Songs of the Dying Earth. Gardner Dozois

and rapped upon the hard surface. No response, but now at last he glimpsed life. A sinuous form slipped along the edge of his vision, and was not there when he turned to look. The wind sighed in regret. His heartbeat quickened, and the spot of heat at the bottom of his stomach seemed to pulse. Farnol drew a deep breath, tried to moisten dry lips, and rapped again.

      A nearby tuft of rewswolley shuddered in response. The bristling stalks parted to reveal a hole. A lean figure thrust its head, shoulders, and torso up into the dying light. Farnol glimpsed grey garments; a narrow face partially concealed by a mask fitted with bulging, faceted eyepieces; bony white hands with long, curved fingernails; and a cloak of diaphanous, transparent stuff.

      “Well, and what do you seek?” asked the stranger.

      “I seek Tcheruke the Vivisectionist.”

      “What do you want of Tcheruke?”

      “His assistance, for which I am willing to pay well.”

      “And what does he care for your terces? Shall he bury them on the Xence Moraine, and wait to see if they sprout?”

      “I can offer him an interesting tale—the story of a foolish young heir to a fine estate, a treacherous uncle, and a murder taking place slowly, over the course of ten days.”

      “I state with assurance that Tcheruke will hear it, for I am he. Enter.” Head and torso vanished into the hole.