Nick Gevers - Other Earths

The queen was of the same mind as myself, Oldmark told me. A Holland spy had been arrested in the grounds of Lydgate Palace only a week before. There had been a diplomatic incident, only half-resolved, and the Dutch court was threatening to raise penalties on shipping.

“It would not surprise anyone,” Oldmark said, “to learn that there is mischief afoot in that quarter.”

“But why involve the dead?” I asked. “And why was there under-hill magic present?”

Oldmark looked uneasy. “I do not know. But an alliance between the Lowlands and Under-Hill would be a sorry thing. There have already been rumors that the Queen-under-the-Hill courts the Spanish, and you know that there are political connections.”

I did know; I nodded. “I wish I’d been able to find out more,” I said.

“I am certain that you did your best,” Oldmark replied.

But that night, the drowned came over-ground.

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.

I picked up a cloak and the hazel twig and went out into the evening. A fog had come up from the Thames and hung over the box hedges, playing around the fountain in watery coils of its own. Late November and the taste of mist in the mouth …Water rising, in times of war. When I reached the fountain, I held out the hazel twig. A moment, and then it twitched. From the map, the Winterbourne lay beneath. I followed it back to the wall of Coldgate, hastened back down into the cellars.

It took a lot of searching before I found the little door, hidden and dusty behind a stack of barrels. It had once been locked, but the lock was rusted, and I pulled it away. It was unlikely that what lay behind it had been deliberately concealed—the lock was there to prevent people from wandering down beneath the cellar. Steps led down, and I followed them.

I did not get far. The smell of water struck me halfway down the slippery stair, and then it was all around me—I clung to the rail, in a minute of sheer panic during which I thought I would be swept away—but it was not real. The ghost of the Winterbourne was rising, spectral water all around me. My lamp showed diffuse and dim, rocking my hand, and around it I glimpsed a shoal of eels, tails flicking as they sped along. Standing in the race of the water I felt like a ghost myself. I backed up the steps and looked down into the foaming torrent.

It wasn’t just the spirit of the river that was rising. Magic was rising, too. It was all around me, tugging, curious, and I did not want to be noticed in this way. I slammed the door to the wine cellar shut with a muttered spell and went to tell Lord Oldmark to get me a boat.

Thamesside, looking back at Coldgate. We rocked on an icy current, the river slapping our little boat back and forth. Behind us, heading for Tower Bridge, one of the huge coal barges churned slowly downriver, the horse-team on the opposite bank patiently padding along toward the eastside docks.

“You had best be correct in this, Mistress Dane,” the seated figure at the prow said. Aeve’s voice was river-cold.