The Best of Michael Moorcock

  Praise for The Best of Michael Moorcock

  “The 17 stories in this collection demonstrate the breadth of scope and the excellence in storytelling of SF Grand Master and multigenre author Moorcock . . . Moorcock crosses genres, bends boundaries, and breaks rules as only a master storyteller can.”

  —Library Journal

  “Moorcock is a throwback to such outsized 19th-century novelistic talents as Dickens and Tolstoy.”

  —Locus

  “Moorcock’s writing is top-notch.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[Moorcock] introduced me to the ridiculously powerful things that happen when you put a sophisticated, contemporary literary vocabulary at the service of a blackly grim high-fantasy imagination. A giant of the genre in every possible sense.”

  —TIME Magazine

  “It is all quintessential Moorcock—a wild, fascinating batch of stories fairly balancing the fantastic and the nearly ordinary, and showcasing Moorcock’s talent very well, thank you.”

  —Booklist

  “A handy, one-volume collection that serves as a superb introduction to the boundless imagination of this unique and fascinating author.”

  —Bookgasm

  “Something for everyone to love. . . . This collection illustrates the breadth of Moorcock’s talent. A long-overdue retrospective.”

  —The Guardian

  Praise for Michael Moorcock

  “The greatest writer of post-Tolkien British fantasy.”

  —Michael Chabon

  “Moorcock’s writing is intricate, fabulous, and mellifluous. Reading his words, I was, and am, reminded of music. His novels are symphonic experiences. They dance and cry and bleed and make promises that can only live in the moment of their utterance.”

  —Walter Mosley

  “Moorcock weaves history, myth, and alternate realities into a seamless whole.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “He is a giant. If you are at all interested in fantastic fiction, you must read Michael Moorcock.”

  —Tad Williams

  “A major novelist of enormous ambition.”

  —Washington Post

  “He is the master storyteller of our time.”

  —Angela Carter

  “The 20th century’s central fantasist.”

  —John Clute

  Praise for King of the City

  “One of our topmost novelists writing at the peak of his powers.”

  —Kirkus

  “This is Moorcock at his funniest, wittiest and most deadly.”

  —The Guardian

  “Wild humour, tremendous events are staged, confessions broached, public clowns ridiculed, but you can hear the racing clockwork of a damaged heart.”

  —London Review of Books

  Praise for Elric of Melniboné series

  “The spells that first drew me and all the numerous admirers of his work with whom I am acquainted into Moorcock’s luminous and captivating web.”

  —Alan Moore, creator of Watchmen and V for Vendetta

  “A work of powerful and sustained imagination which confirms Moorcock as the most important successor to Mervyn Peake and Wyndham Lewis.”

  —J. G. Ballard

  “One of the most rewarding fantasy novels I’ve ever read.”

  —The Bookchemist

  Selected Works of Michael Moorcock

  Series

  Elric of Melniboné

  The Stealer of Souls (1963)

  Elric of Melniboné (1972)

  The Sailor on the Seas of Fate (1976)

  The Weird of the White Wolf (1977)

  The Vanishing Tower (1977)

  The Bane of the Black Sword (1977)

  Stormbringer (1977)

  Elric at the End of Time (1984)

  The Fortress of the Pearl (1989)

  The Revenge of the Rose (1991)

  The Dreamthief’s Daughter (2013)

  The Skrayling Tree (2013)

  The White Wolf’s Son (2013)

  The Multiverse Trilogy

  The Fireclown (a.k.a. The Winds of Limbo) (1965)

  The Sundered Worlds (a.k.a. The Blood Red Game) (1965)

  The Twilight Man (a.k.a. The Shores of Death) (1966)

  Jerry Cornelius

  The Final Programme (1969)

  A Cure for Cancer (1971)

  The English Assassin (1972)

  The Condition of Muzak (1977)

  The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle (1980)

  The Entropy Tango (1981)

  The Alchemist’s Question (1984)

  The New Nature of the Catastrophe (1987)

  Firing the Cathedral (2002)

  Modem Times 2.0 (2008)

  The Eternal Champion Trilogy

  The Eternal Champion (1970)

  Phoenix in Obsidian (1970)

  The Dragon in the Sword (1986)

  Novels

  Gloriana (1978)

  The Golden Barge (1979)

  Mother London (1988)

  King of the City (2000)

  Sojan the Swordsman (2013)

  The Whispering Swarm: Book One of The Sanctuary of the White Friars (2015)

  As editor

  Best S.F. Stories from New Worlds, volumes 1-8 (1967-1974)

  The Traps of Time (1968)

  Before Armageddon (1975)

  English Invaded (1977)

  New Worlds: An Anthology (1983; 2004)

  The New Nature of the Catastrophe (w/ Langdon Jones, 1993)

  The Best of Michael Moorcock

  Edited by John Davey with

  Ann and Jeff VanderMeer

  Copyright © 2009 by Michael Moorcock

  This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form with out the express permission of the publisher.

  Interior design by John Coulthart

  Cover design and image by Ann Monn

  “Introduction” © 2009 by John Davey

  “Afterword: The Best of Michael Moorcock” © 2009 by Ann and Jeff VanderMeer

  All stories © Michael Moorcock

  Tachyon Publications LLC

  1459 18th Street #139

  San Francisco CA 94107

  (415) 285-5615

  www.tachyonpublications.com

  Series Editor: Jacob Weisman

  Print ISBN: 978-1-892391-86-5

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-61696-312-5

  All Stories copyrighted by Michael Moorcock.

  “A Portrait in Ivory” © 2007. First appeared in Logorrhea: Good Words Make Good Stories, edited by John Klima (Bantam: New York).

  “The Visible Men” © 2006. First appeared in Nature, No. 7091, May 2006.

  “A Dead Singer” © 1974. First appeared in Factions, edited by Giles Gordon and Alex Hamilton (Michaael Joseph: London).

  “Lunching with the Antichrist” © 1993. First appeared in Smoke Signals, edited by the London Arts Board (Serpent’s Tail: London).

  “The Opium General” © 1984. First appeared in The Opium General and Other Stories by Michael Moorcock (Harrap: London).

  “Behold the Man” © 1966. First appeared in New Worlds, No. 166, September 1966.

  “A Winter Admiral” © 1994. First appeared in the Daily Telegraph, March 1994.

  “London Bone” © 1997. First appeared in New Worlds, edited by David Garnett (White Wolf: Atlanta, Georgia).

  “Colour” © 1991. First appeared in New Worlds 1, edited by David Garnett (Gollancz: London).

  “Going to Canada” © 1980. First appeared in My Experiences in the Thi
rd World War by Michael Moorcock (Savoy Books: Manchester, England).

  “Leaving Pasadena” © 1980. First appeared in My Experiences in the Third World War by Michael Moorcock (Savoy Books: Manchester, England).

  “Crossing into Cambodia” © 1979. First appeared in Twenty Houses of the Zodiac, edited by Maxim Jakubowski (New England Library: London).

  “Doves in the Circle” © 1997. First appeared in The Time Out Book of New York Short Stories, edited by Nicholas Royle (Penguin: London).

  “The Deep Fix” © 1964. First appeared in Science Fantasy, No. 64, April 1964.

  “The Birds of the Moon” © 1995. First appeared in The Birds of the Moon by Michael Moorcock (Jayde Design: London).

  “The Cairene Purse” © 1990. First appeared in Zenith 2, edited by David Garnett (Orbit: London).

  “A Slow Saturday Night at the Surrealist Sporting Club” © 2001. First appeared in Redshift, edited by Al Sarrantonio (Roc: New York).

  Introduction by John Davey

  A Portrait in Ivory

  The Visible Men

  A Dead Singer

  Lunching with the Antichrist

  The Opium General

  Behold the Man

  A Winter Admiral

  London Bone

  Colour

  My Experiences in the Third World War

  Going to Canada

  Leaving Pasadena

  Crossing into Cambodia

  Doves in the Circle

  The Deep Fix

  The Birds of the Moon

  The Cairene Purse

  A Slow Saturday Night at the Surrealist Sporting Club

  Afterword by Ann and Jeff VanderMeer

  Some time ago, I compiled a selection of the best of Michael Moorcock’s short fiction, and “published” it in the ultimate limited edition—three copies—one file copy, one for Moorcock’s sixty-fifth birthday, and first and foremost one for my youngest daughter’s sixteenth (the same year).

  When Michael Moorcock later asked me to assist Jeff and Ann VanderMeer in editing a Best of . . . for public consumption, using my earlier, somewhat uncommercially large selection as its basis, I had little hesitation in agreeing to do so.

  What you see here is the result: a mixture of stories chosen by me and/or the VanderMeers—with a marked emphasis on what can be seen as a golden decade for Moorcock’s short fiction (the 1990s)—some of which have until now remained unpublished or uncollected in the U.S.A.

  How to arrange the stories posed one of the major problems. They actually span a period of more than forty years, from 1964 to 2006, and any attempt to arrange things chronologically was deemed unwise, as the book would end up front-loaded with stories which, whilst often no less powerful than their latter-day counterparts, might seem representative of a less mature talent.

  Instead, we opted for an almost random selection, trying merely to give, across the book as a whole, a reasonable mix of the old and the new, the long and the short, the fantastical and the comparatively down-to-earth. If this means that there is occasionally a stylistic jarring of the senses to be found—instances of which do indeed occur here and there—then so be it.

  I think that is all to be said by way of general introduction to this collection, although there is a mini-preface to each story in which its source and, where needed, its context are duly set out.

  The original, limited-edition collection, which this book resembles in more than a few ways, was dedicated to my youngest daughter, Rebecca. This version I dedicate, with every bit as much love, to my eldest, Emma.

  John Davey,

  London,

  August 2008

  In memory of

  Barry Bayley and Tom Disch

  A Portrait in Ivory (2005)

  We begin this collection with a tale of Elric of Melniboné. Proud prince of ruins. Kinslayer. Call him what you will. He remains, together with maybe Jerry Cornelius, Moorcock’s most enduring, if not always most endearing, character.

  Elric started life in response to a request from John Carnell, editor of Science Fantasy magazine, for a series akin to Robert E. Howard’s Conan the Barbarian stories. What Carnell received, while steeped in sword-and-sorcery images, was something quite different. The first tale to feature the albino emperor of Melniboné was “The Dreaming City” in 1961. In all, nine Elric stories appeared in the magazine between then and 1964. They formed the basis of two books, The Stealer of Souls and Stormbringer, although Moorcock has gone on to write many prequels and sequels to events therein.

  “A Portrait in Ivory” was written in 2005, for an anthology of stories crafted around winning words from the Scripps National Spelling Bee. The editor asked contributors to choose a word; Moorcock picked “insouciant.” This particular tale is set after the sacking of Imrryr, capital city of the Dragon Isle of Melniboné. It finds Elric—a shunned, outcast mercenary, wandering the Young Kingdoms over which his nation once ruled—in a contemplative, rather than a combative, mood. It was originally published in 2007, in Logorrhea: Good Words Make Good Stories (Bantam), edited by John Klima.

  1 An Encounter with a Lady

  Elric, who had slept well and revived himself with fresh-brewed herbs, was in improved humour as he mixed honey and water into his glass of green breakfast wine. Typically, his night had been filled with distressing dreams, but any observer would see only a tall, insouciant “silverskin” with high cheekbones, slightly sloping eyes and tapering ears, revealing nothing of his inner thoughts.

  He had found a quiet hostelry away from the noisy centre of Séred-Öma, this city of tall palms. Here, merchants from all over the Young Kingdoms gathered to trade their goods in return for the region’s most valuable produce. This was not the dates or livestock, on which Séred-Öma’s original wealth had been founded, but the extraordinary creations of artists famed everywhere in the lands bordering the Sighing Desert. Their carvings, especially of animals and human portraits, were coveted by kings and princes. It was the reputation of these works of art which brought the crimson-eyed albino out of his way to see them for himself. Even in Melniboné, where barbarian art for the most part was regarded with distaste, the sculptors of Séred-Öma had been admired.

  Though Elric had left the scabbarded runesword and black armour of his new calling in his chamber and wore the simple chequered clothing of a regional traveller, his fellow guests tended to keep a certain distance from him. Those who had heard little of Melniboné’s fall had celebrated the Bright Empire’s destruction with great glee until the implications of that sudden defeat were understood. Certainly, Melniboné no longer controlled the world’s trade and could no longer demand ransom from the Young Kingdoms, but the world was these days in confusion as upstart nations vied to seize the power for themselves. And meanwhile, Melnibonéan mercenaries found employment in the armies of rival countries. Without being certain of his identity, they could tell at once that Elric was one of those misplaced unhuman warriors, infamous for their cold good manners and edgy pride.

  Rather than find themselves in a quarrel with him, the customers of the Rolling Pig kept their distance. The haughty albino too seemed indisposed to open a conversation. Instead, he sat at his corner table staring into his morning wine, brooding on what could not be forgotten. His history was written on handsome features which would have been youthful were it not for his thoughts. He reflected on an unsettled past and an uneasy future. Even had someone dared approach him, however sympathetically, to ask what concerned him, he would have answered lightly and coldly, for, save in his nightmares, he refused to confront most of those concerns. Thus, he did not look up when a woman, wearing the conical russet hat and dark veil of her caste, approached him through the crowd of busy dealers.

  “Sir?” Her voice was a dying melody. “Master Melnibonéan, could you tolerate my presence at your table?” Falling rose petals, sweet and brittle from the sun.

  “Lady,” said Elric, in the courteous tone his people reserved for their own high-born kin, “I am
at my breakfast. But I will gladly order more wine . . .”

  “Thank you, sir. I did not come here to share your hospitality. I came to ask a favour.” Behind the veil her eyes were grey-green. Her skin had the golden bloom of the Na’äne, who had once ruled here and were said to be a race as ancient as Elric’s own. “A favour you have every reason to refuse.”

  The albino was almost amused, perhaps because, as he looked into her eyes, he detected beauty behind the veil, an unexpected intelligence he had not encountered since he had left Imrryr’s burning ruins behind him. How he had longed to hear the swift wit of his own people, the eloquent argument, the careless insults. All that and more had been denied him for too long. To himself he had become sluggish, almost as dull as the conniving princelings and self-important merchants to whom he sold his sword. Now, there was something in the music of her speech, something in the lilt of irony colouring each phrase she uttered, that spoke to his own sleeping intellect. “You know me too well, lady. Clearly, my fate is in your hands, for you’re able to anticipate my every attitude and response. I have good reason not to grant you a favour, yet you still come to ask one, so either you are prescient or I am already your servant.”

  “I would serve you, sir,” she said gently. Her half-hidden lips curved in a narrow smile. She shrugged. “And, in so doing, serve myself.”

  “I thought my curiosity atrophied,” he answered. “My imagination a petrified knot. Here you pick at threads to bring it back to life. This loosening is unlikely to be pleasant. Should I fear you?” He lifted a dented pewter cup to his lips and tasted the remains of his wine. “You are a witch, perhaps? Do you seek to revive the dead? I am not sure . . .”

  “I am not sure, either,” she told him. “Will you trust me enough to come with me to my house?”