Eric Flint's Blog, page 228

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 14

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 14

“Ship, prepare for lift-off!” Vesey said.

“Ma’am,” Hale said. “Thank you. And thank you for getting me this opportunity to serve with Captain Leary.”

“Lift-off!”

Vesey sphinctered the thruster apertures to minimum diameter. The mass flow was already at full, so the concentrated jets began to lift the corvette in a bubble of steam and free ions.

Adele settled onto her couch. Plasma thrusters didn’t crush people down, but the Sissie could exceed two gravities once it had overcome inertia. She was thinking about Hale’s words.

Adele had met Hale, an out of work midshipman, and had suggested to Cory that he tell his former classmate that Captain Leary was hiring crew to take a freighter to Corcyra. Hale had applied and signed on as a common spacer. She had been an asset for that voyage, and she was aboard the Princess Cecile now as a midshipman.

That had certainly been what Hale wanted, but Adele wasn’t sure it had been a favor to the young woman. Service on a warship was dangerous even in peacetime, and there was rarely peace where Daniel Leary took the Princess Cecile.

Everyone dies, Adele thought as the ship roared and trembled into the sky. Which means that we’re all racing on the way to our deaths.

She smiled.

The Matrix: between Cinnabar and Jardin

Daniel walked out on the hull of the Princess Cecile ahead of Miranda. He wore a rigging suit, armored against knife-edged fractures and hawsers worn into bristles of spearpoints; Miranda was in an air suit of tough fabric.

The Matrix, a panorama not of stars but of universes, flared above them. The Sissie was in a bubble universe of her own. The sails stretched on her four rings of antennas blocked Casimir energy and shoved her from one bubble to another. It was impossible to exceed the speed of light, but constants of velocity and distance varied among universes. By using those variations a starship could travel great distances in the sidereal universe, making a series of relatively short voyages in other universes.

Getting used to a stiffened hard suit required practice; until then the user was both uncomfortable and clumsy, which increased her danger. An air suit was safe for any regular use except running up and down the rigging to clear jams or to splice cables, and even for those tasks it was sufficient for anyone who was careful. A rigger in a crisis couldn’t be careful, not and do his job.

Daniel worried about Miranda, but — he grinned within his helmet — he was going to do that anyway. He didn’t hold Miranda directly, but he gripped the safety line which connected their suits. So long as one of Miranda’s magnetic sandals was planted on the steel hull, she should be fine; but it was her first experience outside a starship, let alone a starship in the Matrix.

The Sissie would continue on her present course for the next seventeen minutes, so the antennas and yards were motionless; there was no chance of a broken sheet whipping anyone off the hull. The riggers on duty — the starboard watch under Dasi — were at their scattered stations.

When hydro-mechanical equipment changed the area and aspect of the sails, the riggers watched to be sure that the result was what the semaphores indicated that the astrogational computer had intended. If a cable jammed or a gear didn’t rotate by the right number teeth or if any of a myriad of other possible things went wrong, the riggers corrected the problem with whatever tool was required.

Daniel stopped ahead of the Dorsal A Ring antenna on the Sissie’s bow. He waited until Miranda halted beside him, then took out the thirty-six inch brass communication rod which the tool shop of the Bantry Estate had manufactured to his specifications. He placed one end against Miranda’s helmet, then moved his own helmet against the other end and said, “This is all existence.”

He swept his free arm across the pulsing ambiance. The dense liquid filling the sealed rod vibrated to carry his words to Miranda without the awkwardness of touching helmets. An electrical impulse impinging on the sails, even a low-powered radio wave, could send a ship in the Matrix wildly off course. Riggers used hand signals — and experience — when a problem required coordination.

“These are every universe which has ever existed. This is the cosmos,” Daniel said. He took a deep breath and added, “This is paradise.”

He smiled, though Miranda couldn’t see his expression while he was facing forward. Perhaps she could hear the flush of contentment in his voice.

Miranda took her end of the rod to connect them firmly. “I can’t take it in,” she said. “I suppose that’s as it should be, since it’s well, everything. Each of those dots is a universe?”

The Matrix was a wash of pastels, the color of each bead varying according to its energy state relative to that of the universe in which the corvette was travelling at present. The astrogation computer of a starship could plot a practical course between any pair of points entered into it.

A really skilled astrogator, however, could shave hours or days off a course by studying the Matrix and choosing subtle gradations which better suited the ship’s purposes than the one-size-fits-all course which the computer provided. Daniel had been trained by his uncle, Commander Stacy Bergen, who had opened more routes than any other single explorer since the Hiatus in star travel had ended a millennium before.

Daniel had heard himself described as his uncle’s equal as an astrogator, which he knew was not true. He liked to think that Uncle Stacy wouldn’t be embarrassed by his nephew’s abilities, however.

“Daniel?” Miranda said. “You know you’re famous. Do you think about that?”

Daniel felt his stomach tighten. Does she know what I’ve been thinking?

But of course she didn’t, and anyway she hadn’t asked whether he was proud of his skills. She’d asked how famous he wanted to be.

“I don’t think about fame at all,” he said. “Well, that’s not really true — I’m human, I like to be praised, I like to be able to get seats when we go out no matter where we go. But I’ve never done anything because I thought, ‘People will praise me for this.’ Never. I’ve done things because I thought they were the right things to do.”

Or maybe because they were in front of me and I thought I’d try them. Much the way I used to pick up women at parties… Daniel didn’t say that, though it wouldn’t have surprised Miranda to hear.

He turned his head so that he was looking out his right sidelight toward Miranda. Hardsuit helmets were fixed to the torso piece and did not rotate with the wearer’s neck.

“Love,” Daniel said, “it’s like money. I like it and I like to spend it; but I spent money when I didn’t have it, so nothing much has changed there. As for power, I never wanted any except the power to run my own life.”

He grinned again, broadly. “I actually have less of that now than I did when I was a cadet,” he said. “There’s thousands of people that want a piece of me; at the Academy I only had to worry about my instructors and the cadre.”

The void before them was gradually turning green though the shade was barely bright enough to be called a color. The Princess Cecile would shortly transition into another universe. Since there was only a slight energy gradient, even a complete newbie like Miranda would be safe on the hull. Daniel intended to get her inside nonetheless.

“What about friends?” Miranda asked.

Daniel had been about to suggest they return to the forward airlock, but the question stopped him. “I…” he said. “Miranda, yes of course friends matter, more than anything else, I guess.”

He wasn’t sure that was true: a lot of things mattered to him, duty and Cinnabar and Miranda and the Leary name and a score of other things that were now fluttering around in his mind. But certainly friends.

“Having, well, being famous,” he said, “hasn’t brought me more friends, not real ones. It doesn’t work that way, you know that. The only real peer I have now is Adele. She doesn’t care what I’ve done for her or what I might do for her. None of the things that other people look at matter to her.”

“But at the reception…?” Miranda said.

The yellow-green ambiance was becoming more saturated, though it was still so faint as to be almost subliminal. Daniel shrugged mentally and said, “Vondrian and Ames and Pennyroyal, you mean? We knew each other at the Academy and knocked around together afterwards whenever we were all in Xenos — sitting in Navy House waiting for an assignment, often enough. We didn’t really spend a lot of time together.”

He felt a tingling as the corvette neared the boundary layer. “There in the kitchen,” Daniel said, “when we tied one on…that’s the closest I’ve come to carefree friendship since I was promoted. It’s not exactly that we were carefree at the Academy. We worried about grades and promotion and money, all that sort of thing. But we were mates, and getting drunk with mates is…there’s no strings on it. And it’ll never be that way except maybe once in a while, like at the reception.”

“Let’s go inside,” Miranda said, her voice very soft. She released her end of the commo rod and hugged him carefully.

Daniel led the way back to the hatch. The Sissie was already pulsing as they began the transition, but they would be inside before real discontinuity.

He closed the airlock behind them. Air pressure began to build, but before the light indicated it was safe to open the inner lock he leaned his helmet against Miranda’s. He said, “I keep thinking of Lord Anston, darling. An old man, frail and alone. But he was the greatest fighting captain the RCN ever had, in his day.”

“You won’t go that way, Daniel,” Miranda said. “You won’t be a lonely old man.”

Then she said, “One way or the other, my love, you won’t be that.”

 

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 23

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 23

“Well, at least you were quick,” said his grandmother. “Is she calling back?”

“Tomorrow. She’s out somewhere. She says she got my report.”

His grandmother gave him that sideways stare of hers. “And?”

“She says I did well,” said Tim, feeling a little defensive about it.

“An’ so yer should. Yer can do computers and things. I reckon yer teacher should have sent it to me, not her,” said his grandmother. “Now, we’ve got nearly no wind, the tide will be full about an hour after dark. Yer eyes are good enough, and the water will have warmed up. We’ll go spearing flounder. Get yer shorts on.”

She fetched out an old inner tube that had a cut-off twenty-five-liter tin jammed into the middle of it, and a barb-pointed fork on a pole, and a spare car battery from the shed, and a light on a pole. Minutes later Tim drove them, bumping down the track to the beach. The sea was mirror-calm, still and, in the shallows, not too cold.

The light was waterproof and pushed underwater. Shoals of tiny silver fish schooled to it, and then, in sudden alarm, darted away. “I can’t see well enough, Tim,” she said, as they waded in the knee-deep water. “You’ll have to look for the fish. They’re diamond shaped an’ you’ll see their eyes. They hide in the sand. You’ll see squid and flathead sometimes too.”

Tim looked. He saw the tiny silver fish, and a curious slim long-beaked garfish, skipping away…and nothing else, until he stood on a flounder. He screamed and fell over as it swam off.

“What happened?”

“I stood on something that squirmed under my foot and swam off.”

“Quick,” she said eagerly. “Up you get, see if you can follow the dust to where it settles.”

All Tim wanted to do right then was run for the shore, but she was so urgent, he stood up and looked around. And sure enough, there was a trail in the still water of the silt that the fish had stirred up. He walked closer…and nearly stood on it again before he saw it. It camouflaged well, and the edges of the fish were blurred into the sand. “I can see it. What do I do now?” he asked, looking down at it in wonderment, seeing the two small eyes looking up.

“Walk really slowly and quietly until it is less than an arm’s length from yer feet. Take yer time. Then lower the spearpoint into the water, until it is maybe a hand-width above it. Then yer push it down, hard, fast.

Tim did as he’d been told. He couldn’t believe the fish wouldn’t swim off, but it didn’t. It just lay there as the spear point got closer. He couldn’t breathe and it felt like the weight of the whole universe was pressing on him. Why should he care, a part of him demanded? But he did. He had to. He was sure he was going to miss…

He thrust the spear down into the water as hard as he could, and felt the sudden quiver and thrash as he lifted the fish. “I got it! I got it! I got it!!!” he yelled.

It was really weird. It sounded like a thousand people were yelling with him too, drumming their feet on the hard sand. Shouting in triumph, not in English, but he understood them anyway. And just then he felt like he was one of them. Like part of some huge family, generations of them, looking at him, and yelling in delight. The fish was beautiful and he was enormously grateful for it, that it had been there to be speared. To be food. That feeling was strange as an idea in itself, but right, somehow. He rocked on his heels in the sand, giddy with the adrenalin rush, as he stood there, holding the speared fish up to the star-patterned night.

“Well done!” said his gran, her voice full of pleasure too. “Hold him over the box, Tim.”

Tim did, and his grandmother worked the fish over the prongs with her knife. “Yer first fish. You done good, young man,” she said.

She’d always called him “boy” before. “That was just like…amazing!” He meant the way it had stayed still, and that really odd feeling he’d had when he’d thrust the spear through it. He was still shaking from it all.

And for once his grandmother seemed to understand without him trying to explain. She put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s in yer blood, Tim. My people have always done this. Always and always. This is our place. This is what we do, this is what we are. Without it, we’re just leaves in the wind. I’m glad yer here to carry it on.” Then she shook herself, and said gruffly. “Well, don’t just stand there. Get on with it. We need another one for our tea.”

Tim was thoroughly wet, and the air was cool, but absolutely nothing could have stopped him from getting on with it. And now that he knew what he was looking for, he saw the next fish, about twenty meters away. And then, a little farther on, two more close together.

“That’s enough for us. We can’t keep ’em,” said his gran.

Tim was still too fired up to want to stop. “But…”

She shook her head. “Yer don’t kill what yer don’t need. Other people will want a fish too.”

She sounded a bit like McKay about the flathead, thought Tim, as they walked towards the shore. And there, lying against a trail of weed, was an enormous flathead in his grandmother’s light. Tim didn’t care if they didn’t need it. He wanted that fish. He stalked forward, spear ready. Only this fish did not stay still, but swam off into the dark deep. He turned to follow.

“What is it?” asked his grandmother.

“Flathead! A really, really big one.”

“Yer won’t get it once they start swimming away. Yer came up in front of it, didn’t yer?”

“Yes. But I was careful. Slow.”

“Come up from behind next time. And don’t try to follow it. They’ll lead you out. I thought I saw that dratted seal-woman out there. She means no good to yer. Drowned a few of your ancestors and left their widows to raise the child on their own.”

“I don’t have any children.”

“Then maybe she won’t drown yer, yet.”

His grandmother was weird. Couldn’t see the fish, but thought she could see imaginary seal-women.

By the time they got to the beach Tim realized just how cold and wet he was. But he was still full of the hunt. He felt…right. His ears seemed still full of drumming, and his body was tired, but oddly full of energy.

He had strange dreams that night. Strange, but good. Full of smoke and drumming of heels on hard sand, and people dancing in the firelight, and he was there with them, dancing too, passing through the smoke.

* * *

Áed saw the spirits of the old ones weave and stamp their dance through the smokes of their spirit fires. They were a hunting people, and a young man’s first blooding was a very important matter to them. They had lived far more as part of the land, and the hunt, and the prey, had their love and respect. To hunt was what a man did. He brought food from the land — and the water — for his family with his spear and throwing sticks.

The seal-woman had been out there too, farther off to sea and hidden in the dark of the water. Her guile would have to be greater now. His master belonged to this land and it to him. They were part of each other, rock, sand, water, bush and blood. It would give him strength, if he learned to use it.

 

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 05

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 05

“But making illicit aqua vitae — what if I’m caught,” Phillip protested. There had been cases of apprentices being caught running illicit stills, and he didn’t want to risk their punishment. He said so.

“But that’s what’s so good about you doing it using the laboratory furnace. Who’s going to notice if you were to run a few extra alembic?” Heinrich Weidemann asked.

That was getting too close to home for Phillip. He had to share a room with Heinrich, and he could so easily make his life hell. But still Phillip resisted.

“We’ll make it worth your while,” Bartholomäus Kellner added.

Bartholomäus’ involvement almost rolled up Phillip’s resistance there and then. He was the assay office’s best hope of victory over the Goldsmith’s guild in the next Schützenfest. They were unlikely to punish him for possession of illicit alcohol, and if they didn’t punish Bartholomäus, then it was highly unlikely that they would punish his co-offenders.

“You’re the best there is, Phillip,” Christoph said. “Just look at how long they’ve left you on making acids. Nobody else has been stuck with that job as long as you have.” Frederik and Heinrich chimed in with their agreement.

“That just means I’m a slower learner than everyone else,” Phillip protested.

“Right,” Frederik said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “You’re such a slow learner that Herr Reihing and Herr Neuffer are happy to leave you running the distilling apparatus without supervision.” He stared intently at Phillip. “When I had my turn on the stills, I had both of them constantly breathing down my neck.”

“They only did that because they don’t want a repeat of what happened with Martin,” Christoph said. There were murmurs of agreement from the other apprentices.

“Herr Neuffer regularly checks up on me,” Phillip said.

Christoph nodded. “Sure he does. But I bet it’s only to check that you’re drinking enough. I’ve been watching him, and he barely gives the retorts and receivers more than a cursory glance when you’re running them.” He looked imploringly at Phillip. “They trust you, Phillip. They trust you to work on your own like they trust nobody else. You’re perfect for the job.”

Phillip searched the hopeful faces gathered around him. He didn’t know why they wanted the aqua vitae for their Twelfth Night party — well, actually he did know, but he didn’t understand why they wanted it triple distilled. That was much too strong to drink.

They were so earnest, and they were saying such flattering things about his capabilities. It would be nice to prove them correct, but Phillip wasn’t prepared to burn all of his bridges. “How about I try to sneak in an extra retort tomorrow and see how that goes? If that doesn’t raise any suspicions, then I’ll make as much as I can for your party.”

That offer was gratefully accepted, and most of the apprentices left, leaving Phillip with just his roommates.

“It’s going to be a great party,” Frederik said.

“I haven’t made any aqua vitae yet,” Phillip pointed out.

“But you will. We’re counting on you.”

And that, as far as Phillip was concerned, was the problem. Now he had to make the illicit aqua vitae, without getting caught.

Friday January 9, 1609

Ulrich Hechstetter, the head of the Augsburg assay office, sipped from the glass of strong liquor and sighed. “It’s a very good tipple, with not a hint of where they got the aqua vitae.” He looked across the senior staff lounge towards Master Paul Paler and his senior journeyman Jakob Reihing. “That means they must have triple distilled it. Do you have any idea where they hid the still?”

Paul shook his head. “We looked in all the usual places, but they hid it well this year.”

Ulrich though back to his days as an apprentice. “And none of the senior staff realized they had a still running? Surely they had to have someone attending to it constantly?”

“You’d think so,” Paul agreed. “But none of the journeymen reported unusual absences.” He snorted. “They made it look like they weren’t going to try and produce some strong alcohol for their Twelfth Night party this year.”

“Which should have started the alarm bells ringing.” Ulrich followed another sip with another sign of contentment. “Well, we’ll know better next year.”

Jacob chuckled and took a sip from his own glass. “It was nice of the apprentices to give the senior staff a couple of bottles.”

“It was cursed impertinent,” Ulrich muttered before taking another sip. “They were rubbing our noses in the fact that they were able to make more than enough for their party without us catching them.”

April 1609

Paul Paler was deep in thought as he read a report when there was a perfunctory knock on his door and the head of the assay office walked in. “Herr Hechstetter,” He said as he dropped the report and shot to his feet.

“Sit down, Paul,” Ulrich said as he pulled over a chair and sat down. “There’s something I want you to do for me.”

Paul fell back into his seat. “Yes, Herr Hechstetter?”

“Bartholomäus Kellner has complained about inconsistencies between different barrels of gunpowder. I want you to do something about it.”

“Powder? Barrels?” Paul stared at Ulrich in confusion for a few seconds before a light dawned. “Oh, you’re talking about gunpowder for the Schützenfest.”

“Of course I’m talking about the Schützenfest. And this year we are not going to be beaten by the Goldsmith’s guild.”

Paul winced. The annual festival was supposed to be a demonstration of the readiness of the guilds to do their part to defend the city, but with no war threatening the city, the competitions had become a matter of bragging rights. Unfortunately, in the Augsburg inter-guild shooting competition, the Goldsmith’s guild had placed higher than the assay office for each of the last ten years. To say it was getting embarrassing didn’t really convey the weight of feeling in the assay office. “I’ll see about checking the powder and get back to you.”

“I want a bit more from you than just confirmation that there is a problem, Paul. I want a solution.” Ulrich stared at Paul for a few seconds before leaving.

Paul looked at the papers he’d laid on his desk and sighed. They were important, but not as important as keeping his boss happy. He got to his feet and went in search of his senior journeyman.

****

Paul glanced around the laboratory, taking in the various apprentices hard at work. His gaze settled for a few seconds on the only apprentice who didn’t turned to see who’d come in before continuing the search for the senior journeyman who ran the laboratory. He located Jakob Reihing off in one corner and gestured for him to join him. It took only a few minutes to explain to Jakob what Ulrich Hechstetter wanted.

“Phillip Gribbleflotz can do the testing,” Jakob said. “It’s well within his capabilities, and you only have to show him how to do something once.”

“Gribbleflotz? Isn’t that the boy who claims to be the great grandson of Paracelsus?”

Jakob nodded. “That’s him over there.” He gestured towards the youth Paul had noticed earlier. He was still diligently checking some distillation vessels.

“Is he deaf or something?” Paul asked. “He’s the only apprentice that didn’t look around when I walked in.”

“Or something,” Jakob said. “He’s not easily distracted from whatever it is he’s working on.”

“And what’s he working on?”

“Right now, he’s making aqua fortis.”

The mention of the strong acid reminded Paul of a message he’d been asked to pass on. “That reminds me. The assayers asked me to thank you for the high quality of the acids you’ve been producing lately. They really appreciate how consistently pure they’ve been over the last few months.”

“That’s mostly because of Phillip. He’s got a knack for producing very pure acids and such.”

“A knack?” Paul asked.

Jacob shrugged. “He’s certainly very capable for his age and training. Maybe he really is the great grandson of Paracelsus.”

Paul responded to that suggestion with a derisive snort. “Just do whatever you have to do to attract his attention so we can tell him what he’s going to be doing for the rest of the day.”

****

Phillip was deeply involved in controlling the distillation of the aqua fortis from the mixture of green vitriol and saltpetre when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He kept his eyes on what he was doing. “Yes?”

 

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 23

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 23

I planted my hands again and pushed myself up, every movement deliberate, slow. I got to my feet and faced her. She wore jeans and a white tank top that revealed toned brown arms. Her hair was a good deal shorter than it had been in the photograph her parents showed me, barely reaching her neck. It was a good look for her. Magic obscured her features, but I could make out an oval face, and large dark eyes.

I had no trouble at all seeing the silver and black Ruger SR9 she had trained on my heart. She held it with both hands, a standard grip. I had a feeling she knew her way around a pistol and was probably a good shot.

“You shouldn’t have come after me. My parents are . . . they don’t understand.”

A drop of blood fell from my chin. I ran my tongue over my split lip, tasting blood and wincing at how much it stung.

“They’re worried about you,” I said. “And about your children. Where and when did you first see the silver-haired man?”

“I told you, I don’t remember. And even if I did, it wouldn’t matter.”

“You don’t know that. Anything you can tell me might matter.”

“I don’t know who he is. That’s the bottom line. The rest –” She shook her head. “What was that name you mentioned earlier?”

“Saorla?”

“Right. Who is that?”

I licked my lip again. “Do you know what a runemyste is?”

“Of course.”

“She’s like a runemyste only not. The runemyste I know calls her and her kind necromancers. Their power is similar to that of the runemystes, but they use dark magic, blood spells and the like. She’s powerful and she’s ruthless and she hates me a lot. I think she knows about you. Right after Amaya hired me, she warned me not to interfere.”

“You should have listened to her.”

“Well, I didn’t, and I’m here now. So instead of trying to drive me away, maybe you should accept that I’m here to help you, and even consider that having an ally might be a good thing.”

I cast the spell without hesitation, without bothering to repeat the elements three times. The transporting spell again. Her weapon, her hand, my hand.

Magic electrified the air, and an instant later, I held the Ruger. I didn’t aim it at her; I kept it lowered at my side. But I warded myself from attack spells, and cast a second warding to keep her from taking her pistol back.

The glare she threw my way could have flayed the skin from my bones, but she didn’t try to cast.

“Not bad,” she said, her tone grudging. “I should have been ready for it.”

“Yeah, you should have. Just like I should have been ready for the attack that knocked me down.”

I walked toward her and held out the Ruger for her to take.

She frowned, but took it. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not here to hurt you, and right now I’m not even interested in taking you back to Phoenix. I meant what I said. I came here to help. You’ve got some powerful mystes after you. I think you could use an ally.”

The frown lingered, but she hadn’t yet pointed the pistol at me again, which I took as a small victory.

“I’ll think about it,” she said after some time. She started away from me, back toward her campsite. “For now, keep your distance.”

I watched her walk away before making my way to the nearest of the campground restrooms to clean up my lip. Once the blood was gone, it didn’t look too bad. It was going to be swollen for a couple of days, but that was the price I paid for turning my back on another weremyste without warding myself.

I retreated to my site, and then, because there was nothing else to do, I pulled out my tent and set it up on a wide expanse of fine dirt and gravel some distance from the road. A hummingbird buzzed around the brush and trees as I worked, its purple throat glistening in the twilight sun. When I finished I walked to the station at the head of the campground loop to pay for my site. I took the long way around when I went, but on the way back I passed by Gracie’s campsite.

This time, she and both children were out of the tent. They had a small camp stove set up on the picnic table and appeared to be making some kind of flavored rice dish. Gracie glanced my way as I approached the site, but she said nothing to me. The boy held a smart phone in his stubby fingers and wore ear buds. He seemed completely absorbed by whatever was on the screen.

The girl, though, watched me, as she had earlier when I drove in. I tried smiling at her again, but she didn’t smile back. Something occurred to me then — I should have thought of it before, when I was lying on the ground, but my mind had been focused on other things. I considered stopping to ask Gracie more questions, but she had told me to stay away, and I wasn’t going to win her trust if I ignored her wishes.

I dug into the food I’d brought and made myself a sandwich of avocado, tomato, and cheese, which was something of a camping tradition for my dad and me.

The sky darkened. The moon climbed higher, bright white against deep indigo. A few stars began to emerge in the velvet, and nearby a great-horned owl hooted, low and resonant. Airplanes passed high overhead, blinking like fireflies, the muted drone of their engines trailing behind them.

I heard Gracie talking to the kids, although I couldn’t make out a word of what she said. At one point the boy squealed with laughter, bringing a smile to my face. Soon after, they grew quiet. I thought they must have gone to sleep, but a short time later magic hummed in the ground and the air. Before I knew it, I was on my feet, striding toward their site, my Glock in hand, my pulse racing. I stopped near their site. I didn’t see any new cars, or, for that matter, anything else to indicate that they were in trouble. I had heard no voices since the boy laughed, but now I could make out the rustling of sleeping bags.

I scanned the nearby campsites, but they were still empty.

Now that I thought about it, the magic I’d felt could have been a warding. With only a tent over their heads, Gracie would want to have magical shelter as well. My heartbeat slowing, I made my way back to my site. I would probably be smart to ward my tent before I went to sleep, too.

I sat on top of my picnic table and stared up at the sky again. The moon was too bright for the stars to be truly spectacular, the way they can be sometimes in the middle of the desert, but still it was as beautiful a night sky as I had seen in some time. I needed to get out of the city more.

I heard the high metallic whine of a tent zipper, and a moment later the scrape of approaching footsteps.

Gracie had put on a fleece jacket, and she had put away her weapon, though I assumed she had it on her. I would have in her position. She stopped in front of my site, but remained on the road, her hands buried in her jacket pockets.

“May I?” she asked

“Sure.”

She hesitated, then took a step, seeming to think that something would happen when she crossed the boundary of my site. When nothing did, she stepped to the table and sat as far from me as possible.

“I heard you a couple of minutes ago,” she said. “You came to our site.”

“Yes. I felt magic, and thought you might be in trouble.”

“It was a warding. And it’s a good thing you didn’t come closer. It would have burned you to a crisp.”

I let out a harsh laugh. “Thanks for the warning.”

She stared back at me.

“Don’t you think it would have been a good idea to tell me that before you cast the spell? What if I had come closer?”

“I told you before to keep your distance. That’s all the warning you should have needed. Either you really are here to help, in which case you would have done as I said, or you’re lying to me, in which case you would have deserved what you got.”

It was my turn to stare. “Boy, you are a piece of work, aren’t you?”

“Do you have kids?” she asked, her tone hard, the words reminding me of her husband.

“No, I don’t.”

“Then you can’t possibly understand. I’ll do anything to keep them safe. Anything at all. And I make no apologies for that.”

I nodded. I might not have kids, but I had Billie and my dad and Kona, and I knew the lengths to which I’d go to keep them safe. “I understand more than you think I do.”

She considered me, her expression unreadable in the pale moonlight. I thought I saw some of the tension drain from her shoulders.

We sat in silence for what felt like a long time. Finally she stood. “Well, I guess I should get back. Zach doesn’t sleep well when I’m not there.” She started to turn away.

“Your daughter is already showing signs of possessing magic, isn’t she?”

Gracie went still, like an animal unsure of whether it should bolt or attack.

“When you threw that spell at me today, you did it without seeing my face, and without having seen me drive in. After I was on the ground, you told me specifically that if you felt a spell, you’d shoot. She saw the magic on me, didn’t she? She told you I was a weremyste.”

She jerked into motion, walking swiftly back to her site. “Leave us alone,” she said over her shoulder. “If you come near us again, I’ll kill you.”

 

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 04

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 04

April 1607

Phillip had been an apprentice for nearly a year, and his mother hadn’t written to him once. He had hoped that she would at least remember his birthday, but that had been and gone without a word. He kicked out at a stone on the road and idly watched it careen down the road as he continued to plod along beside the Fuggerei’s new apothecary.

The Fuggerei was a social housing complex founded by and supported by the Fugger family for the needy citizens of Augsburg and Herr Reihing had ordered him to assist Thomas Schmidt while he collected various materials — herbs, fungi, and bits of plants, including a lot of willow branches — to be used in the preparation of remedies for the residents of the Fuggerei. It had turned out much more interesting than he’d expected, because Herr Schmidt was a bit of a natural teacher. Either that or he liked the sound of his own voice so much he was happy to talk about anything. Whatever, deliberately or otherwise, Phillip had learned a lot about the various plants they’d collected and what they were used for. And maybe, if he was lucky, Phillip hoped he’d be asked to help prepare the various treatments Herr Schmidt intended to make.

“I hear that your stepfather was an apothecary in Bad Überkingen,” Thomas said as they walked back to the assay office facility. “With that and your own interest in materia medica I’m surprised you didn’t apprentice to an apothecary.”

Phillip turned to look at Thomas. “My great grandfather was Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus, and I want to be the world’s greatest alchemist, just like he was.”

“Paracelsus?” Thomas asked.

Phillip nodded.

“Are you sure he’s your great grandfather?” Thomas asked.

Phillip realized Herr Schmidt had obviously heard that Paracelsus never married and supposedly never had any children. “Mama says that her father, my maternal grandfather, is the illegitimate son of Paracelsus, and that the family passed him off as the son of Paracelsus’ cousin in order to secure an inheritance.”

“That’s an interesting story,” Thomas said.

“It’s not a story. It’s the truth. My mama wouldn’t lie,” Phillip protested.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure your mother wouldn’t lie to you,” Thomas said. “So you want to be like Paracelsus? Are you planning on going to university?”

“One day,” Phillip muttered. “But I need to improve my Latin first. My stepfather insisted that I help him in his shop rather than go to a specialist Latin school.”

“Well, if you like, I can have a word with Master Paler. Maybe he can arrange for you to take lessons.”

Phillip’s eyes lit up. “Oh, thank you, Herr Schmidt.”

That evening

Thomas Schmidt placed his glass carefully on the little table beside the chair before collapsing into the chair opposite the assay office’s senior chemist. Once there he picked up his glass of wine and sipped it. “That Phillip Gribbleflotz is an interesting character. Did you know he wants to learn Latin so he can go to university one day?”

Paul Paler looked over his wineglass. “Why would he want to go to university?”

Thomas sniggered. “He wants to follow in his great grandfather’s footsteps.”

“What’s so funny about that? Lots of boys Gribbleflotz’ age want to follow in the footsteps of a famous ancestor. Who’s he hoping to emulate?”

“Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim.”

Paul was caught with a mouthful of wine, which he managed to spray everywhere as he tried vainly to smother a laugh. While he mopped up the wine he looked at Thomas. “Paracelsus never married.”

Thomas nodded. “But that doesn’t mean he never had any children.”

“I don’t remember ever reading about any bastard children.”

Again Thomas nodded. “But just because you didn’t hear about them doesn’t mean they didn’t exist.”

“Come off it, Thomas. Paracelsus himself was the bastard son of a bastard son. It’s not likely the Bombastus family would let a little thing like illegitimacy stop them laying claim to Paracelsus’ son.”

“Unless they had a better reason to keep it quiet.”

“What possible reason could the Bombastus family have for keeping yet another bastard a secret?”

“What if they wanted to pass off the child as the son of Paracelsus’ childless cousin in order to secure an inheritance?”

Paul whistled. From everything he’d ever heard about the family he could see them doing that. “Is that what young Gribbleflotz claims happened?”

“That’s the gist of the story his mother told him, and just in case there is an element of truth to it, we should keep it between ourselves. His grandfather is still alive, and you know what families are like when it comes to inheritances.”

Paul nodded his agreement, but such a story just begged to be told to one’s trusted confidants — on the strict understanding that it wasn’t to be passed on. In less than a week everyone at the assay office knew that Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz believed himself to be the great grandson of Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim, also known as Paracelsus, one of the renaissance’s greatest scientists.

A lot of people hearing the story didn’t believe it, and a few of the apprentices expressed the intention of confronting Phillip over the issue. However, they were actively discouraged from doing this when Bernhard Bimmel stood up. He didn’t say he believed Phillip’s story, but he made it clear in his own inimitable way that he supported Phillip’s right to believe that he was the great grandson of Paracelsus.

June 1608

At least one of the apprentices in the little classroom listened attentively as the teacher went over the lesson. Phillip had been attending Latin classes ever since that plant gathering expedition with Thomas Schmidt and he was sure he was making progress. The teacher left the homework on the blackboard for the students to copy down in their books and then they were free to report to their supervising journeymen.

Phillip was intercepted by Wilhelm Neuffer the moment he appeared outside Jakob Reihing’s laboratory. “Ah, good. You’re here. How’s the Latin going?” Wilhelm asked as he walked with Phillip to the local equivalent of a cloakroom.

“Very well, Herr Neuffer.”

“Good. Well, put your books away and grab your apron. We’ll be doing something new today.”

“What?” Phillip asked eagerly as he hastily donned his heavy leather protective apron.

“Today we start you making Oil of Vitriol.”

Phillip didn’t miss a step even as the words generated an image of Martin Brenner being enveloped in a cloud of acidic vapor in his mind. “I used to help my stepfather make Oil of Vitriol.”

“And do you think that means you’re qualified to make Oil of Vitriol?” Wilhelm asked.

Phillip shook his head. “No, Herr Neuffer.”

“Good. There are only two ways to make anything here — the way I teach you to do it and the wrong way. Remember, that. Now, are you ready to start?”

“Yes, Herr Neuffer.”

Wilhelm took Phillip through the whole process, from heating the ground green vitriol, or copperas as it was also called, until it lost its green and blue color, to the roasting in a glass retort and collecting the vapors — although as the laboratory was still experiencing a period of safety consciousness after the accident that killed Martin Brenner Phillip’s role was mostly limited to watching and keeping the fire stoked so that it burned as hot as possible.

The resulting condensate had a slightly yellow color. Of course, the roasting of the green vitriol took a long time, so it was sometime the next day before he got to watch Wilhelm test the strength of the acid they’d produced. The way the hole appeared in the rag where he’d dripped a little Oil of Vitriol was suitably impressive. It was as if he’d held a flame to the rag, although it didn’t catch alight. It was certainly a timely reminder to always wear his heavy leather apron to protect not only his clothes, but also his skin.

Over the next few months Phillip learned to make Oil of Vitriol, aqua fortis, aqua regia, acidum salis, and even high strength aqua vitae — which were not intended for human consumption, not even if diluted with fruit juice.

December 1608

“Come on, Gribbleflotz. Everyone knows you’re virtually left to run the distilling furnace on your own,” Bernhard Bimmel said.

Phillip had been quietly sitting on his bed sewing lime green cuffs to a shirt when the deputation of senior apprentices appeared with their simple request.

 

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 22

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 22

Closer to the road, huge saguaros grew beside equally impressive clusters of the organ pipe cacti for which the monument was named. They shared the desert floor with brittlebrush and creosote, mesquite and paloverde, chollas and ocotillos and prickly pears, creating a stunning palette of soft earth tones. A woodpecker flew across the road to one of the larger organ pipes, its wings flashing white and black, and a covey of quail ran along the roadside, the curved plumes on their foreheads bobbing comically. Ahead, beyond the entrance gate, the sheer, rugged cliffs of the Ajo Mountains appeared to glow red in the late afternoon sun.

I had been here once with my dad, many years ago, but I had forgotten how beautiful it was. More recently, the monument had been saddled with a bad reputation as one of the least safe of America’s national parks and monuments. The monument sits right on the border with Mexico, and since its establishment back in the 1930s, the park service had resisted efforts to put large fences along its southern edge. They preferred to keep the park scenic and natural, and to allow the free flow of wildlife through that section of the desert. I can understand their thinking. But as a result, Organ Pipe National Monument had long ago become a popular place for illegal crossings by immigrants as well as drug couriers. And in 2002, a park ranger named Kris Eggle was killed in a shootout with members of a Mexican drug cartel. That tragedy focused attention on the problem and convinced the service and border security to take more decisive action. They constructed a steel fence along the southern edge of the monument, which had curbed some of the motor traffic across the border.

Still, illegal crossings continue to this day, and the monument’s reputation as a somewhat dodgy vacation destination persists. This was one more reason why it seemed to me the perfect place for Gracie Davett and her kids to lie low. The campgrounds wouldn’t be crowded, and if they decided that fleeing the country made sense . . . well, the porousness of the border worked both ways.

I paid an entrance fee at the park gate, and drove through the scenic core of the monument, known as the Valley of the Ajo. Those stark cliffs loomed to the east, basking in the golden sunlight. Black vultures circled over the drive, the silvery patches at the ends of their wings catching the light, and lizards scuttled across the road, their tails held high as they vanished into the saltbrush. I couldn’t help but smile. At some point I would have to bring my dad back here.

I passed the visitor’s center, which was named for Eggle. Soon after, the road wound into the Twin Peaks campground.

For a few hours now, I had been wondering how best to approach Gracie. I didn’t want to scare her, but I knew that as soon as she saw the blur of magic on my face she would assume the worst and would throw assailing spells at me. I had confidence in my ability to ward myself against whatever spells she tried. Then again I’m sure the two guys she killed at the Burger Royale had been confident, too.

I eased the pickup onto the campground loop, and followed it to the far end, where the tent sites were located. I didn’t figure Gracie was driving an RV. I turned onto the first of the two “tents-only” rows, driving slowly past the sites like any newcomer trying to find a good place to pitch a tent. Some of the sites were taken. Two or three had tents pitched on them but no cars parked on the sites. People milled about on several of the others. But more than half of the campsites were empty. Reaching the end of this row, I had to circle all the way back to the front of the loop to try the second row, which was also the last row in the campground, farthest from the ranger station. About halfway down this road, I spotted what I’d been looking for. A silver Honda minivan sat parked next to a large blue and white domed tent.

At first I didn’t see any adults. But as I rolled past the van, I spotted a little girl sitting at the picnic table by the site’s fire grate. Pretty and grave, her skin nut brown, her dark hair hanging loose to her shoulders, she watched me, unblinking. I gazed back at her, remembering the picture of Gracie I’d seen at Amaya’s. This girl had to be her daughter. After a moment, I smiled, but her expression didn’t change. And as soon as I was past their site, she jumped up from the table and ran to the tent.

I hadn’t wanted to alarm them. Seems I’d failed already, and I had yet to say a word to any of them or even get out of the truck.

I pulled into an empty site two down from theirs and climbed out of the cab. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I felt the moon. My eyes were drawn to it; its pull was magnetic. It hung low in the eastern sky, pale and large, paralyzing in its beauty. It was still a half dozen days shy of full, but its weight on my mind felt as solid and real as the door of the pickup against my hand. Every phasing was bad — I had no reason to think that this one would be any worse than last month’s or the one before that. But at that moment, I found it hard to believe that we were still days away from the full. Maybe it was being out here in the desert, far from the city. Whatever the reason, the moon’s pull seemed more powerful here, more insistent.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts and walked around the campsite a bit, making it seem as though I were figuring out where I would place my tent. I made a point of not looking back toward Gracie’s minivan or that blue tent. The last thing I wanted was to spook them into leaving.

As it turned out, that wasn’t the danger.

The spell hit me between the shoulder blades with the force of a cannon ball. I went down hard, my face and chest slamming into the sand and gravel. My mouth throbbed painfully. I could tell I had split my lip; I hoped I hadn’t lost a tooth as well.

Before I could get up, a footfall scuffed behind me.

“Don’t even breathe,” a woman’s voice said. If she was scared, she hid it well. “Keep your hands where I can see them. And if I feel the slightest touch of magic, I swear to God I’ll blow your head off.”

I heard the tentative crunch of another step.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Jay Fearsson.” I had trouble forming the words. My lip was already swelling, and I was talking into the ground. But I forged on. “I’m a private detective. Your parents hired me to find you.”

She laughed, dry and harsh. “That’s bullshit. Did Neil send you?”

“No. I swear, your parents did. I met them at Jacinto Amaya’s house. He’s paying me, but on their behalf.”

No answer. Apparently she hadn’t expected that.

“I guess your mom — Marisol — she teaches at Chofi’s school. That’s Amaya’s daughter. She loves your mom; Amaya said she’s the kid’s favorite teacher.” I was babbling, but I hoped that at least some of what I said might convince Gracie I was telling the truth.

“How did you find me?”

“Your mother said you like to camp, you and the kids. And after what happened at the restaurant, I figured you’d want to find an out of the way place to hide, somewhere cheap, something you could pay for without using a credit card. The campgrounds near Saguaro National Park would have been another choice, but it’s too obvious, too close to Tucson. So I guessed you were here.”

“Crap.” She said it in a low voice; I’m not sure she realized she had spoken aloud.

“It was either here or San Diego,” I said, still talking for the sake of it. I didn’t imagine I could win her trust with this soliloquy, but maybe I could keep her from shooting me. “The spell you put on I-10 around Casa Grande was a little heavy-handed. But then you didn’t use any magic at the exit off of I-8, which was smart. I think most people would keep driving toward California.”

“You didn’t.”

“That’s because I spoke to your mom. If she hadn’t mentioned camping, I wouldn’t have thought to come here.”

She said nothing, and for several seconds all was silent except for the distant liquid song of a canyon wren. Thinking perhaps I had convinced her to trust me, I moved my hands, bracing them on the rough ground so that I could push myself up.

“Don’t!” she said, before I could raise myself off the ground.

I held my hands up. “I was just going to get up.”

“I know damn well what you were going to do. And I’m telling you not to.”

“I’m here to help you, Gracie.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I disagree. I know who’s after you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean. Who do you know?”

“I know Saorla. And I also know the Phoenix police. I used to work for them.”

“A weremyste cop? I’m not sure I believe that, either.”

“Tell me about the silver-haired man.”

She didn’t answer right away. “What do you know about him?”

“I know that he can kill with a touch, that he can pull blood for a spell without having to cut someone. Do you know his name?”

“No.” She said it with some hesitation, leaving me unsure as to whether I should believe her.

“Had you seen him before the restaurant?”

“Possibly. I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember? He strikes me as someone I’d have trouble forgetting.”

“Well, that’s you. Get up.”

 

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 22

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 22

It was a solid, heavy piece of steel, with the outside casing made of a yellow, scratched…something.

“It’s supposed to be walrus tooth. Sailor’s knife, been in my family a long time. Must have come from Scotland, somewhere. We don’t have walrus here.”

Tim opened the knife warily. It had obviously been sharpened many times. Once it must have been quite a broad blade. Now it was narrow. He tested it against his finger, and cut himself. “Ouch. It’s sharp,” he said, looking at it.

“Yer keep it that way,” said his grandmother. “What use is a blunt knife? It’s not this new stainless steel, boy. It’ll rust. Yer oil it, clean it after yer use it, and keep it sharp.” She took a deep breath. “And yer keep it with yer all the time. Especially at the sea, or near it. That seal-woman doesn’t like iron. I didn’t know she was still around. Yer don’t ever go into the sea without a knife. You wash it in fresh water and oil it after, as soon as you can.”

“But…it’s dangerous. I…I’m not allowed to have a knife.” He could just imagine his mother finding it. Or someone at St. Dominic’s. Or the store where he’d been caught.

His grandmother snorted. “Townie nonsense. They got nothing they need a knife for, except to try and pretend they’re tough, and cut each other. It’s different here, Tim, working on the farm. A knife ain’t dangerous, any more than a spade. It’s laid there in that drawer for forty years and not hurt anyone. It’s what you do with it that’s dangerous, if you’re a fool or a little child. It’s a tool, not a toy. Don’t play with it. And never test it on yer thumb.”

Tim felt quite peculiar about the old knife. He wanted it. But he was scared about being in trouble because of it. “They won’t let me have it at school.”

His grandmother rubbed her chin, a sign, Tim had learned, that she was considering something. “Fair enough. It’s far from the sea. But the minute you get back here it goes in yer pocket. No going near the water without it.”

That was rather different from the warnings his mother had given him.

* * *

Áed saw the knife and, because he was a creature of air and darkness, saw those aspects to the piece of steel too. It had the marks of blood on it. Fae or half-Fae blood, which left stains that did not wash away. The marks were old and fading, but it was ironic that this knife would come to the child-of-the-child-of-the-child-of-the-child…many times of the changeling blood spilled on it. In the distant past…it had killed Finvarra’s half-human child, here. It was appropriate, a repayment of a kind, that it should now be the defense against Finvarra’s sendling. It would be effective on the selkie too, and quite possibly kill her, if the master had the sense to have it with him, and to use it.

Áed made a point to tell the selkie about it that night, while the young master slept, exhausted by his labors. “An iron tooth he carries. It’s had the lifeblood of one of the Aos Sí gush over it,” said Áed. He relished that part. “He keeps it next to his skin, seal-woman. Neither your art nor all the water in the sea will save you, if he wields it against you in fear.

The selkie smiled, showing her tricuspid teeth. “It’s first that I’ll bargain for what I want, little one. I always bargain first…after frightening them a bit. Forewarned is also forearmed, though, if bargaining fails.”

Áed knew he’d at least made her wary. He was not sure that was a good thing.

* * *

Tim found the December holidays had sneaked up on him. To the other kids, school might drag, but although he would rather have died than admit it, he quite liked going there. One was supposed to hate school, and long for the holidays. However, the holidays were a big uncertain area, and Tim knew it would be majorly uncool to admit it too, but tiny classes and fairly flexible work suited him better than the “you are just a number to pay the fees” attitude at St. Dominic’s. There, money, and how you dressed, and how good you were at ball sports counted. He didn’t drip money, couldn’t get his mother to buy the right clothes for him, and was never going to be any good at ball games. He’d been left out. Here…well, it was difficult to avoid being involved. Besides, he’d found he was good at swimming, at least by local standards. The school pool was a place where he felt a bit of a champion, and where swimming lessons back in Melbourne paid off. There was nothing like winning a race to make you feel like taking part in the other things, Tim found.

Term ended. Tim waited for the call saying he was heading back to Melbourne for the holidays.

So, plainly, did his grandmother. “Yer better call yer mother,” she said, on the second night of the holidays. It hadn’t been much of a holiday, so far. They’d been fixing the troughs and fetching in the hay. Tim was a much better driver by now, but the hay was hard work. He hurt and itched and sweated and sneezed. And Gran just kept going. “Yer’ve come on, boy,” she said at the end of it all. “Yer couldn’t have picked up a bale when yer come here.”

It was still heavy enough, like the telephone in his hand. He dialed. It rang. He tried to think of what he’d do, back in Melbourne. Who he’d go and see. Who he’d hang out with, and…and…

The phone went on ringing. Eventually the answering machine cut in, with his mother’s lilting voice. “I’m sorry, I’m not home. Please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.”

He hadn’t thought of what to say.

“Uh, Mum. It’s me. Tim. I was just wondering, um, about the holidays…” He realized he had no idea what the phone number was here. His grandmother hadn’t been about to give him any privacy for this. She was standing right there. He put his hand in front of the mouthpiece. “What’s our number? I’m leaving a message.”

“Our number…” Nan told him, and he had to put the phone down. He wondered where his mum was? If she was all right…What if she was dead, or in a hospital or something? Would he spend the rest of his life here? He felt the little bag hanging around his neck. Not a chance. He was 17.4 percent of the way to Melbourne already.

“Out gadding,” said his grandmother, disapprovingly. “Looking for another man, probably. We’ll try in the morning. Bet she will be in her bed when the cow is being milked.”

Tim had gotten more or less used to that by now. That would be something he could do in Melbourne. Not get up and milk the cow. The cow would just have to cope with Nan.

“I didn’t think. I could call her mobile.”

“It costs extra.”

“Please…I want to know,” he asked, worried now. “She might have had an accident or something.”

His grandmother rubbed her chin, then nodded. “Tell her to call you back on the landline.”

He dialed the number. He had to think to remember it…It had been a while. Hailey’s number, he had down pat still. Not that he would call it after the Island Show! His mother’s phone rang twice, and she answered. There was laughter and music in the background. “Tim? Is something wrong?”

“No. I just wanted…”

“I’ll call you in the morning, dear. I got your report. You have done well, but I can’t talk now. Bye-ee.”

 

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 13

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 13

CHAPTER 5

Bergen and Associates Yard, Cinnabar

Adele settled comfortably at the signals console of the Princess Cecile. Because the ship was well overstrength, every seat on the bridge was taken. Tovera would normally have been in the striker’s seat on the back of the signals console; for this voyage she was on a jumpseat against the aft bulkhead and Midshipman Hale shared Adele’s console.

The Sissie’s bridge was more of a home to Adele than the library of Chatsworth Minor was…though when she thought about it, she didn’t think of anyplace as “home” in the sense that other people seemed to do. She lived in her own mind.

That had been as true while Adele was growing up as the child of a powerful Senator Lucas Mundy as it was now as a respected member of the crew of the Princess Cecile. In the years between she had lived hand to mouth as an orphan and a penniless scholar. During that time her ability to ignore external reality had been a valuable survival tool.

“Testing thrusters One and Eight,” a voice from the Power Room announced over the PA system and the general channel of the ship’s intercom. Adele didn’t think Pasternak himself was speaking, but the sound quality was too poor for her to be certain.

Two of the eight thrusters lit, shaking the ship and blasting iridescent plasma into the water of the slip. Their nozzles were flared open to minimize impulse; even with the leaves sphinctered down to minimum aperture, two thrusters weren’t enough to lift the corvette from the surface.

Adele brought her display up and began sorting communications inputs. There wasn’t any reason to do that here and very little benefit to the practice anywhere else, but it was Adele’s habit to know as much as possible about her surroundings. Not because of possible dangers, but simply because she liked to know things.

A tell-tale showed her that Hale was echoing Adele’s display. That wasn’t a problem — if Adele had wanted privacy, she would have enforced it — but it reminded her for the first time that her console mate was a colleague who in theory she might be training.

Adele pinned a small real-time view of her face to Hale’s display; the top register of her own display already had images of all the personnel seated at consoles. On a two-way link to Hale she said, “I intercept signals as a matter of course and put them through a mechanical sort. If we were on another planet, even if it weren’t a potentially hostile one, I’d give a quick look at the findings in case I saw something that the algorithm didn’t.”

The Power Room continued to announce thruster testing, working in pairs through the set. The big pumps in the stern throbbed, replenishing the reaction mass tanks from the harbor. The same tanks would be distilled to provide drinking water: impurities mattered very little when the fluid was being stripped to plasma and spewed through the thrusters.

The impurities mattered even less when the mass was being converted to anti-matter before being recombined with normal matter in the High Drive motors. The High Drive was more efficient and provided much higher impulse, but it could only be used in the near vacuum of space: in an atmosphere, the inevitable leakage of antimatter which had escaped recombination flared violently and devoured everything nearby, including the hull.

“Do you have any information about Jardin beyond the Sailing Directions which might be useful, ma’am?” Hale said. Though their faces were only about forty inches apart on opposite sides of the immaterial barrier of a holographic display, only the intercom made it possible for them to communicate without shouting. “I don’t mean restricted information, just…anything that would let me do my job better.”

Since they were able to see one another, there was no need for the ponderous communications protocols which the RCN drummed into its signals personnel. Adele had no training: she was in civilian life a librarian whose skills fitted her for far more subtle uses of electronics than remembering to mutter “Over” and “Go ahead” and similar procedures.

“Yes,” Adele said. She brought up an image of Cuvier and Cuvier Harbor on Jardin; Hale could manipulate the scale and orientation on her own display if she chose to. The harbor would have been an open roadstead, dangerous in a storm from the west, had it not been narrowed by moles from each headland. There was a passage through which surface vessels could enter.

“We’ll be landing here at the capital?” Hale said.

“We’ll land at Cuvier because it’s the only starport on Jardin with proper facilities,” Adele said, highlighting twenty-one points in and around the city; she had to increase the scale slightly to capture two outliers. “It’s the capital by convenience, but Jardin really doesn’t have a government, just a management reporting to the First Families who own the planet. Each family has a house near Cuvier though many of the principals live on distant estates. Here they are.”

“Closing main hatch,” Vesey announced. She was in charge of lift-off from the armored Battle Direction Center in the stern. Personnel at the duplicate controls there could control the ship if the bridge were out of action; or as now, when Daniel Leary at the command console was explaining procedures to his bride in the striker’s seat.

The Princess Cecile’s main hatch clanged. A rapid-fire ringing followed as bolts dogged it tight. Other hatches were still open, including two on the bridge itself. Ozone from the thruster exhaust made Adele’s eyes water, but she was too used to the experience to be consciously aware of it any more.

“The Sailing Directions didn’t say anything about political problems,” Hale said.

The Sailing Directions for each region of the human universe were compiled by Navy House for the guidance of spacefarers. The RCN personnel doing the work paid no attention to planetary sensitivities: if in the opinion of Navy House a ship landing on Jardin risked being caught up in a revolution, the Sailing Directions would have said so. That was true even for worlds within the Cinnabar empire, let alone neutrals like Jardin.

Hale added, “I’d think a setup like that was a bomb waiting to go off.”

“Perhaps if Jardin were more crowded it would be, Hale,” Adele said. “The First Families have a tradition of service to the community. Ordinary citizens have a high standard of living, and Jardin doesn’t allow immigrants. Agriculture and the service industries are largely staffed by foreigners, but they’re on two-year contracts which are rigidly enforced. I gather the workers — ” laborers and whores ” — are also well treated and well paid, but so long as they’re shipped off promptly, that isn’t important.”

“It sounds like paradise, doesn’t it?” Hale said.

“Perhaps,” said Adele dryly. “There are no libraries that I’ve found in the records.”

Jardin was ideally placed to gather information. Ships came from all portions of the human universe, bringing the rich and powerful to relax. The logs of those ships contained unique information which could be compiled into an unequaled database.

No one on Jardin was interested in doing that. Adele felt her lips quiver. Despite what she’d said to Hale, it was possible to gain Jardin citizenship by the unanimous agreement of the First Families. Perhaps Lady Mundy could arrange that on her retirement from the RCN.

“Ma’am?” Hale said. “Ah, you’re smiling?”

Was I? Apparently she had been. Aloud Adele said, “I expect to be dead when I leave the RCN, Hale. But it seems to amuse my subconscious to consider what I might do if I remained alive.”

She paused thoughtfully and added, “Of course that leaves the question of providing for Tovera.”

Thinking of her own retirement was a grim joke. Imagining that Tovera would survive was more of a farce.

“Ma’am?” Hale said.

“Sorry,” Adele said, realizing that she had drifted off in the middle of an exposition. “The daSaenz family — ” she focused down on a highlight immediately to the north of the city and harbor ” — isn’t very politically active, but it’s among the wealthiest of the First Families. They own the Starscape Caves in the limestone under their mansion.”

She continued to increase the magnification on a courtyard building perched on a peak. It was almost a rectangle, but the angles had been adjusted slightly to allow for the contours of the ground. The end overlooking the city was a four-story tower, but the other walls were only two.

The slope immediately below the building was forested. Scattered city housing continued some distance up from the water, but the straight terminus implied a boundary line.

“Mistress Leary’s father spoke with enthusiasm about the caves, so Daniel –” should she have said, “Captain Leary?” Too late now. “– contacted the present head of the family to be sure that he’d be able to take Miranda through. She’s Carlotta daSaenz, and she was very gracious.”

Hale’s image was frowning. “Six — ” the captain’s call sign and the crew’s usual nickname for Daniel ” — sent a communications ship to Jardin?”

“There’s enough traffic between here and Jardin that he didn’t need a dedicated vessel.” Which would have been enormously expensive, even for Daniel. “An admiral taking his family on holiday to Jardin carried the message there as a favor, and Lady Carlotta sent her reply by a returning yacht — a favor to her. It arrived two days ago.”

All eight thrusters were alight together. Though their nozzles were flared, the corvette bucked and pitched. Plasma vaporized divots in the slip, and water surged in from the harbor proper to replace it. The Sissie’s hull and outriggers responded to the flow. Hydraulic rams closed the bridge hatches, but other hatches remained open. The sting of ions became sharper, and there were occasional sparkles in the air.

“These caves weren’t mentioned in the Sailing Directions,” Hale said, indicating both that she was listening and that she wanted to hear more. Active damping kept ambient noise from overwhelming their conversation, though loose objects were jouncing against every surface.

“There are animals in the caves which give off light,” Adele explained. “Metazoans, which I suppose means insects — multicelled creatures, anyway, but they’re spread in flat patches on the walls. They glow in the dark, which is why it’s the Starscape Caves.”

She shrugged, though she wasn’t sure that the gesture was visible on the tight head shot she’d put on Hale’s display. “It doesn’t sound very interesting to me,” she said, “but it impressed Captain Dorst. And I’m sure Daniel will be pleased to see the animals for himself. I forwarded all the information I found on them — ” which wasn’t very much ” — but I don’t understand any more than I’ve told you. If that.”

 

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 12

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 12

“It’s an expensive landfall, I suppose,” Adele said when she realized she ought to say something to show that she was listening.

“We could have managed something while he was alive,” Miriam said, meeting Adele’s eyes. “After he died, things became — well, you know how things became. But until then we could have gone. I always suspected that he was afraid of ruining his memories of Jardin by facing the reality. The reality–”

Her voice became forceful, almost harsh, and the muscles in her cheeks drew tighter.

“– was that Timothy wouldn’t have been twenty-two with a career ahead of him if he had gone back to Jardin. But he always kept a hologram of the port on our wall. I’ve kept it in the living room after his death.”

Adele had the data unit out anyway. She picked up the wands and brought an image live in the room between them, using the larger display of her base unit. They were looking out to sea from a moderate vantage. A city — probably Cuvier, the capital — of red roofs and white walls was scattered up the slope toward them from the shore below. The broad natural roadstead had been improved with stone moles which narrowed the entrance considerably.

The harbor accommodated forty-odd starships as well as a number of good-sized surface vessels. One of the starships was noticeably plainer and larger than most of the others.

Daniel would be able to identify it by eye, Adele thought, whereas she had spent her time learning other skills than memorizing ship profiles. Her wands isolated the ship, then ran it through a sorting protocol. She remembered that Miriam had referred to ‘a replenishment ship,’ so that saved a fraction of a second — Adele smiled mentally — from the search.

“A Leaf Class vessel, probably the Orangeleaf,” Adele said aloud. That was bragging, but she was proud of her skills.

“Yes,” Miriam said. “Your ladyship? How did you do that? How did you bring the picture on my wall to here?”

For a moment the tension in the older woman’s voice surprised Adele. She said, “The base image is resident on your apartment’s control system. I simply — oh.”

It hadn’t occurred to Adele that there might be reason to conceal what she had done. She wouldn’t have concealed it anyway, of course, but she might have explained in a more —

No, she wouldn’t have tried to sound more apologetic either. She was who she was.

“Mistress Dorst,” Adele said. “Your daughter is important to Captain Leary, and he — Daniel — is important to me. And to the RCN, I suppose. As a matter of course I set up links with Miranda’s residence in case someone attempted to put pressure on Daniel by threatening his fiancée.”

She coughed. “Now that Miranda has moved out, I can remove the links,” she said. “I should say that Daniel had nothing — knew nothing — about my precautions. I didn’t bother to waste words on something in which I trusted my own judgment.”

“Yes, of course you trust your judgment,” Miriam said as she relaxed. “As I do, Adele. It startled me, but it shouldn’t have.”

She gestured to the hologram. The projection was omnidirectional, clear to her as well as to Adele. She went on, “Yes, that’s the Orangeleaf. It was Timothy’s first cruise. We were married the day after he graduated from the Academy.”

Miriam was smiling, but her eyes weren’t focused on Adele or even on the image of Jardin. “He was so full of dreams,” she said. “We both were. And we had two wonderful children. Promotion wasn’t quick, even in wartime. Timothy wasn’t a lucky officer like…”

“Like Daniel,” Adele said to close the embarrassed silence. “He’s been very fortunate.”

That was true, of course, but it was also true that Daniel made a great deal of his own luck. Very few junior lieutenants would have turned a disaster like the Kostroma Revolt into a triumph and a springboard to greater triumphs.

Miriam nodded apologetically to Adele. “And that’s very fortunate for Miranda,” the older woman said. “For me as well, of course. But I recognize that my daughter is always going to be…well, Daniel Leary is a very dominant person.”

“I’ve found that to be the case with most RCN officers,” Adele said. “Haven’t you? The successful ones in particular.”

She shrugged. “If you mean that Daniel will continue to make decisions for himself,” she said, “yes, I think and hope that will be true. He’ll often ask advice, but I’ve never known him to take orders except from someone who has the right under RCN regulations to give him those orders.”

And even then we’ve been known to cut corners, Adele recalled. She didn’t suppress her smile as she normally would have, since she thought it would have a good effect on the tone of the discussion.

“Yes, of course that’s right,” Miriam said, stiffly again; perhaps the smile hadn’t been a good idea. “Life isn’t fair, after all.”

“I don’t know how to define ‘fair,'” Adele said, feeling sudden anger at the situation, at life. “I’ve killed many people, I don’t know how many. And some of them were doubtless as innocent as my little sister Agatha.”

For a moment she saw again the crowd blocking their way as they broke out of the cells beneath the Elector’s Palace in Kostroma City. They were civilians who happened to be in the way of Adele Mundy and her new friends, so she shot as many of them as she could to panic the rest. There was no time to do clear the way in any other fashion.

“At the time I did it, at all those times…” Adele said, hearing the harshness in her voice. “I thought it was the best available option. Given the same situations, I would again shoot men, women and children. I’m sure there were children in the crowd in Kostroma, and even if I didn’t shoot them some must have been trampled in the panic that I caused. So that we could escape. It wasn’t a bit fair, it was necessary.”

She was on her feet, though she didn’t remember standing; Miriam had risen also. Adele hoped she hadn’t raised her voice, but the courtesy Esme Rolfe Mundy had instilled in her children should have prevented that.

Miriam stepped forward and hugged her. Adele tried to step back by reflex, but the desk caught her at the upper thighs.

“Lady Mundy, Adele,” Miriam said. She was apparently crying, though Adele couldn’t be sure. “Thank you. My little girl couldn’t have a better protector in the life she’s chosen. Thank you for being her friend.”

Miriam moved away, snuffled, and wiped her nose and cheeks with a handkerchief. “I’d better go now. Thank you so much.”

Miriam closed the door quietly behind her. A moment later Tovera looked in but didn’t speak.

I didn’t say I was Miranda’s friend, Adele thought. But I suppose I am, everyone aboard the Sissie is.

She looked at Tovera and said, “I believe Miranda is fortunate. In her friends.”

 

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 21

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 21

CHAPTER 8

The drive from my father’s place to the southern end of Phoenix took me through some of the busiest sections of the city. We were past the worst of the morning commute, but still the roads were crowded. Bumper-to-bumper traffic moving at sixty-five. NASCAR had nothing on Phoenix’s highways.

I had in mind to go south again, beyond the outskirts of the city. That was the direction Gracie had driven, and I still remembered how the afternoon before my instincts had screamed for me to keep driving past Casa Grande. But first I stopped at the Burger Royale.

The restaurant hadn’t reopened, and the parking lot had been cordoned off with bright yellow crime scene tape. I only saw two cars in the lot, both of them cruisers. Only one car had anyone in it; the police wanted to keep people away, but for now at least no one was actively working the scene.

I parked by the expanse of tape and got out of the truck, my wallet already in my hand.

The cop in the cruiser rolled down his window. “Can I help you?”

I held up my wallet, which I had opened to my PI license. “My name’s Jay Fearsson. I was here yesterday with Kona Shaw in Homicide. I’m wondering if I can take a quick look at something.”

He eyed me, squinting in the sunlight. “Fearsson. You the guy who killed the East Side Parks Killer?” That was what cops had called Etienne de Cahors before the press dubbed him the Blind Angel Killer.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“That was a nice piece of work.”

“Thank you.”

“I can’t let you go inside the restaurant. Even Elliott Ness can’t get in there. But you can walk around the lot if you want.”

“Works for me. I appreciate it.”

He raised a hand, acknowledging my thanks, but he had already turned his attention back to his smart phone.

I ducked under the tape and walked to the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, where those large trash bins still lay on their sides, surrounded by garbage and, at this point, covered with swarms of flies and yellow jackets.

I hoped to catch a glimpse of Gracie’s magic, but after twenty-four hours, most of that rust-colored glow had faded. The glare of the morning sun on the bins didn’t help. I circled them, found a spot that was still in shade and bent lower to get a better view.

Magic residue still clung to the plastic, shimmering weakly, like a candle flame on the verge of burning itself out. I started to recite a spell that, at least in theory, would work as a sort of magical Geiger counter tuned to her magic in particular, so that I could track her and know when I was getting close. After only a moment of this, I stopped myself. It sounded too much like what Saorla had been doing to me. The silver-haired conjurer wouldn’t have left this place without attempting something similar. What’s more, Gracie probably knew that. In which case, either she had found a way to mask her magic, much as my dad and I had done, or Saorla’s friends already had her. I was betting on the former.

She had switched off her cell phone because she didn’t want Neil tracking her with the signal. I assumed that she had done something similar with her runecrafting. Which begged the question, how was I supposed to find her? I straightened and gazed southward, my eyes following the interstate to the horizon.

What had her mother said? Gracie had spoken of living in Tucson, and she liked to camp. With the kids with her, she could only disappear so far into the wilderness. She would need bathrooms, food, a safe place to pitch a tent. There were a few spots like that in the Tucson area, but the ones that came to mind were too obvious, too easy to find. Anything Marisol would have thought to tell me Neil would know as well.

That left another choice, one that was more remote, and offered her more possibilities if she needed to run.

I didn’t have a tent or sleeping bag with me, but that was a problem for later. I pivoted on my heel and strode back to my father’s truck.

“Thanks,” I said as I walked past the cruiser.

The cop didn’t even look up. “No problem.”

I stopped at a nearby gas station and filled the tank before getting on I-10 and heading south. Once clear of the city outskirts, traffic fell away. The truck had an AM/FM radio and a cassette player that might have worked still. But Dad kept no tapes in the car, and I couldn’t find anything worth listening to on the radio. I drove with the windows down, the desert air on my face and neck, and I tried to sift through the smells of sage and truck exhaust for the elusive scent of magic, dark or light.

Where could Gracie be headed? She had run away from her husband, and had abandoned the refuge of her parents’ home. She had escaped the dark sorcerers at the restaurant, so was strong enough to take care of herself. She had resorted to killing, so she also must have understood how much danger she and her kids were in from the people pursuing her. And after all that transpired at the restaurant, she had to know that the police would be after her as well.

If she was smart, she would leave the country, but without passports for the kids I didn’t think she would get past the border police. In her position, my next choice would have been L.A., or perhaps San Diego. Both were big enough that a Latina mother with two kids — even a woman with power like hers — could melt into some quiet, obscure neighborhood without leaving a trace. But moving to either city would require money, and unless she was carrying gobs of cash, she would have to rely on credit cards, which were easily traced.

That didn’t leave her with many options.

As I neared Casa Grande, I felt that same impulse to keep driving south. It was almost as if Tucson were calling for me. For a moment I gave serious thought to abandoning my plan and remaining on I-10.

This time, though, it occurred to me that what I’d assumed yesterday was instinct might actually be magic. I wasn’t sure how Gracie had done it, but she had left a spell on the road that was making me want to keep driving. It was clever, and yesterday it had very nearly worked. But I knew she hadn’t intended the spell for me, and though loath to admit it, I had a feeling that the silver-haired weremyste was probably too smart and too powerful to be fooled by such a conjuring.

I exited I-10 at the exchange with I-8, which cut east to west, from Casa Grande through Yuma, and, ultimately to San Diego. Once again, as I left I-10 I felt the road tugging at my head and heart, with the power of a gibbous moon. Even knowing it was magic, I had to grip the wheel until my knuckles whitened to keep from turning around.

Gracie might have thought her spell clever, but it was too strong, too obvious. Rather than putting Saorla’s weremancers off her trail, it would serve to keep them on it. I could only hope that they hadn’t found her already.

I drove west on I-8 for about an hour, watching my mirrors for any sign of dark sorcerers. During the summer I had been attacked by a weremancer in a sleek silver sedan of unknown make. And I knew every make there was.

Today, though, I didn’t see any unusual cars. Lots of semis, and a few campers, but no sedans with smoked windows and ungodly acceleration.

At Gila Bend, I took the exit for state road 85, which headed south toward Ajo and then Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. I had thought that when I took this exit, I would feel that same spell-induced urge to remain on the freeway. I didn’t. I felt nothing at all.

It was enough to make me wonder if I should keep going toward San Diego. I pulled into a gas station near the exit and sat for several moments with the engine idling, wondering what to do. If Gracie’s spell at Casa Grande had been an amateurish attempt to throw sorcerers off her trail, then chances were she and the kids were headed toward the California coast. But what if she was more clever than that, more clever even than I had credited? What if that first spell had been a more subtle ruse designed to mask this second exit?

After some thought I decided that if she was on her way to San Diego, there was little more I could do for her. I would never find her there. Earlier this morning I had come up with a plan. I was going to stick with it.

I pulled back out onto the state highway and drove south. I stopped in Ajo to buy a cheap tent and sleeping bag at a sporting goods place, pick up some food, and put more gas in the truck. Compared to the Z-ster this thing gulped down gasoline, and the Z-ster wasn’t exactly a Prius.

Then I continued on to the national monument, the terrain growing more dramatic with every mile I drove. Miles to the west, in the Cabeza Prieta Wildlife Refuge, the Growler range rose from the desert floor, its worn peaks stark against the azure sky, the deep folds in its mountainsides casting dark shadows across the rocky faces.