The Chick Is In The Mail

A cry more bestial than human shot skyward from the crowd. Demystria and Mauve Eyebright burst into the arena, their hair streaming wildly, their faces contorted into masks of mindless terror. Only the thought of what a collision might do to the sword at Ethelberthina's throat stopped them from throwing themselves at their mother's knees. Instead they pitched facefirst to the sand, pounding it with fists and feet while they yowled with grief.

'Do what she says, Mummy!' they begged in unison. 'Drop the sword! Drop the charges! Let her go!'

'Girls, girls,' the goodwife chided. 'If your sister wants me to cut her throat, that's her choice, isn't it? Besides, it's just come to me that if she dies-not that I'm encouraging that sort of thing, mind you-then all of her money goes to her closest living relative. I do believe that should be me. Then Mummy will be able to give you the biggest, splashiest, most expensive weddings that Overford has ever seen.'

'And how am I supposed to get married with no groom?' Mauve demanded. 'There's no courting allowed during strict mourning! By the time I'm free of it, I'll be ooold!'

'That can't be helped; you should have planned ahead, like your sister. She knew what to do to get a man!' Goodwife Eyebright beamed at Demystria. 'Well, at least you shall have the finest wedding ever, and you'll have two whole years to plan-'

'I can't wait two years to get married.' Demystria sat back on her haunches and gave her mother a hard, eloquent look. 'I want-I need to get married. Now.'

There were times when Goodwife Eyebright could be as quick on the uptake as Ethelberthina. Her eyes locked with Demystria's, her face lost some color, but she never flinched. All she said was: 'Oh.'

The sword fell from her fingers to the sand.

'Thank you, Mummy dear.' Ethelberthina made a perfect curtsey that was a thumbed nose in thin disguise.

* * *

It was a lovely wedding, the talk of Overford. The Eyebrights hired the entire Crusty Boar tavern to host the festivities. Garth Justi's-son helped break up six knife fights, and that was just counting the ones that broke out before the happy couple cut the bridal cake. He had to: Five of them involved Zoli.

Dean Porfirio finally called upon his magic to compel the retired swordswoman to take a Time Out. One moment she was arguing hotly with Mayor Eyebright, the next she was *poofed* into a locked storage room. Her curses shook plaster from the walls and dust from the thatch.

'Calm yourself, m'lady; we're in for the duration,' came a familiar voice in the dark. Bursar Tailings passed her a tankard of ale drawn from one of the many barrels around them.

'Why're you locked up?' Zoli asked, sipping the brew.

'I'm here at my own request, to avoid accidental exposure to sunlight. Nothing spoils a good wedding like an unintended fatality, I told them.'

Zoli lifted one eyebrow. 'This wedding began at sundown.'

'I know.' The troll chuckled. 'Most of the ale's in here and so am I, with no Eyebrights to say me nay. Not the sharpest bunch of pickaxes in the mineshaft, are they?'

'Except for your betrothed,' Zoli teased.

'Oh, that's all off.' The troll waved his hand cavalierly. 'As a troll I can't wed a human, and it seems that since I was designated a deadly weapon in Ludlow Pennywhistle's suit, I can't be betrothed to a human either. It's against the law.'

'What law? Since when has anyone bothered to enact a law against marrying weapons? Who'd even think of doing something like that?'

A ball of parchment sailed out of the dark recesses of the storeroom and hit Zoli in mid-breastplate. The retired swordsister uncrumpled it, read it, and blushed.

'An imperial law, for your consideration, which is still on the books of this and all other lands once ruled by the Talligar Empire,' said Ethelberthina, emerging from the shadows, a cup of sparkling quince juice in her hands. 'Rushed into effect more than forty years ago by a certain warrior queen whose only daughter announced she'd sooner marry her sword than any man.'

Zoli's blushes deepened. 'I was young and idealistic! I didn't know any better! I hadn't met Garth yet! You have no idea how bossy my mother could be! And it was only thirty years ago; closer to twenty.' Noting the badly concealed smirks of her listeners, she nimbly switched the subject. 'What are you doing in here, Ethelberthina? Your sister's wedding is out there.'

'It's rude to answer your own questions,' the girl responded pleasantly. Lifting her cup, she proposed a toast: 'To other people's weddings! I'm not losing a sister, I'm gaining closet space.' She drained her drink to the dregs.

'You know,' the troll murmured, 'she really is an exceptional child.'

'Since she's had her Maiden Morn, she's an exceptional adult,' Zoli corrected him. 'And as such, she'd best be thinking about her future.'

'Don't you start in on me about marriage,' Ethelberthina spoke up.

'Me? Never. But you will be wanting something to do with your life. You can't sell any more of Mama Ethina's Elixir-your stock's as good as all gone-so what will you do?'

Ethelberthina tapped her lips with a fingertip thoughtfully. 'Well, I'm not exactly the physical type to enter the Swordsisters' Union, much as I'd like to, and I don't fancy further dabblings in alchemy-too stinky. What I would like is power: Great honking heaps of unmitigated power, the ability to make people fear me, to cringe before me, and most especially to never, ever think they can bully me and get away with it. Not even Mummy. So I suppose what I'd truly like to be is-'

'-a wizard?' Zoli suggested.

'-a bursar?' The troll tried to be helpful.

'-a priestess?'

'-a queen?'

'-a lawyer,' said the girl.

And the shrieks which burst from the storeroom of the Crusty Boar caused Goodwife Eyebright to go into labor, so that Ethelberthina did not lose a sister that day after all.

Looking for Rhonda Honda by William Sanders

The minute she clanked into the office I knew she was trouble.

Okay, she didn't clank, not really; body armor hasn't clanked since before I was born. But people like her always seem as if they ought to clank, or at least jingle a little. Maybe it's the attitude they all seem to wear with it.

She said, 'You're Johnny Noir?'

I sat back in the creaking old swivel chair and looked at her. That wasn't hard work at all. She had pale skin and nice small features, maybe a little on the sharp side. Short-cropped reddish-brown hair showed beneath her squared-off black beret. She was a little on the short side, but what there was of her, under that snug-tailored black one-piece suit, looked pretty good. Of course it was hard to tell, with so much of her upper body concealed by that damned bulky vest.

Which was silly, since nobody really needs to wear that kind of heavy protective gear any more-you can buy a vest off the rack, now, capable of stopping anything short of an antitank projectile, and light and thin enough that your own tailor couldn't spot it-but then that wouldn't send the message: My job is so important, people try to kill me to stop me from doing it.

I couldn't guess her age. Who can, nowadays? She looked somewhere in her middle twenties, but for all I knew she was old enough to be my grandmother. For all I knew she could be my grandmother; the old dear had been talking lately about getting a new morph job.

I said, 'Yes, I'm Johnny Noir. And you're not, are you?'

She ignored that. So much for dry humor; it wasn't my best subject at detective school. She was looking around the office with an expression that might have indicated either scorn or routine professional paranoia. I couldn't really tell with those wraparound mirror shades hiding her eyes.

She finished her inspection and looked at me again. 'My name is immaterial,' she said in a dry flat voice. 'You can call me Margo.'

She didn't offer her hand. I had a feeling that wasn't all she wasn't going to offer. I said, 'Well, Ms. Immaterial-uh, Margo-what can I do for you?'

'We need you to find somebody,' she said.

'We?' I looked past her but I didn't see anybody else.

Her mouth pulled tight at the corners. 'I… represent the interested persons,' she said reluctantly. 'Please don't ask questions. You'll be told everything you need to know.'

She took a quick step forward and leaned across my desk. For a second I thought she was warming to the Noir charm after all, but she was merely reaching for the battered old phone. She picked it up, jabbed quickly at the buttons, and handed it to me. I held it up to my ear just as a familiar voice said, 'Noir?'

'Chief.' I caught myself sitting up a little straighter.

'Listen closely, Noir.' The Chief's voice was high and hoarse, with an edge like a cheap steak knife. About the same as usual, in other words. 'Somebody is going to tell you what she wants you to do. Do it.'

I said carefully, 'I see.'

'The hell you do. You got no idea at all-Christ, I don't know how far up this comes from. The person in your office right now? She's not really there. Anything she says to you, you never heard. Whatever you wind up doing for