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 sh.o.r.e. 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 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 b.i.t.c.hes.

"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 bra.s.s, the lead and crystal compa.s.s, 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.

"Your Majesty, if I am not, my reputation is in any case gone, and I do not care what happens then."

The queen inclined her cowled head.

"The navy has been ordered to continue out into the North Sea," Oldmark said to me, in a low voice. "All but five ships, which are heading back to London."

"Even the navy will not be of much help, if I am right. Aeve must appeal to Thamesis, as rightful ruler of the river's city."

Oldmark nodded. "You have explained. She knows what she needs to do, if it comes to that."

It will, I did not say. I was sure that I was right, but arrogance is best left undisplayed. "Watch the palace," I told him.

I could sense it in the air, magic building up, as if behind a dam, with the strong mossy taste of Under-Hill. "It won't be long," I said, beneath my breath. Aeve turned, irritably, with the impatience of queens.

"Nothing is happening."

I couldn't really blame her for the irritability: It was foggy and freezing out here in the middle of the river. I was surprised that she'd agreed to come at all. And as if prompted by my thought, the queen came to a decision.

"We will go back," Aeve said and rose.

"Wait," I said, forgetting to address her as I should, but as I spoke, Oldmark echoed me, "My Lady, wait wait."

Before us, across the black, choppy expanse of the river, Coldgate was fading. Magic was humming in the air like a beehive, so strongly that my skin p.r.i.c.kled and burned. Aeve gasped as it struck her. Instead of the palace, its grounds, the streets that lay beyond its walls, we were facing the mouth of the now-buried Winterbourne, a ghost sh.o.r.e, muddy and strewn with stones. A single post rose up from the mud, tapered to a point and covered with weed: some ancient marker from the time before the Romans came to London. It shimmered, and I saw the skull that crowned it, grinning.

Aeve put out a hand, as if touching enemy magic.

"Your Majesty, be careful-" I started to say, but Aeve was already beginning the incantation I had given her, her own power rising now, the authority of the rightful ruler of Albion, calling upon her ancestors, summoning up the protection of the dead.

It was protection that was needed. A ship was coming down the mouth of the Winterbourne, a galleon with tattered sails, sides so encrusted with barnacles and sh.e.l.ls that the ship looked more like some dredged wreck than a proper vessel. I saw the pilot standing at the wheel, a white face beneath a tricorner hat. The Lowlander. The Dutchman Dutchman. And a ship that would sail the seas forever, unless someone not human offered another choice, an unrefusable bargain.

They say the Dutchman ruled the seas beyond death and all who sailed upon them . . . Behind his ship came others: Spanish flags flying, French, a longship with a boar's crest. Dozens of ships, all those that had gone down in the seas off the coast of Albion, the wraiths of enemy vessels, conjured by the Queen-under-the-Hill.

"Queen Aeve!" I shouted, above the sudden roar of magic and dead water. "Call on the Thames!"

And she did. She used incantations that blazed through me like flame, words that I, not of royal lineage, should not have heard, spells that are in the blood and bone of Albion's ruling house. Oldmark was crouched on the floor of the rocking boat, his hands clasped to his ears. I nearly joined him.

Then a wind stirred my hair, and I turned. The prow of a ship arched above us, an immense thing, far larger than it had been in life. Its sails billowed out, lit by a light that I could not see, as though it were catching the last rays of the sun. I had never set eyes on this ship before, and yet I knew it: the lost Rose, Rose, with Admiral Drake standing at the wheel. with Admiral Drake standing at the wheel.

I seized an oar. "Oldmark! Set to rowing! We have to get out of the way. way."

Aeve was still in the prow of the rowing boat, arms outstretched, calling magic in. I didn't want to be responsible for pitching the Queen of Albion overboard into her own river, but I didn't want to be run down by even a spectral ship, either. Frantically, Oldmark and I hauled the boat around as the Rose Rose glided forward. glided forward.

The Dutchman's ship turned, wheeling on a tide that wasn't there. I saw the guns of the Rose Rose blossom silently over my head and a watery fire erupt from the sides of the Dutchman's ship. There was the flame of a cannon behind the Dutchman's vessel; the blossom silently over my head and a watery fire erupt from the sides of the Dutchman's ship. There was the flame of a cannon behind the Dutchman's vessel; the Rose Rose gave a great shudder, as if struck. gave a great shudder, as if struck.

"Mistress Dane!" Oldmark cried. "Turn her! Turn her now!"

But we were too late. The Rose Rose glided forward and through us, sleek as a swan. Everything went black for a moment-it's not pleasant, being run down by a ghostly galleon. My bones rang and my teeth chattered. When I could see again, the glided forward and through us, sleek as a swan. Everything went black for a moment-it's not pleasant, being run down by a ghostly galleon. My bones rang and my teeth chattered. When I could see again, the Rose Rose was bearing down on the Dutchman's ship, and the magic that had drawn the ghost of the Winterbourne upward was congealing, drawing around the Dutchman's vessel to imbue it with power. Coldgate was once more visible through the shimmer of the river. The guns blazed again from the was bearing down on the Dutchman's ship, and the magic that had drawn the ghost of the Winterbourne upward was congealing, drawing around the Dutchman's vessel to imbue it with power. Coldgate was once more visible through the shimmer of the river. The guns blazed again from the Rose Rose, and this time I heard them. The Dutchman's ship gave a groaning creak and listed. We huddled in the rowing boat, Aeve damp-browed and shaking, and watched the Dutchman's ship go down.

It sank, stone-swift, as if the Thames had swallowed it. With it went the magic of Under-Hill, sucked into its wake, but the Winterbourne did not go too. Instead, I saw the course of the river turn and shift, sweeping away the post with the skull and all the spectral ships, carrying them out into the wide channel of the Thames and away toward the sea. At last the river was also gone, a foaming tide, and Coldgate loomed pale through the river mist. When the fog parted a little, I looked for the Rose, Rose, but it was no longer there. but it was no longer there.

Aeve proved more generous than I had expected, but then, I had saved her throne for her. I rode back to Gloucestershire and Severnside on a chilly November morning, a moneybag heavy against the flank of the mare. I felt drained, the wonder of what I had seen sitting within me as heavily as my reward, and I was thankful to see the Severn curling between its red-earth banks, with the blue hills of Wales rising beyond.

But I did not think I would be visiting those hills in the months to come, for fear of what lay beneath them. I set my heels to the sides of the mare and rode hard for home, along the river sh.o.r.e.

DONOVAN SENT US.

Gene Wolfe

The plane was a JU 88 with all the proper markings, and only G.o.d knew where Donovan had gotten it. "We're over London," the man known as Paul Potter murmured. Crouching, he peered across the pilot's shoulder.

Baldur von Steigerwald (he was training himself to think of himself as that) was crouching as well. "I'm surprised there aren't more lights," he said.

"That's the Thames." Potter pointed. Far below, starlight-only starlight-gleamed on water. "Over there's where the Tower used to be." He pointed again.

"You think they might keep him there?"

"They couldn't," Potter said. "It's been blown all to h.e.l.l."

Von Steigerwald said nothing.

"All London's been blown to h.e.l.l. England stood alone against Germany-and England was crushed."

"The truth is awkward, Herr Potter," von Steigerwald said. "Pretty often, too awkward."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

Listening mostly to the steady throbbing of the engines, von Steigerwald shrugged.

"A d.a.m.ned b.l.o.o.d.y Kraut, and you call me a liar."

"I'm just another American," von Steigerwald said. "Are you?"

"We're not supposed to talk about this."

Von Steigerwald shrugged again. "You began it, mein herr mein herr. Here's the awkward truth. You can deny it if you want to. England, Scotland, Wales, Australia, New Zealand, India, Burma, and Northern Ireland stood-alone if you like-against Germany, Italy, Austria, and Vichy. They lost, and England was crushed. Scotland and Wales were hit almost as hard. Am I wrong?"

The JU 88 began a slow bank as Potter said, "Franco joined Germany at the end."

Von Steigerwald nodded. "You're right." He had not forgotten it, but he added, "I forgot that."

"Spain didn't bring down the house," Potter conceded.

"Get back by the doors," the pilot called over his shoulder. "Jump as soon as they're open all the way."

"You're really English, aren't you?" von Steigerwald whispered as they trotted back toward the bomb-bay doors. "You're an English Jew."

Quite properly, Potter ignored the question. "It was the Jews," he said as he watched the doors swing down. "If Roosevelt hadn't welcomed millions of European Jews into America, the American people wouldn't-" The rest was lost in the whistling wind.

It had not been millions, von Steigerwald reflected before his chute opened. It opened, and the snap of its silk cords might have been the setting of a hook. A million and a half-something like that.

He came down in Battersea Park with his chute tangled in a tree. When at last he was able to cut himself free, he knotted ornamental stones into it and threw it into the Thames. His jump suit followed it, weighted with one more. As it sunk, he paused to sniff the reek of rotting corpses-paused and shrugged.

Two of the best tailors in America had done everything possible to provide him with a black Schutzstaffel Schutzstaffel uniform that would look perfectly pressed after being worn under a jump suit. Shivering in the wind, he smoothed it as much as he could and got out his black leather trench coat. The black uniform cap snapped itself into shape the moment he took it out, thanks to a spring-wire skeleton. He hid the bag that had held both in some overgrown shrubbery. uniform that would look perfectly pressed after being worn under a jump suit. Shivering in the wind, he smoothed it as much as he could and got out his black leather trench coat. The black uniform cap snapped itself into shape the moment he took it out, thanks to a spring-wire skeleton. He hid the bag that had held both in some overgrown shrubbery.

The Luger in his gleaming black holster had kept its loaded magazine in place and was on safe. He paused in a moonlit clearing to admire its ivory grips and the inlaid, red-framed, black swastikas.

There seemed to be no traffic left in Battersea these days. Not at night, at least, and not even for a handsome young S.S. officer. A staff car would have been perfect, but even an army truck might do the trick.

There was nothing.

Hunched against the wind, he began to walk. The Thames bridges destroyed by the blitz had been replaced with pontoon bridges by the German Army-so his briefer had said. There would be sentries at the bridges, and those sentries might or might not know. If they did not- Something coming! He stepped out into the road, drew his Luger, and waved both arms.

A little Morris skidded to a stop in front of him. Its front window was open, and he peered inside. "So. Ein taxi dis is? You vill carry me, ja?"

The driver shook his head vehemently. "No, gov'nor. I mean, yes, gov'nor. I'll take you anywhere you want to go, gov'nor, but it's not a cab."

"Ein two-vay radio you haff, drifer."

The driver seemed to have heard nothing.

"But no license you are haffing." Von Steigerwald chuckled evilly. "You like money, doh. Ja? I haf it. Goot occupation pounds, ja? Marks, also." He opened a rear door and slid onto the seat, only slightly impeded by his leather coat. "Where important prisoners are, you take me." He sat back. "Macht schnell!"

The Morris lurched forward. "Quick as a wink, gov'nor. Where is it?"

"You know, drifer." Von Steigerwald summoned all of his not inconsiderable acting ability to make his chuckle that of a Prussian s.a.d.i.s.t, and succeeded well enough that the driver's shoulders hunched. "De taxi drifers? Dey know eferyding, everywhere. Make no more troubles vor me. I vill not punish you for knowing."

"I dunno, gov'nor, and that's the honest."

Von Steigerwald's Luger was still in his right hand. Leaning forward once more, he pressed its muzzle to the driver's head and pushed off the safety. "I vill not shoot now, drifer. Not now, you are too fast drifing, ja? Ve wreck. Soon you must stop, doh. Ja? Traffic or anodder reason. Den your prain ist all ofer de vindshield."

"G-gov'nor . . ."

"Ja?"

"My family. Timmy's only three, gov'nor."

"Longer dan you he lifs, I hope."

The Morris slowed. "The bridge, gov'nor. There's a barricade. Soldiers with guns. I'll have to stop."

"You vill not haf to start again, English pig."

"I'm takin' you there. Only I'll have to stop for 'em."