Wall, Stone, Craft Read online

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  WALL, STONE, CRAFT

  Walter Jon Williams

  Wall, Stone, Craft

  Walter Jon Williams

  An alternative-history classic nominated for the Hugo, Nebula, and World Fantasy Awards!

  Young Mary Godwin has run away with the married poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, but a chance encounter places them in the path of Lord Byron, the Hero of Waterloo. Byron wants Mary, and is willing to use Mary’s young, reckless sister Claire as a pawn in his heartless schemes. Exactly how heartless, and how audacious is only revealed on a storm-tossed lake in Switzerland, a tragic encounter that produces not only an alternate history, but an alternate literary monster, a new Frankenstein for a new world...

  Copyright (c) 1993, 2014 by Walter Jon Williams

  Cover art by Richard Ansdell. Photo by Eric Gaba

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-99055-092-1

  eISBN: 978-1-62579-330-0

  Electronic Version by Baen Books

  http://www.baen.com

  Other Books by Walter Jon Williams

  Novels

  Hardwired

  Solip:System (novella sequel to Hardwired)

  Voice of the Whirlwind

  Angel Station

  Days of Atonement

  Knight Moves

  Aristoi

  Metropolitan

  City on Fire

  Ambassador of Progress

  Implied Spaces

  The Rift

  Divertimenti Series

  The Crown Jewels

  House of Shards

  Rock of Ages

  Dread Empire’s Fall Series

  The Praxis

  The Sundering

  Conventions of War

  Investments

  Dagmar Shaw Thrillers

  This Is Not a Game

  Deep State

  The Fourth Wall

  Privateers and Gentlemen Series (Historical Fiction)

  To Glory Arise

  Brig of War

  Cat Island

  The Macedonian

  Collections

  Facets

  Frankensteins & Foreign Devils

  The Green Leopard Plague and Other Stories

  ONE

  She awoke, there in the common room of the inn, from a brief dream of roses and death. Once Mary came awake she recalled there were wild roses on her mother’s grave, and wondered if her mother’s spirit had visited her.

  On her mother’s grave, Mary’s lover had first proposed their elopement. It was there the two of them had first made love.

  Now she believed she was pregnant. Her lover was of the opinion that she was mistaken. That was about where it stood.

  Mary concluded that it was best not to think about it. And so, blinking sleep from her eyes, she sat in the common room of the inn at Le Caillou and resolved to study her Italian grammar by candlelight.

  Plurals. La nascita, le nascite. La madre, le madri. Un bambino, i bambini...

  Interruption: stampings, snortings, the rattle of harness, the barking of dogs. Four young Englishmen entered the inn, one in scarlet uniform coat, the others in fine traveling clothes. Raindrops dazzled on their shoulders. The innkeeper bustled out from the kitchen, smiled, proffered the register.

  Mary, unimpressed by anything English, concentrated on the grammar.

  “Let me sign, George,” the redcoat said. “My hand needs the practice.” Mary glanced up at the comment.

  “I say, George, here’s a fellow signed in Greek!” The Englishman peered at yellowed pages of the inn’s register, trying to make out the words in the dim light of the innkeeper’s lamp. Mary smiled at the English officer’s efforts.

  “Perseus, I believe the name is. Perseus Busseus... d’ye suppose he means Bishop?—... Kselleius. And he gives his occupation as ‘te anthropou philou’—... that would make him a friendly fellow, eh?— ”

  The officer looked over his shoulder and grinned, then returned to the register. “‘Kai atheos.’” The officer scowled, then straightened.

  “Does that mean what I think it does, George?”

  George— the pretty auburn-haired man in byrons— shook rain off his short cape, stepped to the register, examined the text. “Not ‘friendly fellow,’ ” he said. “That would be ‘anehr philos.’ ‘Anthropos’ is mankind, not man.” There was the faintest touch of Scotland in his speech.

  “So it is,” said the officer. “It comes back now.”

  George bent at his slim waist and looked carefully at the register.

  “What the fellow says is, ‘Both friend of man and— ’” He frowned, then looked at his friend. “You were right about the ‘atheist,’ I’m afraid.”

  The officer was indignant. “Ain’t funny, George,” he said.

  George gave a cynical little half-smile. His voice changed, turned comical and fussy, became that of a high-pitched English schoolmaster. “Let us try to make out the name of this famous atheist.’ He bent over the register again. ‘Perseus— you had that right, Somerset. Busseus— how very irregular. Kselleius— Kelly? Shelley?” He smiled at his friend. His voice became very Irish.

  “Kelly, I imagine. An atheistical upstart Irish schoolmaster with a little Greek. But what the Busseus might be eludes me, unless his middle name is Omnibus.”

  Somerset chuckled. Mary rose from her place and walked quietly toward the pair. “The gentleman’s name is Bysshe, sir,” she said. “Percy Bysshe Shelley.”

  The two men turned in surprise. The officer— Somerset— bowed as he perceived a lady. Mary saw for the first time that he had one empty sleeve pinned across his tunic, which would account for the comment about the hand. The other— George, the man in byrons— swept off his hat and gave Mary a flourishing bow, one far too theatrical to be taken seriously. When he straightened, he gave Mary a little frown.

  “Bysshe Shelley?” he said. “Any relation to Sir Bysshe, the baronet?”

  “His grandson.”

  “Sir Bysshe is a protégé of old Norfolk.” This an aside to his friends. Radical Whiggery was afoot, or so the tone implied. George returned his attention to Mary as the other Englishmen gathered about her. “An interesting family, no doubt,” he said, and smiled at her. Mary wanted to flinch from the compelling way he looked at her, gazed upward, intently, from beneath his brows. “And are you of his party?”

  “I am.”

  “And you are, I take it, Mrs. Shelley?”

  Mary straightened and gazed defiantly into George’s eyes. “Mrs. Shelley resides in England. My name is Godwin.”

  George’s eyes widened, flickered a little. Low English murmurs came to Mary’s ears. George bowed again. “Charmed to meet you, Miss Godwin.”

  George pointed to each of his companions with his hat. “Lord Fitzroy Somerset.” The armless man bowed again. “Captain Harry Smith. Captain Austen of the Navy. Pásmány, my fencing master.”

  Most of the party, Mary thought, were young, and all were handsome, George most of all. George turned to Mary again, a little smile of anticipation curling his lips. His burning look was almost insolent. “My name is Newstead.”

  Mortal embarrassment clutched at Mary’s heart. She knew her cheeks were burning, but still she held George’s eyes as she bobbed a curtsey.

  George had not been Marquess Newstead for more than a few months. He had been famous for years both as an intimate of the Prince Regent and the most dashing of Wellington’s cavalry officers, but it was his exploits on the field of Waterlo
o and his capture of Napoleon on the bridge at Genappe that had made him immortal. He was the talk of England and the Continent, though he had achieved his fame under another name.

  Before the Prince Regent had given him the title of Newstead, auburn-haired, insolent-eyed George had been known as George Gordon Noël, the sixth Lord Byron.

  Mary decided she was not going to be impressed by either his titles or his manner. She decided she would think of him as George.

  “Pleased to meet you, my lord,” Mary said. Pride steeled her as she realized her voice hadn’t trembled.

  She was spared further embarrassment when the door burst open and a servant entered followed by a pack of muddy dogs— whippets— who showered them all with water, then howled and bounded about George, their master. Standing tall, his strong, well-formed legs in the famous side-laced boots that he had invented to show off his calf and ankle, George laughed as the dogs jumped up on his chest and bayed for attention. His lordship barked back at them and wrestled with them for a moment— not very lordlike, Mary thought— and then he told his dogs to be still. At first they ignored him, but eventually he got them down and silenced.

  He looked up at Mary. “I can discipline men, Miss Godwin,” he said, “but I’m afraid I’m not very good with animals.”

  “That shows you have a kind heart, I’m sure,” Mary said.

  The others laughed a bit at this— apparently kindheartedness was not one of George’s better-known qualities— but George smiled indulgently.

  “Have you and your companion supped, Miss Godwin? I would welcome the company of fellow English in this tiresome land of Brabant.”

  Mary was unable to resist an impertinence. “Even if one of them is an atheistical upstart Irish schoolmaster?”

  “Miss Godwin, I would dine with Wolfe Tone himself.” Still with that intent, under-eyed look, as if he was dissecting her.

  Mary was relieved to turn away from George’s gaze and look toward the back of the inn, in the direction of the kitchen. “Bysshe is in the kitchen giving instructions to the cook. I believe my sister is with him.”

  “Are there more in your party?”

  “Only the three of us. And one rather elderly carriage horse.”

  “Forgive us if we do not invite the horse to table.”

  “Your ape, George,” Somerset said dolefully, “will be quite enough.”

  Mary would have pursued this interesting remark, but at that moment Bysshe and Claire appeared from out of the kitchen passage. Both were laughing, as if at a shared secret, and Claire’s black eyes glittered. Mary repressed a spasm of annoyance.

  “Mary!” Bysshe said. “The cook told us a ghost story!” He was about to go on, but paused as he saw the visitors.

  “We have an invitation to dinner,” Mary said. “Lord Newstead has been kind enough— ”

  “Newstead!” said Claire. “The Lord Newstead?”

  George turned his searching gaze on Claire. “I’m the only Newstead I know.”

  Mary felt a chill of alarm, for a moment seeing Claire as George doubtless saw her: black-haired, black-eyed, fatally indiscreet, and all of sixteen.

  Sometimes the year’s difference in age between Mary and Claire seemed a century.

  “Lord Newstead!” Claire babbled. “I recognize you now! How exciting to meet you!”

  Mary resigned herself to fate. “My lord,” she said, “may I present my sister, Miss Jane— Claire, rather, Claire Clairmont, and Mr. Shelley.”

  “Overwhelmed and charmed, Miss Clairmont. Mr. Perseus Omnibus Kselleius, tí kánete?”

  Bysshe blinked for a second or two, then grinned. “Thanmásia eùxaristô,” returning politeness, “kaí eseîs?”

  For a moment Mary gloried in Bysshe, in his big frame in his shabby clothes, his fair, disordered hair, his freckles, his large hands— and his absolute disinclination to be impressed by one of the most famous men on Earth.

  George searched his mind for a moment. “Polú kalá, eùxaristô. Thá éthela ná— ” He groped for words, then gave a laugh. “Hang the Greek!” he said. “It’s been far too many years since Trinity. May I present my friend Somerset?”

  Somerset gave the atheist a cold Christian eye. “How d’ye do?”

  George finished his introductions. There was the snapping of coach whips outside, and the sound of more stamping horses. The dogs began barking again. At least two more coaches had arrived. George led the party into the dining room. Mary found herself sitting next to George, with Claire and Bysshe across the table.

  “Damme, I quite forgot to register,” Somerset said, rising from his bench. “What bed will you settle for, George?”

  “Nothing less than Bonaparte’s.”

  Somerset sighed. “I thought not,” he said.

  “Did Bonaparte sleep here in Le Caillou?” Claire asked.

  “The night before Waterloo.”

  “How exciting! Is Waterloo nearby?” She looked at Bysshe. “Had we known, we could have asked for his room.”

  “Which we then would have had to surrender to my lord Newstead,” Bysshe said tolerantly. “He has greater claim, after all, than we.”

  George gave Mary his intent look again. His voice was pitched low.

  “I would not deprive two lovely ladies of their bed for all the Bonapartes in Europe.”

  But rather join us in it, Mary thought. That look was clear enough.

  The rest of George’s party— servants, aides-de-camp, clerks, one black man in full Mameluke fig, turned-up slippers, ostrich plumes, scarlet turban and all— carried George’s equipage from his carriages. In addition to an endless series of trunks and a large miscellany of weaponry there were more animals. Not only the promised ape— actually a large monkey, which seated itself on George’s shoulder— but brightly-colored parrots in cages, a pair of greyhounds, some hooded hunting hawks, songbirds, two forlorn-looking kit foxes in cages, which set all the dogs howling and jumping in eagerness to get at them, and a half-grown panther in a jeweled collar, which the dogs knew better than to bark at. The innkeeper was loud in his complaint as he attempted to sort them all out and stay outside of the range of beaks, claws, and fangs.

  Bysshe watched with bright eyes, enjoying the spectacle. George’s friends looked as if they were weary of it.

  “I hope we will sleep tonight,” Mary said.

  “If you sleep not,” said George, playing with the monkey, “we shall contrive to keep you entertained.”

  How gracious to include your friends in the orgy, Mary thought. But once again kept silent.

  Bysshe was still enjoying the parade of frolicking animals. He glanced at Mary. “Don’t you think, Maie, this is the very image of philosophical anarchism?”

  “You are welcome to it, sir,” said Somerset, returning from the register. “George, your mastiff has injured the ostler’s dog. He is loud in his complaint.”

  “I’ll have Ferrante pay him off.”

  “See that you do. And have him pistol the brains out of that mastiff while he’s at it.”

  “Injure poor Picton?” George was offended. “I’ll have none of it.”

  “Poor Picton will have his fangs in the ostler next.”

  “He must have been teasing the poor beast.”

  “Picton will kill us all one day.” Grudgingly.

  “Forgive us, Somerset-laddie.” Mary watched as George reached over to Somerset and tweaked his ear. Somerset reddened but seemed pleased.

  “Mr. Shelley,” said Captain Austen. “I wonder if you know what surprises the kitchen has in store for us.”

  Austen was a well-built man in a plain black coat, older than the others, with a lined and weathered naval face and a reserved manner unique in this company.

  “Board ’em in the smoke! That’s the Navy for you!” George said. “Straight to the business of eating, never mind the other nonsense.”

  “ If you ate wormy biscuit for twenty years of war,” said Harry Smith, “ you’d care about the food as
well.”

  Bysshe gave Austen a smile. “The provisions seem adequate enough for a country inn,” he said. “And the rooms are clean, unlike most in this country. Claire and the Maie and I do not eat meat, so I had to tell the cook how to prepare our dinner. But if your taste runs to fowl or something in the cutlet line I daresay the cook can set you up.”

  “No meat!” George seemed enthralled by the concept. “Disciples of J.F. Newton, as I take it?”

  “Among others,” said Mary.

  “But are you well? Do you not feel an enervation? Are you not feverish with lack of a proper diet?” George leaned very close and touched Mary’s forehead with the back of one cool hand while he reached to find her pulse with the other. The monkey grimaced at her from his shoulder. Mary disengaged and placed her hands on the table.

  “I’m quite well, I assure you,” she said.

  “The Maie’s health is far better than when I met her,” Bysshe said.

  “Mine too,” said Claire.

  “I believe most diseases can be conquered by proper diet,” said Bysshe. And then he added,

  “He slays the lamb that looks him in the face,

  And horribly devours his mangled flesh.”

  “Let’s have some mangled flesh tonight, George!” said Somerset gaily.

  “Do let’s,” added Smith.

  George’s hand remained on Mary’s forehead. His voice was very soft. “If eating flesh offend thee,” he said, “I will eat but only greens.”

  Mary could feel her hackles rise. “Order what you please,” she said. “I don’t care one way or another.”

  “Brava, Miss Godwin!” said Smith thankfully. “Let it be mangled flesh for us all, and to perdition with all those little Low Country cabbages!”

  “I don’t like them, either,” said Claire.