Грег Иган - The Year's Best Science Fiction, Volume 1

“You hold it the other way, though,” Burgewick said. “The slit at the back is just a little vent hole. For it to breathe.”

Gib’s face flickered with shock; Mortice caught it and misread it. “Ho,” he said. “You were going to let me fire away, weren’t you, shitbreath? You would have liked to see that, wouldn’t you have?”

“No, Master Mortice,” Gib said.

“Ask me politely to spitter on you,” Mortice said, smirking over at Burgewick now as if they were co-conspirators.

“Please, Master Mortice,” Gib said, voice piteous, and Burgewick could see the barest hint of his grin lashed down tight. “Please spitter all over me, please.”

“My pleasure,” Mortice said, taking aim. Burgewick’s heart leapt in his chest.

Cook himself came to drag Gib away, his metal hand rasping and whirring, and then Burgewick was standing alone on the lawn with Mortice, who was red-faced and shaking angry, with Father, who was expressionless, and with Uncle Bellerophon, who seemed faintly amused by the whole affair.

“Hold still, Mortice,” Uncle said, rummaging in his coat pocket. His blue-veined hand emerged with a canister of solvent, which he proceeded to splash over Mortice’s hunting cloak. The silvery organism steamed and sputtered in the cool evening air.

Burgewick rubbed his ribs where Mortice had pushed so hard with his knee he’d thought they might crack apart. A yellow-brown bruise was already growing. Mortice’s original yowl of outrage had brought several servants running. They had found a chaotic scene: Mortice pinning Burgewick to the ground and cursing at him while Gib tried, ineffectually, to free him.

“Good as new,” Uncle Bellerophon said, putting the canister back in his pocket.

Mortice gave a sulky nod, but his eyes were still razors and still pointed in Burgewick’s direction.

“Thank your uncle,” Father rumbled. He didn’t seem angry, but it was hard to tell with Father. His mouth was hidden in a thicket of wiry black beard and his old rheumy eyes had been scooped out years ago, replaced by two glistening black orbs made by the best gene artisan on the Continent.

“Thank you, Uncle,” Mortice said stiffly.

“I’ll have a word with my progeny, now,” Father said, clapping Uncle Bellerophon on the shoulder.

Uncle Bellerophon’s hyde wriggled in response. It was sleek and mottled orange for Contagion’s Eve and he had grown several curling tendrils that rippled around his head like a strange halo. Father’s hyde, by contrast, was the same swollen black beast as usual, patchworked with swathes of thick red muscle that could make him terrifically strong.

Burgewick still remembered the day an ancient tree, poorly felled, pinioned one of the servants to the lawn, and how Father strode over and squatted down and lifted it as if it weighed no more than a twig.

Once Uncle Bellerophon had departed, Father folded his arms and stared down at them, his pitch-black eyes rolling first to Burgewick and then to Mortice. “Should I send the clowns home?” he asked. “It seems you’ve taken it upon yourselves to do their job.”

Burgewick blinked; Mortice’s mouth twisted.

“The servants were laughing at you,” Father said. “Two sons of the fine House Noctambulous, rolling in the dirt, scrapping and squalling like infants. We do not settle our disputes in front of servants. You embarrass me.”

Burgewick watched as Mortice chewed his lip, angry and ashamed. “It was my fault, Father,” he said quickly. “I provoked Mortice.”

“Mortice, who doesn’t know a mouth from an ass.” Father snorted. “Perhaps I made a mistake gifting you that hunting rifle. You’ll be lucky not to blow your own head off. Perhaps the pair of you should stay in tonight.”

Burgewick’s mouth fell open; Mortice flushed scarlet.

“The other families are arriving soon,” Father continued. “This evening you will both conduct yourselves as befits our House, or you forfeit the Doppelhunt. Understood?”

Burgewick nodded hard, relieved, and after a moment his brother nodded, too.

“And Burgewick.” Father’s gleaming black eyes whirred in their sockets. “No more games with the servant boy. It’s unbecoming.” He waved his hand. “Off with you both.”

Burgewick’s first instinct was to flee at speed, to avoid whatever retribution was coming from his elder brother. But Mortice seemed to be in a world of his own as they turned and started back toward the House. His eyes were distant.

“Doesn’t know a mouth from an ass,” Mortice suddenly said, in a thick angry voice. “He thinks I’m a fool. I’m not a fool.”

“No,” Burgewick said, and immediately regretted it as Mortice noticed him. He flinched as his brother raised his hand, but there was no slap.

Instead, Mortice cupped his cheek and looked into his eyes. “You’re going to regret doing that, little brother,” he said in a trembly voice. “Very, very much.”

By the time the other families began arriving, Burgewick had scrubbed himself clean of the last of the spitter glue and slicked back his hair with a scented secretion from his hyde. He stood on the lawn beside his mother, whose hyde had grown a gossamer veil that swirled across her worried face. She always worried when the families came, about a thousand small things the servants never did quite right.

Mortice, on the other hand, was smiling and laughing as he exchanged Contagion’s Eve greetings with the members of House Immaculata and House Lachrymose, who had arrived in quick succession in spindly legged black carriages. Burgewick hoped he might forget his promise of revenge in all the excitement—his ribs still ached and Mortice always knew where his knuckles would hurt most.

House Immaculata had brought their greenman for the occasion. His gnarled body was sprouted with moss; vines slipped in and out of his skin like veins. For Contagion’s Eve he had sugary red bulbs of licorice growing from his knees and thighs—low enough for even the smallest children to pluck.

Burgewick remembered he had been frightened of the greenman when he was younger, frightened by his lumbering steps and his collapsing overgrown face. Mortice had told him he used children’s blood to feed to his vines; Burgewick knew now they only needed purple light and water.

Next to arrive was House Strappado. They had all grown matching masks from their hydes, attached to their flared collars by skinny tendrils, and it took Burgewick a moment to recognize Breesha. She was taller than the last time he’d seen her, taller than him now, but her distinct red-blonde hair flared out from behind her bone-white mask and she still walked the same way, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Happy Contagion’s, Aunt Demeter,” she said prettily to Burgewick’s mother, then seized Burgewick by the arm and dragged him off. “I’ve got one this year,” she said. “Look, they’re unloading it.” She pointed to the servants of House Strappado, who were wrestling an embryonic tank off the back of the carriage.

“So do I,” Burgewick said, deciding not to mention how close he had come to losing the privilege. He thought of Gib, no doubt laboring away at the nastiest possible kitchen tasks under Cook’s watchful eye, and felt a churn of guilt.

“And here’s House Crepuscule, fashionably late as usual,” Breesha said, peering up at the night sky.

Burgewick was glad for the distraction. House Crepuscule’s airship was lit by greasy yellow globes of biolight, and as it descended he could see other details: the honeycomb bone lattice that formed the deck, the swollen sacks of gas that kept it aloft, the small faces of the twins Ferrick and Freya craning over the edge.

Thick ropes of tendon slithered down from the bottom of the airship; the servants on the lawn scurried forward to catch them and tether them to the docking loops. One servant tripped over his feet and trod on a rope. A shudder went through its length and Burgewick heard a moan from the airship. He could imagine his mother’s sigh of frustration.