d already taken his measure and decided he wasn’t dangerous after all, just nuts. She turned her back on him, and the whole room relaxed.

He was a scholar, clearly. He had that long student hair, tied back with a piece of string. And that long black robe they all wear, hanging off his bony shoulders like laundry, only it hadn’t been washed for a while. But pissed-off scholars don’t usually come down to Riverside. Hell, they don’t even come here to get pissed. They know it’s a place you’re likely to get rolled, rolled and then maybe killed. Nobody drinks here who doesn’t have to.

Red Sukey sidled up to him. She’d been holding on to Annie, but when Rosalie turned her back, Sukey grabbed her chance. “Buy me a drink?”

He looked down at her. He was incredibly tall. “What for? Are you thirsty?”

She’s not very old. Not much experience there. “No.” She moved a little closer to him, to show him what she had. “I’d be nice to you.”

He got it then. “For a drink? Are you serious?”

We all waited to see if he had any money. Most men, you mention money, their hand goes automatically to where they keep their purse, just for an instant. But his hand didn’t even go to his belt. Nothing, then; or he was smarter than he looked. I, myself, was willing to wait and see.

And then Nimble Willie stuck his head in through the doorway gasping, “Fight! Fight!” and we forgot all about the bony scholar and headed for the street to see. Poor Archer Fink had finally gotten St. Vier to take his challenge, god knows how. Richard St. Vier was too good to fight a newbie like Archer, and if Archer didn’t know it, we all did. Probably it was that girl of his, the blonde, egging Fink on to show his stuff. Maybe she even thought he really had a chance.

We’re used to seeing them come and go, these young swordsmen. They fight like stags in autumn, to prove who’s best. Only, being swordsmen, they tend to kill each other off. That’s how you get good jobs in the city, not to mention respect here in Riverside.

That day my money was on St. Vier, but so was everyone else’s. I only won eighteen brass minnows.

It was done in a minute—barely time to make our bets. St. Vier lunged quick and hard, Archer Fink grunted and wheezed, and it was all over, blood shooting up after the tip of the sword when St. Vier pulled it out.

The student was right there. He was standing very still; he didn’t even put up his hand to keep the blood from hitting him. His black robe was spattered with shiny black drops. He stared at the body like he’d never seen one before.

St. Vier walked away from the fight and into the tavern. Rosalie brought him a drink. She loved that he drank at her place. It brought her custom. When the nobles from the Hill were looking for a swordsman to hire, they sent their servants down to Rosalie’s to find him. She loved that, too.

The scholar followed him in. “I’ll have one, too,” he said to Rosalie.

She said, “First, let me see your money.”

“You didn’t ask him for money.”

Rosalie snorted. “St. Vier, I know. Who the hell are you?”

“I’m no one,” he said fiercely. “Forget it.”

“Who are you?” Rosalie said again, in that tone of voice that always gets her cash on the barrel.

He turned his head and looked down at her. It was a long damn way. “Alec,” he said.

“Is that all?”

“Just Alec.”

The swordsman was ignoring the whole thing. He was leaning on the bar, knocking down his thirst with his back to them both—though one hand never left the sword at his side.

“St. Vier,” the kid said aloud. He pushed loose hair back from his face, not even noticing the smear of blood he left there. The air around him started to feel dangerous again. Maybe it was his voice, the way he said the name. “St. Vier,” he said again, long and low. I’ve heard nobles use that voice, up on the Hill, when they’re telling a servant they want something done. Yeah. I did some work up there once. But just once. They talk real slow, like they have all the time in the world. Which they do.

The swordsman heard it, too. He turned his head. “Yes?”

“You’re Richard St. Vier?”

The swordsman nodded.

“And you kill people.”

St. Vier looked him up and down. It stretched his neck some; the kid was a real beanpole. He must’ve seen what we all saw: young, skinny, hungry, poor, bad-tempered, and out of place.

“Sometimes I do.”

“Do you ever kill them just because they’re no earthly use to anyone at all?”

“No. No, I don’t think I’ve ever done that.”

“Well.” The kid stepped back, putting a sword’s length between them. “That is disappointing. What do you do it for, then?”

“Sometimes just for practice.”

“Like now, for instance? Was that just for practice?”

St. Vier’s eyes darted over to where Archer’s girl had begun a horrible racket in the corner, weeping and wailing. Sukey and Annie were trying to keep her quiet with cheap brandy. For a swordsman, St. Vier is pretty easygoing. But he never likes a lot of noise.

“In a way.”

“It must be very tiring, killing all those people.”

“Not very.”

“You’ll do it again, then. Soon.”

The swordsman looked at him again. St. Vier was popular on the Hill those days, fighting for the nobles at