Other Earths (collection)

I was roused from my sleep by distant shouts. The sound was coming from the direction of the palace gardens. Accommodated in the servants’ wing as I was, it took me a little time to throw on a robe and make my way through a maze of passages to the front of the building.

They were coming out of one of the fountains, an endless procession of white-faced, green-haired spirits. Some of them were decomposing away, just as their bodies had done: These were the ghosts of those who had lain long in the water, so long that it had seeped into their souls to rot and stain.

Oldmark appeared beside me, almost as white faced as one of the spirits.

“What are they doing?” he whispered.

“I don’t know.” The procession of ghosts was heading toward the water-stair, the gates that led down to Thamesis. Toward and then through, disappearing into—it must be—the river. Gesturing for Oldmark to stay where he was, I opened the French doors and ran down the steps to where the ghosts walked.

Sometimes they can’t see you. To them, you are as vague and shadowy as they are to you, and perhaps as terrifying. But when I put out a hand, with the fluttering of a spell, one of the spirits turned his head.

A man in a costume I did not recognize: rough trousers and a dull tunic. Long hair straggled down his shoulders, twined with weed. Not a recent ghost, then. He spoke to me, and I did not know the language, either: something Northern and harsh. I looked over his shoulder to his fellow spirits and saw a woman in a long, draped dress, her aquiline features downcast and somber. These were ghosts from the far past of Albion, and so many of them: summoned from every well and river and spring, every shore. The reek of under-hill magic hung about them. I looked back to Coldgate and saw the gleam of gold beside Lord Oldmark. The queen had arrived.

The stream of ghosts was slowing, and soon no more crawled out of the depths of the fountain. I went slowly back into the palace.

“I have sent word to my cousin Under-Hill,” Queen Aeve said. I began to curtsey but she waved me up again. “I have told her that I know of her plot with the Dutch court, that I will not tolerate it.”

Lord Oldmark and I waited; neither of us wanted to be the one who asked her what she planned to do. But she went on, “I’ve ordered the fleet of Albion to the mouth of the Thames, to sail for Dutch waters.” Her face twisted. “We have made mincemeat of the Spanish. Let the Dutch see if they have better luck, shall we? Oldmark, see that Mistress Dane is paid.” With that, she swept back into the palace.

One does not question the actions of a queen, at least, not out loud. But Aeve was ever one for the grand gesture. Sending the navy to chastise the Dutch, on what was still little enough evidence, was characteristic. And the navy, though still great, was not what it had been when Aeve first came to the throne, before its flagship, the Rose, had gone down under Spanish guns, taking Albion’s Admiral Drake with her.

Oldmark turned apologetically to me, disturbing my speculations.

“Mistress Isis, I know the queen appreciates your help.”

“I have helped little enough,” I said. I was not being modest. In fact, although I did not say so, I felt that I had helped only in setting Queen Aeve off upon the wrong track, a hound after a false scent. I did not say that, either—it is not safe to compare queens to bitches.

“Lord Oldmark, might I remain in that chamber for a night or two more, before returning to Gloucestershire? There is an avenue of research that I should like to pursue.”

Oldmark appeared slightly surprised, but he agreed. I returned to my room and took out the small traveling chest, setting it upon the table.

Inside the chest were the characteristic accoutrements of the river-speaker: the forked hazel twig, bound in brass, the lead and crystal compass, a collection of maps. I took the maps out of their leather case and riffled through them. I wanted to see where Coldgate lay.

London is a river city. Everyone thinks only of the Thames, but the streets are built over rivers, hidden streams, concealed rivulets. The Wandle, the Effra, the Westbourne and the Fleet; the Falcon, the Ravensbourne, the Earl’s Sluice, and many more. All the drowned streams that flow beneath the city to the Thames.

I was right. I’d felt it in the wine cellar, that breath of dampness, a river’s ghost. The oldest map of all showed a stream running underneath Coldgate. It had been known as the Winterbourne, and at this, my heart stuttered a little, for the bournes have a magic all their own. Underground streams, which can be summoned to rise again in times of great peril.

Or in times of war.

At that moment, I thought I knew what the Queen-under-the-Hill might be trying to do.