Laughter at the Academy Page 8

  Good thing I’m not a good Ozite anymore. My building is a liminal space, like me, neither part of Uptown nor Downtown…and like me, it’s never going to fit quite right anywhere again.

  Jack pushed open the beaten copper door separating our stairwell from the street, and we stepped out into the humid, sour-smelling air of Oz’s undercity. The door slammed behind us as soon as we were through, its built-in enchantments forming a seal that couldn’t be broken without the appropriate countercharm. A dog barked in the distance. A baby wailed. And even though the sun was shining, so many walkways and structures blocked the light that it was suddenly twilight—a twilight that would never end.

  I turned to Rinn, who was still looking staggered by my last word, and gave him my best Princess of Oz curtsey. “Welcome to Downtown.”

  “Prince—Miss—Sorcer—” Rinn stopped, done in by the perils of nomenclature, and gave me a look so pitiful that I couldn’t help thawing a little. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m meant to call you.”

  “Dot is fine,” I said, and started walking along the cracked brick sidewalk toward the Square. This used to be one of the thoroughfares to the palace, back when you could get there at ground level; the yellow still showed through in patches, where the grime hadn’t managed to turn it as gray as everything else. That’s the sick joke of Downtown. I left Kansas for Oz because I was tired of the color gray. Now I’m the Ambassador to the Gray Country of Oz, built in the basement of the City of Emeralds. “If that’s too informal, you can call me Dorothy.”

  “Miss Dorothy, why is the Empress…what I mean to say is…”

  “He wants to know why Her Royal Bitchness is threatening you with sunshine,” said Jack. Rinn cast him a shocked look. The pumpkin-headed man was walking with more assurance now that we were Downtown. Maybe it was the fact that his shoulders were straight for the first time, showing just how tall he really was. “Weather isn’t usually a good incentive.”

  “You mustn’t speak of the Empress like that,” said Rinn, sounding stunned. “What would even make you think such a thing?”

  “My father and I go way, way back,” said Jack. The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “I’m allowed to say anything about her that I feel like saying.”

  I patted him on the arm as comfortingly as I could manage. Ozma was a boy named Tip when she created Jack. She’d never liked to talk about that period in her life, and I knew better than to go into it in detail around one of her men. Rinn had probably been trained to regard all mentions of Ozma’s boyhood as treason. Instead, I said to him, “I’m dating a girl named Polychrome. She’s the daughter of the Rainbow. No clouds, no rain. No rain, no rainbows. No rainbows, no girlfriend. She needs clouds if she wants to be here, and that means she’ll be gone as long as the sun stays out. So when Ozma wants me to dance to her song, she threatens me with the weather.” I shook my head. “Now get moving. We’ve got a dead body to see.”

  Rinn held his official-issue lance at the ready as we progressed through Downtown, waiting for a brigand or a hungry Kalidah to spring out of the shadows. I slouched along next to Jack, eyeing the various speakeasys we passed with an undisguised longing. Jack followed my gaze and sighed.

  “No, Dot.”

  “But—”

  “No. Poly doesn’t want you drinking, and neither do I.”

  “I just want a little pick-me-up, that’s all.”

  “Dot, the stuff you can buy here stands a good chance of being a put-you-down one of these days. Poppy juice isn’t safe for crossovers.”

  “Yeah, well.” I shook my head, the charms on my ears chiming against each other. “What is?”

  “We’ll take care of this. Poly will be back by tomorrow night. You’ll see.”

  I sighed. “Stop being optimistic. Or did Ozma remember your name this time?”

  Jack didn’t answer me.

  I wasn’t Ozma’s first castoff, and I won’t be her last. Jack was part of the group responsible for helping her claim her throne, back when she first came out of exile. He was also unpredictable—thanks to the slow decay of the pumpkins he used for heads—and he didn’t clean up well for her court. She tolerated him for a long time, first out of love and later out of loyalty, but the day came when Jack was more of a liability than a friend, and he’d found himself banished to the City of Emeralds to sink or swim on his own. I’d chased him down before he could leave the palace, pressing the key to my then-unused apartment into his hand.

  It was an impulsive gesture that I didn’t think anything of until years later, when the growing unease over the number of crossovers made it politically unwise for Ozma to keep one as a pet and boon companion. When I’d found myself in Jack’s position, I’d staggered to my apartment on instinct, unsure what was going to happen when I got there. I was half-afraid he’d claim squatter’s rights and leave me alone in the dark.

  Instead, he’d proudly shown me the furniture he’d built for my eventual arrival, and tucked me safe and warm into my very own bedroom that I didn’t have to share and that no one could ever turn me out of. He’d been waiting for me. I guess once you’re thrown away you come to recognize the impending signs of someone else being discarded.

  Jack was never really my friend when we both lived in the palace. These days, there’s no one I trust more. My first companions in Oz have long since found their place in the political structure. So have I, I suppose. It’s just that the place I’ve found isn’t one they can afford to associate with.

  This deep into Downtown, things were a curious combination of Ozite tech and crossover ingenuity. Shacks built from every material imaginable squatted on corners and clustered in the bands of watery sunlight that pool between the distant skyways, their solar heaters out and soaking up every drop of energy they could collect. Half the shacks were on wheels, letting them move with the sun. The other half belonged to the light-farmers, who jealously guarded their turf against all comers. It would have been enough to make me feel bad about my longing for rain, if it weren’t for the fact that rain was actually better for Downtown. It was harder to catch and control, for one thing. It washed everything clean, and it filled the water batteries which work just as well as the solar kind. Rain was the most precious commodity Downtown had.

  Ozma probably wouldn’t have thought to threaten them with a lack of rain if it hadn’t been for my relationship with Polychrome. That, if nothing else, I was willing to feel bad about.

  People appeared from alleys and shacks, watching us walk by. We made a curious parade, to be sure: a man in Ozma’s colors, another with a pumpkin for a head, and me, their hated Ambassador, in my witchy white. Even if they didn’t know my face, they’d know what the color meant. There are three witches left in Oz, and I’m the only one who ever came anywhere near Downtown.

  “Miss Dorothy, I’m not sure the people here are very glad to see us,” said Rinn, falling back to walk beside us. He was trying to keep his voice low. I appreciated the gesture, useless as it was. “Are we in danger?”

  “If we’re Downtown, we’re in danger. Did you miss where I said they hated me here?”

  “But you’re their Ambassador.”

  “Yeah, and they’re living in hovels while I’m living Uptown. I’m the Empress’s former lover, but I can’t get them half the things they need, or change the laws so they’re starting on an equal playing field, or find a way to send them home. Why would they like me, exactly? I’m failure walking to these people, and they don’t understand how much worse it would be without me here. No one does.” No one who hadn’t been in those council meetings, playing wallflower, while Ozma—not yet broken on the subject of the crossovers, not yet embittered and cruel, although the seeds were already sown—fought with her advisors to keep them from driving the crossovers out into the Deadly Desert to die. I’d seen how bad it could be. How bad it would be, if we let certain people take over.

  If Ozma wanted this murder solved, I’d solve it. And then I’d get back to the important bus
iness of finding a way to send these people home while they still had the option.

  I knew we’d reached the Square when we turned a corner and found ourselves facing a crowd. Crowds were rare in Downtown: they left you vulnerable to pickpockets and to surprise raids by the royal guards. If people were gathering, it was because there was something too interesting to be ignored. Dead bodies usually qualified.

  Rinn continued marching straight ahead, shouting, “Make way for the Princess!” Guess he’d decided which of my titles he liked best. He might have been surprised to realize that I was already gone, ducking to the side and working my way around the rim of the crowd until I found an opening. I dove in, worming my way between bodies until I broke free into the circle of open space maintained by Ozma’s guards. A few people scowled and pointed, but they were sensible enough not to say what they were thinking out loud. They knew that you should never insult a witch to her face.

  Jack’s round orange head bobbed above the crowd about midway through, marking Rinn’s progress. He nodded when he saw me. I nodded back, and turned to see what we were dealing with.

  The dead man lay at the center of the Square, arms spread like he’d been trying to make snow angels on the pavement when he died. His expression was one of profound confusion, a final perplexity that would never be resolved. I paced a slow circle around him, ignoring the glares from Ozma’s guards. Something wasn’t right here. I just couldn’t quite see what that something was.

  He was dressed in Quadling red, six different shades of it, garnet and ruby and crimson and carnelian and scarlet and macaw. That sort of motley marked him as a member of the upper class, since getting those specific distinctions out of their dyes was difficult and expensive. His boots were wine-red leather, counter-stitched with gold in honor of the road of yellow brick that brought the wastrel sons of rich families marching into the Emerald City. Those boots…

  I stopped, crouching down and frowning at the soles of his boots. A brief ruckus behind me marked the arrival of Jack and Rinn. “Jack, look at this,” I said, indicating the dead man’s feet. “Does this look wrong to you?”

  “How did you—?” demanded Rinn.

  I ignored him. So did Jack, who stooped down next to me, the branches in his back creaking, and said, “They’re awfully new boots. Probably expensive, too.”

  “Not just new. They’re pristine. The streets are rough and filthy down here, so how did he wind up in the square without any scuffs or smears on his boots?” I reached out and grabbed his right foot, lifting it away from the pavement. “Look at his heel. Someone dragged him.”

  “He’s still here, Dot. Even if he wasn’t killed Downtown, he wound up here.”

  And that made him my problem. I dropped the dead man’s foot, frowning. “Something else isn’t right here.” Something about the cut of the clothes just wasn’t jibing with the man in front of me. I straightened enough to move up to his midsection, and began undoing his belt.

  Jeers and catcalls rose from the crowd, and from more than a few of the guards. I flipped them off and kept working, first unbuckling his belt, and then untying his trousers. The jeers turned disappointed when I left his trousers on and used the slack I’d created to haul his shirt up over his belly. He had the beginnings of a paunch. Not a Quadling trait—Quadlings tend to be tall and skeletally thin—but city living can create anomalies in just about anyone.

  The jeers turned disgusted and faded into muttering when I stuck my pinky in the dead man’s navel and began rooting around. Behind me, Rinn asked, “What is she doing?” in a horrified tone.

  “Shut up and grow a pair,” I snapped, pulling my finger out of the corpse and turning it so I could study what was caught under my nail. Then I smiled. “Jack, get this man’s boots off. I think you’re going to find that they don’t actually fit his feet. He’s too short for them.”

  “What?” demanded one of the other guards.

  I looked up and smiled. “Nice of you to say hello. Hello. I’m Dorothy Gale, and this man is a Munchkin.” I picked the lint from under my pinky nail and held it up. “Blue. They changed his clothes, but they didn’t give him a shower first.”

  The guard blinked at me, looking nonplussed. He didn’t say anything as I straightened again, this time moving to squat next to the dead man’s head. That confused look on his face was bothering me. I just couldn’t put my finger on exactly why…

  “He died overdosing on the drugs your people make,” said the guard, recovering his voice. “There’s no parlor trick for you to play here.”

  “I learned humbugging from the best,” I said, and leaned closer, prying the corpse’s lips open. The charms in my ears jingled again as I peered into the dry cavern of his mouth. It smelled strange, like the dustbowl fields of Kansas. My eyes widened, and I sat up straight, turning to stare at my companions. “Dust. This isn’t a poppy juice overdose. This is Dust.”

  Everyone—even the parts of the crowd close enough to hear me—went silent. The only sounds were footsteps scuffing against the pavement, and the distant trill of birdsong from the lacy trellises of Uptown far above us.

  Poppy juice predated the crossovers. It was a natural intoxicant, refined by the people of Oz when they needed something stronger than absinthe, but still weaker than pure poppy pollen. The crossovers just refined it a little. Dust, on the other hand…that didn’t happen until the crossovers were well-established and trying to find new ways of supporting themselves.

  Because every crossover has to cross the shifting sands, one way or another, many of them arrive in Oz with a few grains of the Deadly Desert stuck to their clothes or hair. I don’t know who first got the brilliant idea of grinding the stuff up and snorting it, but if I ever find out, I am going to kick their ass from one end of Oz to the other. Dust is addictive to Ozites and crossovers alike…and if people aren’t careful, it can also be deadly, just like the sands it’s derived from.

  The only thing I didn’t understand was where it was all coming from. Crossovers arrived with sand in their shoes and hair, but never more than a pinch. A few new people arrived every week. That should have been enough to provide a small cottage industry, not build an empire. And yet more Dust hit the streets of Downtown daily, and it was starting to appear Uptown as well.

  Hatred of Dust was one of the pillars of the anti-crossover movement. We’d created Dust. Get rid of us and, clearly, Oz would go back to normal—or what passed for normal, anyway. What they hadn’t considered was that even if the Dust was suddenly gone, the addicts would still remember what they’d craved—and they would still want it. Getting rid of the crossovers wouldn’t get rid of the Deadly Desert. Dust would still find a way in.

  Ozma’s guards bundled up the dead Munchkin and carried him away, presumably bound for the Uptown morgue, where he could be kept preserved by stasis spells until the mystery of his identity could be unsnarled. The crowd dispersed as soon as the show was over. None of them stuck around to talk to us. In a matter of minutes, only Jack, Rinn, and I remained.

  “Dust is a scourge,” said Rinn, in a challenging tone.

  “You won’t get any argument from me,” I said. “The closest I’ll come is this: if the crossovers had been treated better after they stopped being cute trinkets to show off at dinner parties, maybe they wouldn’t have needed to struggle to survive. Maybe they wouldn’t have chosen ways you don’t approve of. Dust is horrible. But the crossovers created it because they were starving. This is everyone’s fault.”

  Rinn didn’t have an answer for that. He glared in stony silence as we walked back to my apartment, where the charms attached to my diamond bracelet—one spell per stone, thank you, Winkies, thank you—unlocked the door. I led the way up the stairs, past my apartment, and through a second locked door. This one was sealed with even more potent charms, and led to the airy spires of Uptown. Here, the air was fresh and sweet and tasted like the Oz of my childhood. The sun was neither too hot nor too bright, and the breeze that set my earrings jangling
was just cool enough to make the day seem even lovelier.

  Ozites strolled on the elevated walkways, many wearing the enchanted green goggles favored by the wealthy. They were all dressed in the latest fashions. I saw several pairs of boots like the ones we’d pulled off our dead Munchkin, done in all five of the citizenry colors. Only the yellow-clad Winkies acknowledged us as they passed, offering small nods or even bows in my direction. I replied with smiles and silence, not drawing attention to them. It was the only reward I could offer for them remembering that I was, after all, officially their Witch.

  “Where are we going?” asked Rinn.

  “The Munchkin Country embassy,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll be interested to hear that one of their citizens was found dressed as a Quadling in the middle of Downtown.”

  “And dead,” said Jack. “Mustn’t forget dead. That seems to be one of the main selling points of this particular gentleman.”

  I cast my pumpkin-headed friend a smile. “Oh, believe me, I won’t be forgetting that part.”

  We walked on toward the embassy. It really was an unseasonably beautiful day.

  The receptionist was a perfectly coiffed Munchkin woman who would have stood no taller than my chin in her high-heeled boots. She could never have passed for a Quadling. Lucky her. Maybe that would increase her chances of survival.

  Although if she kept looking down her nose at me like that, nothing was going to increase her chances of coming away without a bloody nose. “Ambassador Boq isn’t seeing visitors today,” she said, for the third time.

  “Well, since I’m an Ambassador, too, maybe you could make a little exception.”

  She smiled thinly. “I’m afraid the Munchkin Country does not recognize ‘Downtown’ as a territory.”

  “Fine, then. Tell Ambassador Boq that Dorothy Gale, Princess of Oz, wants a minute of his time. If that’s not good enough, tell him that Dorothy Gale, Wicked Witch of the West, will have a minute of his time. If he’s accommodating now, my minute won’t happen unexpectedly in the middle of the night.” I bared my teeth at her in what might charitably be called a smile.