"Peachy," I snapped. "What are you doing here, Ozma?"

"It's such a beautiful day outside, I thought you might need some company." A trickle of poison crept into her words. That was all it ever took with Ozma. Just a trace, to remind you how badly she could hurt you if she wanted to. "Don't you love the sunshine?"

For a moment I just gaped at her, inwardly fumbling for some replya"any reply, as long as it didn't involve hurling something at her head.

Finally I settled for, "Not really. What do you want, Ozma? Because I don't want you here."

"Ah. It's to be like that, is it?" The sweetness vanished from her face in an instant as she straightened, looking coldly down her nose at me. "There's been a murder. I expect you to deal with it."

"Uh, maybe you're confused. I'm not a detective, and I'm not a member of your royal guard. I'm the Crossover Amba.s.sador and the Wicked Witch of the West. Neither of those jobs comes with a *solve murders' requirement."

"No, but both of those jobs come with a *control your people' requirement, and Dorothy, one of your people is a murderer." Ozma's lips curved in a cruel smile. I balled my hands into fists, pushing them behind my back before I could surrender to the urge to slap that smile right off her smug, pretty little face. "The body was found Downtown, in the old Wizard's Square. My guards are holding it for you. Find the killer, and deliver him to me."

"Or what?" The challenge left my lips before I had a chance to think it through. I winced.

"Or I find a new amba.s.sador to keep the crossovers in line. A proper Ozite, perhaps, one who will have the nation's best interests at heart." Ozma kept smiling. "And you, my dear Dorothy, can look forward to an endless string of cloudless days. Sunshine does keep spirits up in the winter, don't you think? Rinn will stay here to show you to the body. Whenever you're readya"but it had best be soon, for everyone's sake."

She turned, leaving me staring, and swept out of the room. Her guard remained behind, standing uncomfortably beside the door. Jack stepped up beside me, his big orange pumpkin-head tilted downward to show the unhappiness his carved grin wouldn't let him express.

"Well, that wasn't very nice," he said.

"Get my pack," I replied, snapping out of my fugue. "I've got a murder to solve."

The Wizard was the first person to cross the shifting sands of the Deadly Desert with body and soul intact. He wasn't the last, not by a long shot. We should have known something was wrong with the spells that protected Oz when I made the crossing over and over again, traveling by every natural disaster in the book, but what did I know? I was just a kid, and Oz was the country of my dreams. I would have done anything to get back there. When Ozma told me I could stay, that we could be best friends and playmates forever, I cried. I would have done anything she asked me, back then. I would have died for her.

The one thing I couldn't do, not even when she asked, was stop the slow trickle of crossovers from appearing in Oz. They each found their own way across the sands, some intentionally, some by mistakeaand since each method of crossing back to the "real world" seemed to be a one-shot, once they were in Oz, they were in Oz for keeps. At first Ozma left them to find their own way. It had worked well enough for the early arrivals, but fewer and fewer crossovers were coming from places like Kansas. The farmlands found themselves overrun with people who didn't know which end of the plow was which. They threw the newcomers out, and one by one, the crossovers came to the only destination they had left.

The City of Emeralds. Which was now the Emerald City in nothing but name; only the oldest, richest denizens still wore their green-tinted gla.s.ses, updated with a special enchantment that made anyone who wasn't born in Oz disappear completely. This led to a few collisions on the streets, but as far as they were concerned, it was worth it. For them, the Emerald City was still the pristine paradise it had been before the crossovers came. For the rest of usa Jack and I left the apartment by the back door, with Ozma's guard tagging along awkwardly behind us. He looked as unhappy about the situation as I felt. His look of unhappiness deepened as he realized that we were heading for the stairs. "Are we not taking the skyways?" he asked hesitantly.

My status as Princess-c.u.m-Amba.s.sador-c.u.m-Wicked Witch was confusing for some peoplea"especially the kind of strapping young lad that Ozma liked to employ. "No, we're not," I said curtly and promptly regretted my tone. It wasn't his fault. More kindly I explained, "We're going Downtown, remember? Not every building in this area has connections to both the streets and the skyways. It's better if we go down low as soon as we can. If we take the skyways, we'll come out miles from Wizard's Square."

"I have a piece of the road of yellow brick attuned to my comrades in arms. It would lead us where we needed to go," he said with the pride of a farm boy who'd never had his own magic before.

I remembered being that young, and that naive. I hated him a little in that moment for reminding me. "That's just dandy, but I know where we're going. This door lets out within half a mile of the Square, and I'd rather not walk any farther if I can avoid it. You don't want to walk that far through Downtown either. It's not safe."

"I am in service to the Undying Empress," he said proudly. "I fear nothing in this city."

"Just keep telling yourself that."

Jack snorted. It was an oddly musical sound thanks to the acoustics of his head.

Rinn frowned at us. "I am sorry. Is there something I am unaware of?"

"We're going Downtown," I said. "Have you ever been there before? Yes or no?"

"No," he said sullenly.

"I didn't think so. All right. First rule of Downtown: don't act like your position means anything to the people who live there. Most of them were city folks before they crossed, and they're still city folks. They don't appreciate being reminded that things are different now. Second rule of Downtown: don't mention Ozma."

"But why not?" Rinn sounded honestly confused. "Surely they're grateful."

"Grateful? She herds them into slums. She coddles the ones who catch her eye and leaves the rest to fight for sc.r.a.ps. She lets them kill one another, steal from one another, and do whatever they want, as long as she doesn't have to look at them. Downtown isn't grateful. They hate her more than almost anyone or anything in Oz."

Rinn's eyes widened. To him I was speaking blasphemy. "What do they hate more?"

My smile was thin as a poppy's petal. "Me."

We'd been descending as we walked, moving out of the rarefied air of the upper city and down, down, down where the lost things lived. Buildings like mine are rare these days. They're technically considered Uptown since they're connected to the skyways, but they also have doors leading Downtown, making them vulnerable to compromise no matter how many spells are layered on to keep them secure. Good Ozites refuse to live in places like mine.

Good thing I'm not a good Ozite anymore. My building is a liminal s.p.a.ce, like me, neither part of Uptown nor Downtownaand 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 twilighta"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."

"Princea"Missa"Sorcera"" 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 Amba.s.sador to the Gray Country of Oz, built in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the City of Emeralds. "If that's too informal, you can call me Dorothy."

"Miss Dorothy, why is the Empressawhat I mean to say isa"

"He wants to know why Her Royal b.i.t.c.hness is threatening you with sunshine," said Jack. Rinn cast him a shocked look. The pumpkin-headed man was walking with more a.s.surance 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 for 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 speakeasies we pa.s.sed with an undisguised longing. Jack followed my gaze and sighed.

"No, Dot."

"Buta""

"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 one another. "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 unpredictablea"thanks to the slow decay of the pumpkins he used for headsa"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 a.s.sociate 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 cl.u.s.tered 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, allowing them to 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 wasn'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 worked 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 Amba.s.sador, in my witchy white. Even if they didn't know my face, they knew what the color meant. There were three witches left in Oz, and I was 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 Amba.s.sador."

"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 Ozmaa"not yet broken on the subject of the crossovers, not yet embittered and cruel, although the seeds were already sowna"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 business 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 t.i.tles 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 dived in, worming my way between bodies until I broke free into the circle of open s.p.a.ce 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 in the center of the Square, arms spread as if he had been trying to make snow angels on the pavement before 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, ruby, crimson, carnelian, scarlet, and macaw. That sort of motley marked him as a member of the upper cla.s.s, since getting those specific distinctions out of their dyes was difficult and expensive. His boots were wine-red leather, counter-st.i.tched with gold in honor of the road of yellow brick that brought the wastrel sons of rich families marching into the Emerald City. Those bootsa 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 youa"" 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 traita"Quadlings tend to be tall and skeletally thina"but city living can create anomalies in just about anyone.

The jeers finally turned to disgust and faded into muttering when I stuck my pinkie in the dead man's navel and began rooting around. Behind me Rinn asked in a horrified tone, "What is she doing?"

"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 thinly. "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 h.e.l.lo. h.e.l.lo. I'm Dorothy Gale, and this man is a Munchkin." I picked the lint from under my pinkie 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 whya "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, carefully prying his 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."

Everyonea"even the parts of the crowd close enough to hear mea"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 handathat didn't happen until the crossovers were well established and trying to find new ways of supporting themselves.

Because every crossover had to cross the shifting sands, one way or another, many of them arrived 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 a.s.s from one end of Oz to the other. Dust was addictive to Ozites and crossovers alikeaand if people weren't careful, it could also be deadly, just like the sands it was 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 normala"or what pa.s.sed 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 craveda"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 ident.i.ty 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 braceleta"one spell per stone, thank you, Winkies, thank youa"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 pa.s.sed, 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 emba.s.sy," 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 emba.s.sy. 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 highheeled boots. She could never have pa.s.sed for a Quadling. Lucky her. Maybe that would increase her chances of survival.

Although nothing was going to increase her chances of coming away without a b.l.o.o.d.y nose if she kept looking at me like something she'd just stepped in. "Amba.s.sador Boq isn't seeing visitors today," she said for the third time.

"Well, since I'm an amba.s.sador, 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 Amba.s.sador 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.

Her own smile faded. "One moment, please," she said and slid off her chair, vanishing into the back of the emba.s.sy.