Esther M. Friesner - Chicks 04 - The Chick Is In The Mail

The Chick is in the Mail

Table of Contents Introduction

To His Iron-Clad Mistress

Sweet Charity

The Catcher in the Rhine

With the Knight Male (apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

Patterns in the Chain

Arms and the Woman

Fun With Hieroglyphics

Troll By Jury

Looking for Rhonda Honda

The Case of Prince Charming

Incognito, Ergo Sum

Chain of Command

The Thief and the Roller Derby Queen:

An essay on the importance

of formal education

The Right Bitch

Foxy Boxer Gal Fights Giant Monster King!

Hallah Iron-Thighs & the Change of Life

About the Authors

The Chick is in the Mail

by Esther Friesner and Martin Harry

Greenberg

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.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31950-7

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First printing, October 2000

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

TROLL BY JURY

In the center of the sand-strewn ring, Duke Janifer stood between the two combatants and nervously

asked, "Ladies, are you certain you wouldn't like to reconsider this trial by combat to the death?"

"Iwould," Zoli said. "It's not combat, it's bloody murder. I've eaten seafood that had more hope of killing

me thanthis idiot." She gestured scornfully at Goodwife Eyebright.

"Willyou withdraw?" Duke Janifer turned to Goodwife Eyebright, entreating her with his eyes.

"Pleeease?"

Eyebright stood herself up a bit taller and held the sword she'd been given as though it were a carpet

beater. "I'd sooner die."

"I was afraid you'd say that." The duke sighed, shrugged, and tossed a bright orange kerchief high into

the air. As he dashed from the arena he called back over one shoulder. "When it hits the ground, start

fighting."

The audience gasped and held its breath. Zoli went into her preferred fighting stance, grim and silent,

eyes fixed on the floating kerchief. Goodwife Eyebright, on the other hand, began jabbering the instant

the bit of cloth left the duke's hand.

"My gracious, aren't you in a hurry? I'm sure it's not going to take you long to kill me, but don't you

worry about that. Nor about all my poor little lambkins that'll be left orphaned and helpless, oh no, don't

you give any of them a second thought. You've done your duty, you don't have to bother your head

about whether they'll be decently clothed and fed and who'll tuck them into their cold, lonesome little

beds of a winter's night with not ever the comfort of a loving mother's kiss on their tiny tear-stained faces,

no. Don't you concern yourself over their bitter tears or their heartbreaking sobs or their—"

Under Goodwife Eyebright's verbal barrage, Zoli's shoulder trembled and her sword drooped by

degrees, leaving a hole in her defensive posture fit to drive an oxcart through. . . .

—from "Troll by Jury"

ALSO IN THIS SERIES:

Chicks in Chainmail

edited by Esther Friesner

Did You Say Chicks?!

edited by Esther Friesner

Chicks and Chained Males

edited by Esther Friesner

Mathemagicsby Margaret Ball

BAEN BOOKS by ESTHER FRIESNER

Child of the Eagle

Wishing Season

Introduction

Esther Friesner

Tradition is a wonderful thing. It gives us a sense of history, of belonging to something greater than

ourselves, but it most of all gives us someone and/or something other than ourselves to blame for the

embarrassing stuff we feel compelled to do. Yes sir, every time you find yourself serving the

fruitcake-that-tastes-like-a-doorstop at Christmas, or saying, "Prithee, my comely wench, but mightst

thou servest me an hotte dogge with ye workes?" at a local Ren Faire, or fighting the neighborhood

raccoons for property rights to a swiftly rotting jack-o'-lantern at Hallowe'en, or singing the Whiffenpoof

Song at the big Harvard-Yale game when you wouldn't know a whiffen if it poofed all over you, you can

always defend your actions with the proud and clarion cry: "It's atradition !"

(You can also try blaming it on your kids, if you prefer, but that won't work with the Whiffenpoof Song.

Even kids aren'tthat gullible.)

Now here at theChicks in Chainmail series of hard-hitting and culturally enriched anthologies, we've

got a little tradition of our own. We call it Blaming Someone for the Title of the Current Book. Your

humble and obedient editor took full responsibility—and rightly so—for the series concept as well as for

the title of the first book, but since then, although the concept has remained true and fixed as the pole

star, the blame for the titles of individual volumes in the series has gone skipping merrily hither, thither,

and yon.

So let it be known, now and for all time, that the person who came up with the title forthis one is Mr.

Robin Wayne Bailey of Kansas City, Missouri, a fine writer and a great American. (He also has a story

in this anthology, but please note that there isno connection between coming up with a title for our fourth

Chicks book and getting a story accepted. None. So don't go getting any erroneous ideas. Thank you.)

Now that we've settled that, I'd like to share with you one of the joys of Editorhood. Recently, along

with the rest of theChicks series fanmail, I received a rather . . . unique missive from a gentleman by the

name of Jeffrey Tolliver who resides in the great state of Ohio. With Mr. Tolliver's consent, I now share

with you a brief description of the contents of his letter:

Chicks in chain mail.

Yes, that's right, your eyes have not betrayed you: Mr. Tolliver is a talented and creative maker of chain

mail armor and so, inspired no doubt by the literary splendors of this august series, he crafted chain mail

for five (count 'em, five) stuffed chickens. Of thetoy stuffed chicken variety. Chain mail on aroast stuffed

chicken is justsick.

I have photographic proof of this chicken bechain-mailing in my possession. He named them after the

Dionne quintuplets and, in my opinion, they are darned cute. He also crafted two wonderful sets of chain

mail for a pair of teddybears, Leif Bearicson and Bearic the Red and encourages us all to support our

right to arm bears.

None of this is my fault either. I've got witnesses.

With stuff like that happening in the so-called Real World, you would think that the contributors to this

volume ofChicks might be hard-pressed to outdo it on the strange-and-wonderful scale, but they did.

You'll find tales here by some Repeat Offenders as well as by some First-Timers. You'll also find

characters who have appeared in previousChicks books cheek-by-jowl with new creations. Think of it

as opening a box of chocolates, only without anyone doing a bad Forrest Gump imitation. Make it a nice,

big box of chocolates, while you're at it, Godiva for preference, and go heavy on the cherry cordials. I

hope you'll be pleased.

Now before I free you to romp barefoot through the rest of this volume, I'd like to take a moment of

your time for something serious: This book is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Beatrice Friesner,

who passed away in the autumn of 1999. She went through the Depression, World War II, taught in a

one-room schoolhouse in upstate New York before serving in the New York City public

schools—junior and senior high—for over thirty years, and raised me. (Her own mother insisted that her

daughter as well as her sons get a college education even when most people scoffed, saying that higher

education was wasted on a girl. Ha!) She faced plenty of trials and adversity in her life, but she never

backed down and she always put up a good, honorable fight. I consider her and her mother before her to

be true Warrior Women.

I also consider this to be one tradition that is well worth carrying on.

To His Iron-Clad Mistress

Kent Patterson

You don't need no chain mail bra, dear.

You don't need no brass pants, too.

You don't need to dress in armor

When I'm snuggled close to you.

Don't think that you can charm me,

Or prove our love more real,

By buying all your underwear

From the boutique at U.S. Steel.

So what say we drop the hardware,

The swords and shields and toys,

And make love less like Sherman tanks,

And more like girls and boys.

Sweet Charity

Elizabeth Moon

Krystal Winterborn eyed her lumpish fellow members of the Ladies Aid & Armor Society, and sighed.

There they were: the brave, the bold, the strong . . . the plain.

She was tired of being the butt of their jokes, just because she paid extra on her health-care plan for a

complexion spell to keep her peach-blossom cheeks and pearly teeth. They laughed at her herbal

shampoos, the protective grease she wore on summer maneuvers. They rolled their eyes at her fringed

leather outfits, her spike-heeled dress boots.

Well, this year's Charity Ball would show them. No more laughing, when she was Queen of the Ball, and

raised many times more for the orphaned daughters of soldiers killed in the line of duty. She would never

have to hear their condescending "Shut up, Krystal" again.

When the chair asked for volunteers, Krystal surprised everyone by signing up for Invitations.

* * *

Harald Redbeard had come to the city in the character of an honest merchant. Downriver, on the coast,

everyone knew he was a Fish Islands pirate. The coast patrol had almost trapped him in Hunport, but

instead of making a break for the sea, he'd come upriver with his crew, until things quieted down.

It was nigh on midwinter when he reached the kingdom known to its downstream neighbors as the

Swordladies' Domain. He grinned at that—most of the mountain kingdoms had a reputation for fierce

warrior women. But the only warrior women he'd seen had been bouncers at Gully Blue's tavern in

Hunport. He'd tossed both of them into the harbor.

An icy wind blew from the mountains, and lowering clouds promised snow as the crew offloaded their

cargo; Harald sent old Boris One-eye off to find them an inn. One-eye reported that he'd found rooms at

the Green Cat, and he'd seen some warrior women.

"Like soldiers, they are, in uniform."

"Not a problem," Harald said. "If they're part of the city guard, that'll make it all the easier for us."

"How?"

"City guards are city guards the world over," Harald said, rubbing fingers and thumb.

* * *

That night in the Green Cat's bar, Harald kept eyes and ears open. One particular corner table caught his

interest. A cute perky blonde wearing fringed black leather and polished brass pouted at the louts around

her, who were all clearly ready to do anything for another glance down her cleavage.

If that was an example of local women warriors, he and his men had nothing to worry about. She was

too pretty, too smooth-skinned and full-lipped, to know what to do with the fancy little dagger at her

belt, let alone a real sword. Her followers, big and muscular enough, wore fashions he'd seen only in the

grittier port brothels, but no visible weapons.

When the blonde pushed back from the table, he saw that she actually had cute little muscles in her

arms. She glanced over at him, and he grinned, raising his mug appreciatively. She stuck out her adorable

lower lip; one of her followers turned to glower at him. Harald shrugged, unperturbed. He watched as

she undulated across the room. Every part of her—many visible through the long black fringe—suggested

unspeakable delights.

Harald turned back to his ale, as she flounced out the door, to find that the burly fellow with the bits of

metal through his ears and nose was now beside him. "She's beautiful," Harald said. Under the table, his

hand slid down to the hilt of his boot knife. "You can't blame a man for looking."

"S'long as you're respectful," the man said.

"Oh, I am," Harald said. "But such beauty cannot be denied."

The burly man grinned. "Since you appreciate her many qualities, perhaps you'd like to make her

acquaintance a little closer?"

What was this? Was the woman a high-priced whore, and this her pimp? Did they think he'd been born

under a rhubarb leaf, and still had the dew on his backside?

Harald brought the knife up in one smooth motion, and laid the tip in an appropriate place. To his

surprise, the burly man neither flinched nor changed expression.

"No need for that," he said. "I just wanted to invite you to the Ladies' Aid and Armor Society Charity

Ball. Being as it's midwinter, and cruel dull for a stranger in town otherwise, with all the taverns closed for

three days—I thought you might enjoy it."

"The Ladies' Aid and Armor Society? What's that, a bunch of women in bronze bras and fringe playing

with toy swords?"

The man laughed. "Not exactly. But they clean up nicer than usual, for the Charity Ball for the Orphans'

Fund. There's this contest, for queen; everybody who goes can vote. Thing is, the other cats pack the

place with their supporters, so although our Krystal is far and away the most beautiful, she never wins.

This year, we're changing that. All I want from you is a vote for her. We'll pay the donation and

everything."

These upriver barbarians had strange customs. Collecting money to support girl orphans, when girl

orphans properly managed could support him? Taverns closed three days? His crew would go crazy and

start breaking open barrels on their own; he couldn't afford that. This ball now—fancy dress, jewels,

money—looked like fun and profit combined.

"Tell you what," Harald said, slipping the knife back into his boot. "My friends wouldn't like it if I went

and they had to stay here with nothing to drink. If you can get us all in, that's more votes. How about it?"

"Great. My name's Gordamish Ringwearer, by the way; you can call me Gordy. I'll need all your names

for the invitations—nobody gets in without one."

* * *

Mirabel Stonefist scowled at the stacks of invitations. Every year, she tried to argue the Planning

Committee into hiring a real scribe to address them, and every year the Committee insisted it was too

expensive. They had to have money for decorations, for the orchestra, for the food, and of course the

drink. Which meant that each member of the LA&AS had to address a stack of envelopes herself, in

whatever scrawly, scribbly, crabbed and illegible handwriting she possessed.

Primula Hardaxe, chair of the Committee, always made some remark about Mirabel's handwriting.I

never claimed to be an artist , Mirabel thought, stabbing the tip of the quill into the ink-bowl.Not with

anything but a sword, that is. She looked at the list she'd been given. Naturally she was not entrusted

with the invitations to important persons. She hadn't been since the time her version of "Lord Pondicherry

and Lady Cordelia" was misread as "Lard Pound and Laid Coldeels" and delivered to the butcher's.

She was halfway through the list when her old resentment cleared and she noticed the names. Harald

Redbeard? She'd heard that name before, surely. She shook her head and copied it as carefully as she

could. Skyver Twoswords? Again, something tickled her memory then withdrew. Gordamish

Ringwearer? Probably the cavalry units; they recruited all sorts of people, not just the solid peasants and

smalltraders' children who ended up in thereal army.

She realized she'd just left the "g" out of Ringwearer, and muttered an oath. That's what thinking did for

you, caused mistakes. It wasn't up to her to decide who got invitations; all she had to do was address the

blasted things. She struggled through Piktush Drakbar, Zertin Dioth, Badaxe Oferbyte, and the rest.

At last, she had her stack finished—smudged with sweaty thumbprints, slightly rumpled, but finished.

She put them in the basket (noting that it was now half full) and stirred them around. With luck, Primula

wouldn't know who had done which. She hoped that every year.

* * *

Three days before the ball, Mirabel tugged at the bodice of her green ball gown. Her armor still fit; what

was the matter with this thing?

Of course she could wear a corset. She hated corsets. Just something else to take off, the way she

looked at it. She tugged again, and something ripped.

Perhaps she could get through the ball without raising her arms. No. She liked to dance, and she liked to

dance fast. She pawed through her trunk. The old copper silk still had that chocolate stain down the front

where she'd jogged someone's elbow, and the midnight blue had moth all up the front center panel.

Time for a new gown, then; after all, she'd worn this one four years.

* * *

Strictly speaking, it was not a costume ball. But it had become customary for guests to dress up in

whatever fanciful outfits they chose. Thus the appearance of a crew of pirates (striped loose trousers,

bucket boots, eye patches), several barechested barbarians, and someone clad mostly in chains and

other bits of uncomfortable-looking metal attachments provoked little comment. They had invitations,

surrendered at the door to a little girl wearing the red cloak of a Ladies' Aid & Armor Society ward, and

that was all that mattered.

Sergeants Gorse, Covet, Biersley, Dogwood, Ellis, and Slays, all resplendent in dress blue, were not so

lucky. They had attended the ball for years; the Ladies' Aid & Armor Society knew better than to

exclude sergeants. This meant nothing to the stubborn nine-year-old who had been told to let no one

through without a card. Last year she'd been banished to bed after singing "Sweet Sword of Mine" with

the orphan chorus, and she was determined to prove she was old enough for the responsibility.

"They just forgot to send ours, or it got lost," Sergeant Gorse said. "We'resergeants , Missy. Sergeants

are always invited."

"Miss Primula said no one can go in without an invitation, no matter what they say." The nine-year-old

tossed her butter-colored braids and glared up at them. The sergeants shuffled their feet. Any one of

them could have tucked her under one arm and had room for a barrel of beer, but she was an orphan. A

soldier's orphan.

"Suppose you call Miss Primula, then."

"She said don't bother her," the nine-year-old said. "She's busy."

Sergeant Heath strolled up behind the other sergeants, also resplendent in dress blue. "What's going on

here? Why are you fellows blocking the door?"

"They don't have invitations!" clashed with "This child won't let us in, and we'resergeants ."

"Decided not to invite you lot this year, eh?" Sergeant Heath smiled unctuously at the child, and reached

past Sergeant Gorse to hand over his card. "Remember your antics last year, do they? That bit with the

tropical fruit surprise not quite so funny on second thought?" He strolled through, exuding virtue. The

others glared after him, then at Sergeant Gorse.

"It wasn't my fault," Sergeant Gorse said. "It was really Corporal Nitley, and I knowhe got an invitation."

He looked around and spotted a familiar figure hurrying along the street.

"She'll take care of this," he said confidently. She was, after all, in his unit.

* * *

Mirabel Stonefist discovered that no one had time to make her a gown, or even repair the old one. She

tried the plastic wizard the Ladies' Aid & Armor Society had on retainer, but he was overbooked,

without even a spare six-hour reweaving or banish-stain spell.

She couldn't possibly mend it herself. She was even clumsier with needle and thread than with a pen.

That left only one possibility, her sister Monica. The Monica who was still angry with her for not rescuing

Cavernous Dire from a dragon. Hoping for the best, Mirabel knocked on her sister's door and explained

her problem.

"You have a lot of nerve," Monica said. "You didn't even invite us this year."

"I put your name on the list," Mirabel said. "I always do."

"I'm sure," Monica said, in the tone that meant she didn't believe it. "But when you need something—at

the last minute I notice, never mind my convenience—here you are. I'll fix it for you all right!" Monica

grabbed the dress, and ripped the bodice all the way to the waist. "There!" Then she slammed the door in

Mirabel's face.

Mirabel turned away from the door. That was it, then. She would just have to go in uniform, and be

laughed at. As she trudged down Sweet Street, someone hailed her.

"Why so gloomy?" Dorcas Doublejoints asked. Dorcas, an exotic dancer, had maintained her friendship

with the LA&AS ever since they'd solved the mystery of her missing belly.

Mirabel explained, and displayed the torn bodice.

"Oh, that's not a problem." Dorcas eyed her. "You won't fit my clothes, but we have lots of clothes in my

house. Come along with me."

* * *

Mirabel stood in Dorcas's suite, with a flutter of lovely girls around her, all offering their best gowns. She

noticed that they all called Dorcas "Miss Dorcas, dear" and drew her own conclusions. Somewhat to her

surprise, she found that the strumpets' best gowns were fine silk of the first quality.

Her fashion advisors settled on an apricot-shot silk with shimmering highlights. It hugged her body to the

hips, then flared into a wide rippling skirt. Three-puff sleeves ended in a drape of ivory lace. A small

scrap of the same lace peeked from the depths of the decolletage in front. Mirabel had always liked

low-cut gowns, but this one—she peered at herself in the mirror, wondering if she dared.

"Of course you do," Dorcas said, and the girls murmured agreement and admiration. "You have a

beautiful back, and quite sufficient cleavage. Enjoy it while you can." Mirabel grinned at her image,

thinking what her sister would say. No one had mentioned "corset," either.

The girls put up her hair, sprinkled it with something glittery, then painted her face. Ordinarily Mirabel

didn't use cosmetics, but she liked what she saw in the mirror. A shy redhead offered her dangling

emerald earrings, and a luscious brunette contributed an emerald necklace so spectacular that Mirabel

knew it must be a fake. At last Dorcas handed her a fluffy shawl, refused her offer of payment for the

loan of all this finery ("Don't be silly, dear; we're friends") and ushered her out the back door.

* * *

So, in the gathering gloom, Mirabel Stonefist found herself going to the ball in the most gorgeous outfit

she'd ever worn. Although it was a cold evening, and so much exposed flesh should have chilled her, she

felt warm through with excitement. She would be careful with her borrowed glamour, she told herself. No

jogging elbows, no tripping, no catching the lace on someone's belt buckle. She'd take everything back

the next day, safe and sound.

"Hey—Stonefist!"

She looked up, and there were the sergeants—six of them anyway—in their dress blues.

"Yessir?" Even on Ball Night, she couldn't avoid calling them "sir," at least once.

"Did you write the invitations this year?"

"Some of them," Mirabel said cautiously. "Why?"

"We didn't get ours," Sergeant Gorse said. "Didn't you notice we weren't on the list?"

"I didn't do all of them," Mirabel said. "Everybody helps. Are you sure they didn't just get lost? What did

Primula say?"

"We can't ask Primula," Sergeant Gorse said, "because that child at the door won't let us in without an

invitation, and she won't call Primula to the door. Get this straightened out."

"Of course," Mirabel said. She paused. "Are you sure it didn't have anything to do with the tropical fruit

surprise?"

Esther M. Friesner - Chicks 04 - The Chick Is In The Mail

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