Eric Flint's Blog, page 229

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 21

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 21

CHAPTER 9

During the next few weeks, as school trundled on its slow way towards the summer holidays, Tim gradually learned more about the bounds of his prison and how to use what it had. He could go online at the library. His Facebook reminded him of what a quiet desert his life was. He didn’t want to update his status, in case anyone back in Melbourne asked him why he was here. He looked to see how Matthew, the guy from junior school he’d been best buds with, before, well, before they’d moved, before Dad had gone to Oman. Before St. Dominic’s. But he didn’t comment, because he didn’t want anyone to know where he was. Or in case someone from the island friended him or something. It was like a lingering toothache that sneaked up on him when he’d almost forgotten about it.

He found the more he knew of the island kids and adults, the less they were like the zombie horde. They didn’t know anything, of course, not about real stuff in the city, but some of them were actually pretty decent. A couple of the kids said he must come fishing sometime, or on a quad-bike trail. It hadn’t actually happened yet, but they had offered. He hadn’t ever wanted them to know why he’d come here. Now he really, really didn’t.

Things people had said made him realize they thought he was here because his parents had divorced, or were getting divorced.

That story suited Tim just fine. It had a bit of truth to it.

While online, he also looked up the prices of flights. That suited him a lot less well. He’d set quite a high bar for himself, he thought, sitting on the ground, weeding. At Gran’s, there was always weeding to do. And digging his fingers in the dirt…it left him feeling stronger for some crazy reason. Well, “stronger” in “the more able to cope with all of this” sense of “strong,” not in the “picking up stupid sheep and putting them over the wonky fence” sense. That, he still struggled with. There was just such a lot of heave and carry and lift about the farm. Even the carrots he’d taken as just orange things at the supermarket took a lot of pulling out of the ground.

He’d found a shortcut across the fields, and he could walk fast and catch the bus in twelve minutes now. And he’d found his way down to sea. The day after a storm, when they’d had enough rain to make it a dripping-wet walk back through the bush from the school bus, Gran had taken them down there in the ute from the shed. The ute was a very old Ford pickup with a tub-tray, growing cobwebs. He hadn’t even known it was there for the first few weeks. Gran’s method of driving seemed to be to get into the wheel-ruts and look at the paddocks. She drove completely in first gear, so it was only mildly terrifying. She yelled out the window for directions, which was a lot worse.

“What are you doing?” he asked, clinging on to the dashboard.

“Don’t backseat drive!” she snapped, peering sideways.

“There isn’t a backseat. Mind that tree!”

She swung away from the fallen ti-tree and they scraped past several other trees and then back to the track. “Yer drive on the way back,” she said.

“But I can’t drive!”

“Yer better learn then,” she said.

“But I am not allowed to drive. I’m too young.”

“Not on the road. On the farm.”

She turned the ute at the last dune just before the sea, and faced it more or less back down the track.

Tim rapidly discovered this hadn’t merely been a scenic trip, or just to get his knuckles white clinging onto the window frame.

“The storm washed the weed up, and the rain’s washed the salt off. It’s good for the garden.”

She looked at the sea. Shook her fist at it. “And yer be off. Don’t yer be coming anywhere near here, or I’ll stick a pitchfork in you.”

“Who? Who are you talking to?” asked Tim looking at the gray angry water.

“The seal-woman. She’s nothing but trouble.” She pulled a face. “Have you got a knife?”

“No.” Knives had caused one of the boys at St. Dominic’s to get expelled only the term before. Pupils were not allowed to carry them, and while it had been tempting…It had to be something cool, not like a kitchen knife or something. Tim had never had the spare money, or really been…well, bad enough to get one. He’d wanted…sort of, to be bad, to get a bit of respect and to make up for being small and really not much good at ball sports. Now his life was too full of people who thought he was bad, and trouble, and who still didn’t give him any of that respect, back in Melbourne anyway. Did his gran think he was a mugger and a shoplifter? Why did she think he had a knife?

“Yer need one. Yer never to go near the sea without steel. I’m a fool. I didn’t even think of that,” muttered his grandmother. “Well, she’ll not come near while I’m here.”

They gathered armfuls and then carried loads of stinking seaweed up to the ute. Crabs scuttled away. Little bugs ran out of it. March flies bit at them if they stopped…

And then, when the ute tray was full, piled high, his grandmother said: “I hope yer can move the seat. It hasn’t bin moved since yer father was a boy.”

Tim noticed she never mentioned his father’s name. Hardly ever even talked about him. If she did talk about anyone, it was “my John,” and even that didn’t happen too often.

They wrestled with the seat and got it to move slightly. Then it stuck. “Can yer push the pedals all the way down?”

Tim tried. The ute lurched forward. “Foot off the clutch, on the brake,” said his grandmother.

He got the part about taking his foot off the pedal. “Which is the brake?” he asked in a panic.

It was rather a long trip back with the seaweed. Tim was exhausted, but quite pleased with himself. He’d found the concentration of driving a strain. He’d stared hard ahead so much that he imagined he saw all sorts of things out of the corner of his eye that just weren’t there when he looked properly: Potholes, logs, a small hairy manikin in a hat clinging to the outside mirror. That, which nearly sent them off the road and into the bog, was on second glance a bunch of weeds.

When they got home his grandmother said, “I need a pot of tea. And they deserve some beer. I don’t think we’re ready to try taking the ute into the shed yet. Just stop.”

Tim had gotten used to his grandmother’s ways by now, or at least the beer for the fairies idea. He set out the bowls. There were two of them to be put out, one in the barn, and one in the corner of the kitchen, each with a half-centimeter of beer in them. A bottle lasted a couple of weeks or more. He figured the mice or something must love it.

Only this time, he was tired enough to just sit there in the kitchen, and he happened to be looking at the bowl. The flat beer was a limpid brown pool in the bowl…and then it began to ripple, as if something was lapping at it. And then, all by itself, the bowl tipped a little. Tim blinked. Rubbed his eyes.

Looked. Rubbed them again.

The bowl was empty. Drained of the last drop.

It must have been a mouse he couldn’t see at this angle…or something. It was enough to creep him out. But Gran decided they’d sat about idle for long enough, so she said, “Come. We’ve got a ute to offload.” She hesitated for a second, went to the drawer of the kitchen dresser, and rummaged about. “Here,” she said, holding a flat, yellowed object out to him. “It was yer great-granddad’s penknife. Useful on the farm. I thought yer must have one.”

 

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 03

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 03

“Very lucky. I’m told I have you to thank that I didn’t lose my sight.”

Phillip shook his head. “All I did was what Herr Neuffer told me to do.”

“Herr Neuffer told me he thought to use water to wash off the Oil of Vitriol, and that it was your idea to use the stale beer. Herr Reihing says that the stale beer saved my sight. So thanks. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, just ask.”

Phillip muttered “You’re welcome.” and after a glance around the table, Bernhard walked back to his table.

There was a massive sigh of relief from the table as Bernhard walked away. “Do you know who that was?” Christoph demanded in a whisper.

“He’s one of the apprentices who got splattered by Oil of Vitriol.” The name Wilhelm had used popped into his head. “Herr Neuffer called him Bernhard.”

“That was Bernhard all right.” Christoph said. “I don’t think you need to worry about him bullying you.”

That was when Phillip recognized the name from the warnings his roommates had given him. He stared in the direction Bernhard had gone in silence.”

“How’d you save Bernhard’s sight? Have you been holding out on us?” Christoph asked.

Phillip looked at the interested faces looking his way and sighed. He had so hoped for his actions to go unnoticed. “I was in the laboratory when the alembic exploded. Herr Neuffer saw that that Bernhard was in trouble and dragged me along to help look after him. I continued to wash away the Oil of Vitriol with stale beer from the barrels in the laboratory while Herr Neuffer joined Herr Reihing to help him tend to Herr Brenner.’

“How did you know to wash away the Oil of Vitriol with stale beer?” Frederik asked. “Is that something you learned from your stepfather?”

Phillip was all ready to admit that he’d only proposed using the stale beer because he hadn’t known where to find water to wash away the Oil of Vitriol, but one of the other apprentices at the table asked if he’d been burnt and the opportunity to correct the misapprehension was lost. Phillip answered by showing a few red marks on the back of his hand. “Only a little bit when I was washing the Oil of Vitriol off Bernhard.”

“Does it hurt?” Another apprentice asked.

“Not now. I’ve smeared a special burn ointment over it,” Phillip said.

“Does it work on ordinary burns?” Christoph asked.

Phillip nodded. The apothecary who’d made it had used the same ointment on the burns a couple of the apprentices had suffered when they dropped or grabbed hot items in the shock of the exploding alembic.

“Can you get me some?” Frederik asked. “I’m always getting small burns from coming into contact with hot alembics.”

Again Phillip nodded. He’d watched the apothecary very closely as he’d prepared the ointment and was sure he had or could get all the ingredients to make it. “I can make it.”

“What else do you know how to prepare?” Christoph asked.

Phillip hesitated. After a moment he described some of the things he’d helped his stepfather make. The man would have been horrified if he’d realized Phillip had kept accurate records of everything he’d helped him make in the last few years of his life. Some of the concoctions he’d prepared were extremely dangerous in the wrong hands, and hands didn’t come much wronger than those of a teenage boy. It was fortunate that although Phillip had the recipes and knew how to make them, he didn’t know what some of the more dangerous concoctions were supposed to treat.

****

Over the next month Phillip started to fit in. Compared to his experiences in his stepfather’s household, life was good, but there was still a blight on his life — his clothes. An apprentice was usually given two “new” sets of clothes a year, and it was going to be another five months before Phillip saw the first of them. That meant he had to continue wearing the clothes he’d brought with him. There wasn’t really much wrong with them, if one ignored the washed out colors and poor fit. They were warm and well patched. One might even say “overly well patched”, with one pair of pants being more patches than pants. But that was what one had to live with when your clothes were hand-me-downs.

Unfortunately, everyone else seemed to have better clothes.

Things came to a head that morning as Phillip dressed. He was pushing an arm down a sleeve when suddenly his fingers went through the fabric at the elbow. He examined it to see if he could sew the edges together, but the fabric was too worn. He was going to have to sew on a patch. Reluctantly he pulled on another shirt and went in search of the housekeeper.

He ran the housekeeper to ground in her workroom. “Frau Kilian, do you have any scrapes of fabric I can use to patch my shirt?” he asked, showing the elbow he needed to patch.

Veronika Kilian lowered what she was working on and held out her hand for the shirt. After fingering it for a few seconds she nodded. “The girl is busy at the moment, but she should be able to have it done by Friday.”

“Oh, no, Frau Killian,” Phillip protested. “I can repair it myself, but I need some fabric to use as a patch.”

“You can sew?” Veronika asked.

Phillip nodded and gestured to some of the repairs on his shirt.

“Hmmm. Someone has obviously tried to teach you how to sew.”

“My mother,” Phillip said proudly.

Veronika’s brow lifted for a moment in response to that statement. “If you’re willing to do your own sewing, I can ask Sofia to supply you. Come along, and we’ll make the arrangements now.”

The next day

Phillip was sitting on his bed sewing when Christoph and Frederik entered the bedroom. “What’re you doing?” Christoph asked.

Philip was prepared for the question. There was no way he was going to admit to having to repair his clothes, so he lied. “Adding some color and style to my wardrobe.” He held a shirt up to show them how he’d revamped its look by sewing matching scarlet patches over the elbows of the washed out blue shirt.

Frederik pointed at a large strip of fabric in a vivid green. “What are you going to do with that piece?”

“I thought I’d use it to line the collar,” Phillip said, making sure his grip on his shirt hid the worn areas the green strip was going to cover.

“Where did you get the material?” Christoph asked.

“From Frau Kilian. She’s letting me have some scraps.” Phillip didn’t mention that he was paying for the scraps by helping with the sewing.

“Can you sew patches like those on the elbows of my shirt?” Frederik asked.

Phillip didn’t immediately answer. He didn’t want to say no, but there was the small matter of getting the necessary cloth from Frau Kilian.

“I can pay,” Frederik said, fumbling for his purse.

That changed things. “If you’d like to tell me what colors and type of cloth you’d like the patches made out of, I’ll see if I can get some suitable material.”

“Thanks, Phillip.”

****

A couple of days later Phillip stole a few minutes during the noon break to see if he could find some suitable material for Frederik’s patches. Being a logical youth, he’d asked Frau Kilian for advice and she’d given him the direction of a local rag collector, where he struck gold.

The rag collector usually sold his linens and cottons to the paper makers, but papermakers preferred white or near white rags, and didn’t pay much for dyed cloth, whereas Phillip was looking for strong colors. The deal was mutually satisfactory. Phillip got good pieces of material in a variety of colors, and the rag collector got a little more than he would have got from the paper makers.

The next Sunday Frederik made an entrance to the dining room in his newly revamped shirt. All credit for the work was directed to Phillip, who immediately received half a dozen new requests to revamp clothes. It was to become a regular little earner for Phillip. He was never going to get rich dressing up shirts and pants for his fellow apprentices, but the few pfennigs they could afford to pay him allowed him to feed his growing addiction to color.

 

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 11

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 11

Needing something means that I might lose it. Daniel cleared his throat because he didn’t like the direction his thoughts had been going.

He said aloud, “I’m glad to have so many qualified officers, because I’m not sure what we’ll find in the Tarbell Stars. You may find yourself in command, Vesey, as you’re more than capable of being.”

Vesey turned to face him. “Sir,” she said. “I studied every battle in the Academy syllabus, and I’ve watched you a dozen times ripping the heart out of enemies that should have flicked you away, flicked us away. But I’ll never be as good as you are. I’ll never be as good as Tim was when he was a midshipman, because he had the instinct and I don’t!”

Daniel met her eyes. His first thought was to say something reassuring, but that would be an insult to someone as smart as Vesey was.

“Vesey,” he said. “If you have to command in battle, you’ll do everything that study and experience can provide. That puts you ahead of nine out of ten captains in the RCN.”

He swallowed. “Killer instinct is an important thing to have in a fight, sure,” he said, “and Tim Dorst –”

Who had been Vesey’s lover until an 8″ plasma bolt stuck his cutter.

“– had that in spades. But luck is even more important than instinct for a successful commander, and Midshipman Dorst was terminally unlucky. I’d rather have you as captain of the Sissie in my absence than Dorst, because I trust you to bring her safely home if anybody can do that.”

The final two missiles rumbled into the corvette’s magazines. The last lowboy began to crawl away, and Hale stepped out of the way of the delivery gondola.

Daniel squeezed Lieutenant Vesey’s shoulder and let her get on with her job.

* * *

Adele was in her library, not so much cleaning up details before she left as making sure that every scrap of information which might bear on the Tarbell Stars was coming along with her. She could study files during the voyage, but a log book or a personal reminiscence which was still in Xenos would do her no good on Peltry.

She could never be sure she had everything possible. She could never be sure she had done her job: even if the Princess Cecile and her complement returned successful, that didn’t mean that Adele Mundy hadn’t missed some datum which would have made it easier or cheaper.

The library door was ajar so Adele probably could have heard the whispering outside in the hallway, but as usual she was lost in her task. A fingertip tapped on the panel; then Tovera pushed it open enough to look in.

“Mistress,” Tovera said. “Miriam Dorst is here to see you, if that’s possible.”

Adele looked at the remaining pile of chips which she was copying to her base unit. They were the office copies of logs from a shipping consortium based on Twig in the Alliance. None of the ships she had viewed thus far had traded into the Tarbell Stars, and she saw no likelihood that any of the others would have done so either.

“Yes, all right,” Adele said, rubbing her eyes. “Tovera, have them get us something to drink, will you?”

The door closed, then reopened for Miranda’s mother. Adele nodded, wondering if she ought to get up. She decided not to. Miriam had arrived without invitation, so merely agreeing to see her was being sufficiently courteous.

Besides, I’ve been sitting in so cramped a posture that I might fall back if I tried to get up abruptly.

“I’m sorry to disturb you when you’re so busy…” the older woman said, holding her hands lightly together. She was more heavy-set than her daughter, making Adele wonder if Miranda would fill out similarly as she aged.

“I said I would see you,” Adele said, hoping she didn’t sound as peevish as she felt. “I’ll never be able to finish what I’m doing here –” she gestured “– so the interruption doesn’t really matter.”

No matter how long Adele worked, there would be information she hadn’t copied into files where she could access it off Cinnabar. She was probably foolish in considering that a goal, but she didn’t see any reasonable point short of that to draw a line on her efforts.

Unexpectedly, Miriam smiled. “Miranda told me that you didn’t do small talk,” she said. “Well, I was going to explain that I was here to apologize again for the way I accused you when we were going to the reception, but that would be silly on my part.”

“Yes,” said Adele. “I heard you the first time.”

She realized that Miriam was still standing and said, “Sit down, please, I think there’s a chair –”

There wasn’t.

“– well, move the pile on the one beside you to the floor and sit down. Please.”

When the other woman hesitated, Adele stood; she’d been working her legs beneath the table since she realized how stiff she was. Before she could act, however, Miriam had set the pile neatly out of the way and seated herself.

“What I really wanted to do,” Miriam said, “was to ask you to help my daughter if she needs it. She will be –”

Her voice caught. She swallowed and resumed, “Miranda will be the only civilian on a shipload of RCN personnel. I realize that you’re RCN yourself –”

Adele gave an almost-smile. “Not really,” she said when Miriam paused. “I’m not a spacer, and I certainly haven’t internalized the forms of military discipline. Or the need for it, to be honest. But continue?”

“Yes, I think that’s what I was trying to say,” said Miriam. “Miranda won’t really fit in, so I hope that you’ll be able to appreciate that and, well, look out for her.”

“From all I’ve found,” Adele said, reflexively bringing up the file into which she had transferred all the data she had on their destination, “Jardin is a pleasant world with very little crime. The government is an oligarchy and autocratic. Potential troublemakers are denied entry or are shipped off immediately, and if they do manage to break the law they’re put to forced labor.”

She tried to execute a smile. She was probably no more successful than she usually was, but she hoped Miranda’s mother would give her credit for the attempt.

“It appears to me,” Adele said, “that Miranda will be safer on Jardin than she would be in Xenos. I’ll further add that she is an extremely capable young woman and in as little need of watching over as anyone I know of her age.”

The girl’s mother sighed and seemed to hug herself more tightly. Looking toward a stack of file boxes on the floor to Adele’s right, she said, “Timothy, my husband, used to talk about Jardin as though it were paradise. He was only there once, when he was a midshipman on a replenishment ship. I thought we might visit — before Miranda was born, or even later as a family. We never did.”

 

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 02

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 02

Phillip was then led past the brick furnaces with their circular openings on the top into which alembic were placed to a work bench where there were a range of different sized pestles and mortars. Jakob tapped on the shoulder of the journeyman working there. “Wilhelm, this is Phillip Gribbleflotz. He’ll be helping you.” He turned to Phillip. “Wilhelm will look after you. Just do whatever he tells you to do, and don’t worry. There’s not a lot that can go wrong with a mortar and pestle.”

The moment Jakob left Wilhelm Neuffer put Phillip to work grinding up green vitriol. It was work Phillip had done before; although he’d usually ground dried herbs and seeds rather than minerals, so he didn’t need a lot of instruction or supervision. After a few minutes watching to check Phillip knew what he was supposed to be doing, Wilhelm returned his attention to his own pestle and mortar.

Several days later

As the new boy Phillip was starting at the bottom. It was his job at the end of each day to sweep the laboratory and clean out the furnace. The ashes had to be collected in metal buckets and dumped into a stone pit in the yard and dampened down with water until they were safe enough to leave. Then he had to bring in kindling to set the fires in the furnace ready for the next day. All of this was done under the watchful eye of Wilhelm. At the beginning of each day, while Wilhelm got the fire started, it was his job to ensure the wood baskets were full and haul in the buckets of water that some of the jobs performed in the laboratory required. It was hard work, not helped by the fact that he had to put in a full day grinding green vitriol as well.

A combination of a hot and windless summer’s day and the heat radiating from the furnace meant that it was stiflingly hot in the laboratory. Phillip dragged his shirtsleeve across his sweaty forehead and glanced across to his supervisor. At least Wilhelm looked just as hot and bothered as Phillip. Unfortunately, he didn’t look like he was slowing down, so Phillip shook out his tiring right arm to relieve the muscles and got back to grinding.

They weren’t the only ones feeling the effects of a long day in the hot laboratory. One apprentice in particular was suffering more than everyone else. Martin Brenner was a fourth year apprentice, and as such he should have known better than to let himself dehydrate while watching over the retort furnace where temperatures ranged from barely hot enough to distill aqua vitae at one end to hot enough to decompose green vitriol at the other. He had a headache coming on, and he was losing his ability to concentrate. Because of this he missed the first signs that the outlet from an alembic hood was clogging up on one of the retorts being used to make Oil of Vitriol.

Several minutes later Martin felt an urge to go to the toilet, and after a quick, superficial glance at the retorts, he hurried off. The close proximity of the casks of small beer to the door leading to the outhouse reminded him that he hadn’t had anything to drink since noon, so he quickly filled a mug and gulped it down before heading for the privy.

Naturally, nobody bothered to check up on the work of a fourth year apprentice when they were only supervising distillations, so while he was gone no one noticed that the alembic’s outlet had become completely clogged.

The moment the outlet clogged up the pressure in the alembic had started to grow. By the time Martin returned a few minutes later and started walking around the fire checking that condensate was flowing from all of the alembics the pressure in the clogged alembic was climbing rapidly. The situation might have been saved if the clogged alembic hadn’t been the last one he checked. By the time he got to it the pressure inside had reached critical levels.

The small beer Martin had gulped down had been too little too late, and consumed too quickly to alleviate his dehydration, so his thought processes weren’t as good as they could have been. Instead of shouting out a warning and waiting for Herr Reihing, he tried to deal with the blocked alembic himself. He grabbed a couple of pads made from rags to protect his hands and reached for the alembic. The slight twisting action he applied as he tried to lift it rubbed the alembic against the firebrick circle in which it sat, creating a scratch in glass vessel. It wasn’t much of a scratch, but it was too much for the now critically stressed vessel and it exploded in a spray of glass and a cloud of superheated sulphuric acid vapor. The acid cloud quickly enveloped Martin, condensing on his skin. As he inhaled to scream at the pain he dragged the blisteringly hot vapors into his lungs.

****

Nobody in the laboratory could miss the explosion of the alembic. Phillip all but dropped what he was doing, but managed to hold onto the pestle he was holding long enough to bump it onto the bench he’d been working at to stare in horror what had happened. It would have been bad enough if the exploding alembic had contained aqua vitae, as the apprentice would probably have caught fire, but what he was witnessing suggested something much worse.

A man splashed with burning alcohol might try to beat out the fire. He might also drop to the ground and writhe about as he struggled to put out the flames. Either way, one thing you could be sure of was that he wouldn’t be quiet about it. This apprentice hadn’t uttered a sound.

A hand grabbed Phillip by the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll need your help,” Wilhelm said as he dragged Phillip towards an apprentice who was screaming about his face burning.

“Take your hands away from your face, Bernhard,” Wilhelm said as he tried to pull the apprentice’s hands away from his face. “Shit!” Wilhelm muttered. “Gribbleflotz, we need water to wash away the acid.”

Phillip was sufficiently over his shock by now that he was able to string a couple of thoughts together. Acid, given that he’d spent the last few days grinding green vitriol meant Oil of Vitriol, a particularly corrosive acid, especially in the concentrations it was likely to be straight from the distillation retort. From the few times his stepfather and stepbrothers had suffered acid splatters he knew they needed to dilute, and if possible wash the acid off as quickly as possible. He glanced around, hoping to locate one or other of the buckets he’d brought in during the course of the day, but there was none close. What he did see close by though, was the barrels of stale beer. Beer was mostly water, so surely that would be good enough. “The beer barrels,” he said, tugging at Wilhelm’s hand.

Wilhelm’s eyes lit up. “Yes, beer. That’ll neutralize the acid. Good thinking, Gribbleflotz.” Wilhelm dragged Bernhard towards the barrels. The moment he reached then he opened the tap on one of them and thrust Bernhard’s face under the flow of stale beer. “Herr Reihing’s going to need my help with Martin,” Wilhelm said as he grabbed Phillip’s hands and set them to holding Bernhard’s face under the flowing beer. “Make sure you flush the Oil of Vitriol from his eyes.”

Phillip swallowed at the idea of being responsible for the older apprentice, but Wilhelm was already hurrying towards the now still body of the apprentice who’d been at the center of the explosion. Phillip stayed with Bernhard, washing his eyes and face with stale beer until a woman arrived to take over the task.

That night

The dining hall was filled with quiet conversation that evening. The death of Martin Brenner was all most wanted to talk about. Those that had been there were being interrogated by those that had missed it. Many of them were embellishing their roles, and then there were those like Phillip, who’d been close enough to see what the acid vapor had done to Martin and would rather forget what they’d seen.

Phillip was doing his best to appear just another interested bystander, eager to hear about the heroics of others, when a shadow was cast over the table.

“You Phillip Gribbleflotz?” Bernhard Bimmel asked.

There was a collective inhaling of breath, which confused Phillip. He recognized the large youth as the person he’d helped in the laboratory. “Yes. How are you feeling?”

 

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 20

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 20

He’d forgotten that he’d taken that.

He sat and stared at it for a long time.

That might be far enough, if they didn’t just send him back.

Only it would cost a fortune.

And right now he only had thirty-five dollars.

Thirty dollars he’d worked for. Five dollars Gran had taken from her tin box, and he hadn’t spent. Like she could only give him five dollars!

And now Hailey was ignoring him. And she’d probably tell everyone he was a thief. Like Gran thought he was, when she found the money in his pockets. What had she been doing in his pockets anyway? A reasonable part of his mind said, probably emptying them before she washed your jeans. He ignored it. If she could look in his stuff and take, he could look in hers. If she thought he was a thief, he might as well be one.

He went to her room and pulled the small old tin box from under the neatly made bed. He had a big twinge of “you shouldn’t be doing this,” but he did it anyway. The box wasn’t even locked. He put it on the bed and opened it.

Thousands of dollars did not spill out. There was a thin little sheaf, mostly of five-dollar notes, on top of a pile of slightly yellowed envelopes. During the week, in conversation, he’d fished from Molly the cost of a flight to Melbourne. Without even counting the money Tim knew that it wasn’t enough. The paper clip holding the notes together was rusty and old.

Tim picked up one of the envelopes, the top one. It was addressed to Mary Ryan, care of Whitemark Post Office. It had been carefully opened.

Feeling decidedly uncomfortable…but now that he’d come this far, Tim took out what was inside. It was just a letter, the folds cracking slightly.

In spite of himself Tim couldn’t help but read part of the first page. It was very neat, round-lettered upright writing, as if written by someone trying very hard, who hadn’t done a lot of writing:

“My Darling Mary,

Here in Saigon it is so hot and sticky it’s hard to breathe. I miss the Island and the Cuckoo’s Nest nearly as badly as I miss you and my boy, my love. I just hope you’ve got enough money for…”

Tim stopped reading, put the letter carefully back in the envelope. On the back in the same big, round hand was the sender’s address. It started with “Private JM Ryan” and a number. Shaking himself and feeling creeped out and guilty, Tim carefully put it back, and put the box under the bed again.

He went back to his room, chewing his bottom lip. That must be from, like, fifty years ago, and she still kept it.

The phone started ringing. It didn’t do that much. Tim went and answered it. It was McKay. “Hello, Tim. Sorry, not going to sea, but do you want some more work on the boat?”

Tim heard the kitchen door open. It was obviously his grandmother back, and he did stammer somewhat, thinking what could have happened if she’d come back two minutes earlier. “Uh, yes, I…I have to ask my grandmother. She’s just come in.”

“It’ll be about three hours tomorrow afternoon.”

So Tim held his hand in front of the mouthpiece, and asked. His grandmother nodded. “There’s a bit of work on the farm to do, a bit of fencing, but I can manage. I have, all these years.”

“It’s only in the afternoon. If you get me up early, I’ll do it.” Even as he said it, Tim thought he was crazy. Early? He was offering to get up early. But he was still feeling guilty.

It did get a hint of a wintery smile from the old woman. “Go. I’ll cut yer lunch.”

So Tim confirmed, arranged a time to be at the corner, as his grandmother made a pot of tea.

“So how was yer show?” she asked, pouring the tea. “I used to go every year, but I haven’t for twenty years now.”

“You should. Your veggies would win, hands down.” Tim stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out the five-dollar note. “I didn’t spend it.”

She didn’t take it. “I gave it to yer to have some money to spend there. Buy some stuff.”

Tim shrugged. How could he explain that most things cost more than five dollars unless he wanted food or junk, and that anyway he had been hoarding it…and that having looked in her little tin box…he couldn’t keep it now. “I just looked at things. I…I didn’t want to waste money. And I’m earning some money.”

His grandmother took the note. “You’re a different boy to yer father. I’ll put it back with the emergency fund then. My John always said I must put a bit there for a rainy day. Money does seem a bit tight, Tim. Stock prices have been terrible.”

Tim blinked a bit at this. Several of the kids in his grade were farmers’ or farmworkers’ children, and beef prices had been mentioned. It sounded like a lot of money to him. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “We’ll manage. This is our place. Been through tough times before. Yer granddad’s family were some of the first people to farm on the island.”

“Molly’s dad asked.”

“There’s a lot of history here, some of it best forgotten,” said his grandmother, in a way that said parts of it were best not asked about. “But yer belong here. This is yer place. Now we need to move them sheep.”

No, it wasn’t his place. His place was Melbourne, thought Tim. A place where you didn’t spend hours chasing sheep through the bush. But at least the next day he’d get out, earn some more money.

Better yet, the next day after McKay had picked him up, he was sweeping out the sawdust inside the boat’s new structures, when he came across an old bag, about the size of his fist. It was a neat leather pouch with a drawstring. He’d almost swear it had just appeared among the sawdust and shavings, but it must have been lying under something. There were a couple of coins in it — black and green…but that was with age.

He showed it to McKay. “Right. I wonder how long that’s been there. It’s someone’s little change pouch, I reckon. What’s the date on the coins? Must be before the 1966 changeover.”

Tim peered. “The black one is 1945. The other…It’s quite worn. Nineteen thirty-something.”

“Right. Well, it’s been around a while! Nice little oilskin bag, too. It’s a real sailor’s thing. Quite a find for you. Wish I was that lucky.”

Tim held it out to him. “It’s your boat.”

McKay shook his head. “It’s some long dead fisherman’s lost property, and you may as well have it. You found it, after all. I was working there yesterday. If I’d cleaned up after myself, I would have found it. So, there you go. A start to your fortune. Your first piece of silver. I think it’s probably worth about five dollars by now.”

“Wow. Thanks!”

Tim hung the oilskin bag from a piece of old hand-line cord around his neck, and added the rest of the money into it, in the Ziploc.

* * *

Áed had found the old pouch and its coins between two floor planks. It had been dropped there when the board had been nailed on, and no human could reach it. He understood his master wanted money. Why he was collecting paper, though, was beyond him. Real wealth was copper, or silver, or gold.

His master was still largely unaware of the sprite of air and darkness that was loyal to him. But he’d taken to the old ways and courtesies taught by his grandmother. And sometimes he blinked as if he almost saw Áed, but refused to believe what he saw. That was quite a common problem for humans.

 

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 20

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 20

I went inside, found the keys, and walked to the pickup. The driver’s side door groaned a bit when I opened it, and the interior had that old-burnt-vinyl smell that’s unique to cars and trucks that sit out for too long in the desert sun. It probably could have used an oil change, and the paint had faded over the years. Still, the truck had less than sixty thousand miles on it, and when I turned the key, it started right up. It might not have been vintage, or even “classic,” according to the definitions used by car dealers, but if my dad had wanted to sell it, he could have gotten a good price. I almost laughed at the thought; that was never going to happen.

I shut it off and walked back to where he sat. He glared off toward the mountains, muttering to himself. He was cogent, but I’d ticked him off a little bit by asking for the truck.

“I’ll be careful with it,” I said. “I take good care of my own car, I’ll do the same for yours.”

“You’d better. That thing’s vintage.”

“Doesn’t vintage mean it’s from the Twenties?”

He cast a nasty look my way. “You know what I mean.”

“I told you I’d be careful with it. I’ll even bring it back with a full tank.”

“Fine.”

“Thanks.”

He nodded, his expression thawing. “Now, what’s this magic you want me to do?”

I sat once more. “Well, that’s a little more difficult. I’ve used spells to, in effect, mute conversations I didn’t want her to hear. I want to use a similar spell to make it so that she can’t find me. I’ve never cast a spell like this before, and I’m not exactly sure how it would work. But I have a feeling that if I cast it on myself, she’ll still be able to track me. She knows my magic. That’s not enough for her to overcome the spells I’ve used to keep her from eavesdropping, but it might allow her to follow me. If you cast the spell, though . . .” I left the thought unfinished.

“Interesting. Have you asked Namid about this?”

“Namid isn’t allowed to interfere.”

“I know that. But he’s allowed to teach, and we need to be taught a spell.”

Put that way, it made a lot of sense.

“Namid,” my dad said, calling out the name. “We need your help.”

An instant later, the runemyste materialized before us, sunlight sparkling on his smooth waters.

“You summoned me, Leander Fearsson. This is something you have not done in many years.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But Justis and I need to do a bit of magic, and we’re not sure how to cast the spell, or even if it’s possible.”

Namid glanced at me, but then addressed my dad again. “And what is this spell?”

“Tell him,” my father said.

“I want to make it impossible for Saorla to find me. Is there a camouflage spell that would work against someone with her powers? Something that would allow me to come and go as I please, without her following me?”

The myste’s waters roughened. “She follows you?”

She follows me, she sends her weremancers after me, she even sent a note tied to the leg of a were. I considered telling him all of this, but in the next instant thought better of it. He would confront her, and that in turn would make her even more angry with me than she was. I was handling her little harassments. I didn’t need to tell on her, like some kid in school tattling on the locker room bully. On the flip side, I sensed that she truly feared Namid. If she had been following me today — and I suppose it was possible — his arrival would have been enough to frighten her off.

“She seems to be keeping track of where I go,” I said, hoping I could leave it at that.

“How long has she been doing this?”

“Long enough. It’s not a big deal. But I don’t want her following me today. I’m trying to find a weremyste, and I think Saorla is after her, too. I don’t want to lead the dark sorcerers to her.”

“She should not be harrying you,” the myste said, as much to himself as to me. “I have made this clear to her.”

“Namid, it’s all right. Just tell me whether or not there’s a spell that’ll do what I want it to.”

“Yes, of course there is,” he said, his voice rumbling like flood waters behind a dam. “Have I not told you before that runecrafting is a living art? If the spell has not yet been used, then you must create it yourself, but there is always a way.”

“But I’d have to cast it,” my father said. “Isn’t that right? If Justis does it, and she knows his magic, she might still know where he is, no matter how we cast the spell.”

“You may well be right,” Namid said, sounding impressed.

Dad jerked a thumb in my direction. “He thought of that, not me.”

“Well done, Ohanko.” His glowing eyes narrowed. “If you can dampen your magic in some way, you might make yourself invisible to those of us who can sense such things.”

“Right. That’s what I was thinking. But I don’t know the spell.”

“Do you?” Namid asked my father.

Dad shook his head, but his gaze flicked toward me, and I had the feeling that he was protecting my feelings.

“Of course you do,” I said. “It’s all right. Tell him.”

“I don’t know that I can explain it,” he said, an admission of sorts. He frowned, eyeing me the way he might an old broken down car he wasn’t quite sure how to fix. After a few seconds, I felt magic stir the air around me. The skin on my arms pebbled.

Namid’s eyes widened. “Good, Lokni. Very good. That is a powerful glamour. I do not sense him anymore, and yet there he stands.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

Dad shrugged. “I thought of a blanket, one of those silvery thermal ones that the astronauts took to space. And I imagined it covering you so that your magic couldn’t be seen or felt.” He shrugged again, a small grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “I guess I can still cast new spells when I have to.”

I smiled. “I guess.”

“I will leave you now,” Namid said. His bright gaze lingered on me for a few seconds. “Saorla has done more than follow you. I sense this. You would prefer not to discuss the matter now, and I will respect your wishes. But this is a conversation you and I will have eventually.”

I had the distinct impression that he wasn’t asking for my acquiescence so much as expecting it. I nodded and watched him fade.

“Sounds like you have a trip to the wood shed in store.”

“Yeah,” I said, still staring at the spot where Namid had been. “But I can’t worry about that now.” I faced my dad. “There’s one more thing I need you to do. I’m going to cast the spell I’ve used to muffle my conversations. Between that spell, and my car sitting by your trailer, I should be able to convince Saorla that I’m here with you. But the ruse will work better if you’re inside the trailer rather than outside.”

A frown flitted across his lined face. I felt much worse asking this of him than I had asking for the truck. Sitting outside and watching for birds was one of the few pleasures he still had in his life. Making him give that up, even for one day, seemed unfair.

He was a trooper, though. After that initial reaction, he fixed a smile on his face. “Sure, why not?” he said. “It’s been a while since I used that fancy disc player you got me for Christmas. I think I’ll watch a movie or two.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

The smile faded. “If it helps you with Saorla, it’s worth it. At some point you’ll tell me more about this woman you’re trying to help, right?”

“I’ll be happy to. I’d tell you more now, but the truth is I know very little about her, beyond the fact that she’s got two kids with her. Eight and five.”

The expression in his eyes hardened in a way I remembered from my childhood. “Then you should get going.”

“Yes, sir.” I stood, kissed the top of his head, and reached for my lawn chair, intending to fold it up and put it away.

“Leave it,” Dad said, standing as well. “I’ll leave mine out, too. It’ll make it seem that there are two of us inside the trailer.”

“Good thinking. You don’t seem muddled anymore.”

He grinned. “You and Namid have that effect on me. Now, go.” He didn’t wait for me to answer, but stepped into the trailer, and closed the door behind him.

I cast the muffling spell, hoping it would be enough to fool Saorla of Brewood. Then I climbed into my father’s pickup, turned over the old engine, and started back toward the interstate.

 

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 01

Note: This snippet is what should have been the Monday snippet and the Wednesday snippet will follow at the regular time.

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz – Snippet 01

1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz

By Kerryn Offord and Rick Boatright

Dedication

To my friend Marina, who allowed me to bounce ideas off her, even though she often had no idea what I was talking about – Kerryn Offord

1636 Calling Dr. Phil

Part One

The beginning

1606

Chapter 1

The World’s Greatest Apprentice Alchemist

1606, Augsburg, Bavaria

Twelve year old Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz held tightly to his mother’s hand as she stopped in front of the Augsburg assay office of the of the Fugger banking family.

“This is the place,” Maria Elisabeth Bombast said as she turned and crouched down so her eyes were at the same level as Phillip’s. “Papa Johann didn’t leave us much when he died.” Maria’s scowled. “Your step-brothers will not help. A place here is the best I can afford.”

Phillip nodded. His stepfather had been reasonably successful apothecary in Bad Überkingen, but a condition of his marriage to Mama had been that most of his estate would go to his children by his first wife. Phillip suspected that Mama had not understood the details of the marriage contract. “I understand, Mama.”

“The nice man at the assay office will see that you get the training you’ve always wanted.” She stared into his eyes. “Never forget who your great grandfather was, Theophrastus, and do his memory proud.”

Phillip wished his mother wouldn’t use his middle name. It was such a silly name, and people made fun of him when they heard it. He stared at the building that was going to be his home for the next eight or so years while he served his apprenticeship. “I won’t forget, Mama.”

Maria laid a hand on Phillip’s shoulder and pushed him towards the door. “On you go, Theophrastus. Mama has to go now. I’ll write to let you know where I’m living when I’m settled.”

Phillip glanced up at his mother. Even at thirty-four her painted beauty still attracted the attention of men. He knew it wouldn’t be long before she married again. “Goodbye, Mama.”

“Be good for mother, dearest.”

Phillip glanced back one last time just before he entered the building. His mother was still there, watching. He waved one last time before stepping across the threshold.

****

Senior journeyman Jakob Reihing led Phillip firstly to the housekeeper, where he was supplied with more bedding than he’d ever had before, then past his laboratory before being taken to the dormitory where he would be living for the next six to eight years while he served his apprenticeship. “This is where you’ll be sleeping,” Jakob said.

“This” was a standard wood framed bed with a canvas mattress cover. Phillip nodded his acceptance and laid his bedding and bags down on the trunk at the foot of the bed.

Jakob gave Phillip a padlock and key. “That’s for the bed trunk. Don’t lose the key. I have a spare, but you’ll have to pay for any replacement.”

The ability to secure his private possessions was something new for Phillip. The only way he’d been able to protect his possessions from his step-siblings had been to hide them. With a lockable trunk, he would no longer have to hope people wouldn’t find his hiding places. Phillip held the padlock and key tightly to his chest. “Thank you, Herr Reihing.”

“Right. Report back to me when you’re made your bed and put your things away.”

After Jakob left the room Phillip got to work. Firstly he found a bundle of herbs from his bag, and then he opened the canvas cover of the mattress. The straw smelt fresh, but Phillip had learned that that didn’t always mean it were free of vermin. He sprinkled some of his herbs over the straw before closing the canvas and making his bed. Then he put his clothes away in the bed trunk. The final thing he put in his trunk were the journals he’d been keeping. They recorded all that he’d so far learned about alchemy and the apothecary’s art. He used the padlock he’d been given to secure the truck and hurried to Herr Reihing’s laboratory.

That evening

“Hey, what’s the smell?” Christoph Baer asked as he followed Phillip into their room.

Phillip was still ruminating over the very good dinner he’d just eaten and didn’t immediately hear his roommate’s comment.

“Hey, Gribbleflotz, Baer asked you a question!” Heinrich Weidemann said as he thumped Phillip.

That caught Phillip’s attention. “What?” he asked, rubbing his arm where Heinrich had hit him.

“What’s the smell?” Heinrich asked.

Phillip sniffed. He didn’t smell anything unusual, and he said so.

“There’s something different about the smell of the room, and you’re the only change, so what is it?” Frederik Bechler, the third apprentice sharing the room with Phillip asked.

Phillip became immediately defensive. He sniffed the air again. “Do you mean the herbs I spread over the straw in my mattress?” he asked.

Christoph approached Phillip’s bed and sniffed. “That’s it. Why did you spread herbs over the straw?” he asked.

“They keep away vermin.” Phillip was afraid the older apprentices would hurt him, so he resorted to a technique he’d used in his stepfather’s household. “I’ve got some more if you’d like to spread it over your own mattresses, and I’ve got another mixture that promotes good sleep,” he offered as he opened his trunk and produced a couple of bags of herbs.

“How would you know about herbs and vermin?” Heinrich asked. “And what are you doing with bags of them?”

“My stepfather was an apothecary. These are his herbal mixtures for bedding.” Phillip said. “They’re very effective.”

Christoph and Frederik immediately accepted the offer. Heinrich looked from the cloth bags in Phillip’s hand to his bed. His face went through all sorts of contortions before he finally added his acceptance.

The next morning

Phillip woke suddenly. There had been a strange sound. Then he remembered where he was, and relaxed.

“Hey, sleepyhead, it’s time to get up,” Christoph said as he shook Phillip.

“I’m awake,” Phillip said as he pulled the covers aside so he could get out of bed. “What do I do now?”

“Just follow us,” Christoph said. “Do you know where you’ll be working today?”

“With Herr Reihing,” Phillip said.

Heinrich snorted. “A green boy like you won’t be working with Herr Reihing.”

“Give over, Heinrich,” Frederik said. “Phillip means he’ll be working in Herr Reihing’s laboratory.” He turned to Phillip. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

Phillip nodded.

“Most of the apprentices in his laboratory are okay, but you’ll want to watch out for Bernhard Bimmel though,” Christoph said. “He can be nasty.”

“He’s not that bad,” Heinrich muttered.

“Just because he’s your friend doesn’t mean he’s not a bully,” Christoph said. He turned to Phillip. “That was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages. What’s in those little bags you gave us to put under out pillows?”

“It’s just a mixture my stepfather used to make. He was an apothecary. I have the recipe.”

“Well, I’m with Christoph,” Frederik said. “Thanks to your herbal mixture, I had a really good night’s sleep. See you later,” he said as he headed off to breakfast.

Heinrich was the last of Phillip’s roommates to leave. He paused beside Phillip long enough to mutter his thanks for the sleep promoting herbs before he too disappeared. Phillip watched him walk off, surprised at the reaction of his roommates to such a simple thing. He was brought back to the real world when his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he was missing valuable eating time, and he hurried off after his roommates.

Herr Reihing’s laboratory, the Assay Office

Except for its size the laboratory where Phillip was to work wasn’t too different from his late stepfather’s work room. He was able to recognize many of the apparatus from his years helping his stepfather as Jakob Reihing led him around the laboratory, explaining what things were and what they were used for.

Jakob stopped by a couple of beer barrels sitting on a bench with taps installed. “Working in the laboratory, you’re going to get thirsty. Don’t try drinking from these barrels. They contain stale beer that we are distilling to make aqua vitae. If you want a drink, there are barrels of small beer over there.”

Phillip followed the direction Jakob was pointing and located the barrels tucked away in a corner by the door to the outhouse. “I understand, Herr Reihing.”

 

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 19

Changeling’s Island – Snippet 19

* * *

Tim’s first take on the Island Show had been dismay. Five dollars to get in! He hadn’t known there was going to be an entry charge, and all the money he could get was for getting off the island…and then Molly’s mum had paid it for him so casually, while he was still feeling the blood rush to his face.

He gritted his teeth. Dug in his pocket. Nan obviously hadn’t been anywhere for so long that she still thought five dollars was a fortune. He’d planned to put it with the rest of his money. Just look around. He held out the note. “Here’s mine.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Symons said.

Like he didn’t know they were scratching the bottom of the barrel a bit to survive. “No. I must. Really.”

“Call it payback for…for keeping me calm on the plane,” said Molly.

Tim had been getting quite good at reading her voice. She understood his embarrassment, and that was worse. “Thank you,” he said, awkward and gruff.

It was odd walking across to the buildings from the car park. Tim realized he wasn’t used to…the sound of so many people. Yeah, the kids made a noise on the playground at school. But other than the teachers and Nan, and Mally and McKay, he hadn’t really heard a bunch of adults talking since he left Melbourne. Noisy mob, he thought, smiling to himself at his own reaction. Compared to Sandring Mall, which he’d never even thought of as noisy.

“Hi, Tim!”

It was one of the younger kids from school. He thought Tim was smiling at him. Huh. Tim started to scowl, and then changed his mind. “Er. Hi.”

The kid didn’t notice. “Have you seen those big ball thingies you can get into? They’re so cool! Yeah, Mom. I’m coming.”

The last part wasn’t addressed to Tim, and the kid ran off. But it was just the start. Everyone greeted them. And half of them stopped to talk. They all seemed to know who he was, and several of them asked after his nan. They hadn’t even gotten halfway to the big old sheds that everyone was heading for. Their familiarity left Tim feeling even more uncomfortable. And yet…no one treated him like dog mess under their shoes. “Takes a long time to get anywhere,” he said, after the fourth stop.

“It’s strange, knowing everyone,” nodded Molly, understanding. “I felt like I was getting inspected at Customs at first. I didn’t like it much, but you get used to it.”

“I guess.” He’d realized that in two weeks he’d gotten used to quiet, to the noises of the bush on the farm. He’d never thought that would happen.

“And then when you go back to Melbourne and greet people and they look at you like you’re about to mug them,” she giggled. “Daddy nearly caused a couple of crashes, waving at cars over there.”

They’d arrived at the door to the first big shed. The Lions Club — so the sign read, were frying donuts. And the smell of hot oil, the hiss and pop of frying, and the prickle of cinnamon took him back. He blinked. He hadn’t realized how sharply smells could poke your memories out from where they were hiding. He hadn’t even liked the movies, but Hailey had.

And as if it had all been some kind of magic spell, there she was. Looking bored, with that expression that Tim had learned meant he should avoid her…if he could. But he’d never been able to. “Uh. Hi, Hailey.”

Her expression changed. She smiled. The same teasing smile that had made him take that DVD and hide it under his jacket. That had made him try that spiff. And, just then, he’d have done it all again.

Except…she wasn’t smiling at him. She was smiling at the big guy with the tattoo on his shoulder and the earring who was sauntering through the door, his jeans fashionably low. She walked past Tim, as if he wasn’t there. “Hi, Justin. Daddy flew me over for the show…” They walked off.

Tim knew then that it wasn’t enough just to get together the money to leave the island. He needed to do more. He just wasn’t sure what.

* * *

In the vast and misty halls under Cnoc Meadha, where the rules of time and space are quite different, King Finvarra’s host feast, drink, dance. Sometimes they will ride and sometimes they will hunt. Sometimes they will fight too. To the high ones of the Aos Sí, this is life. Sometimes in their timelessness it palls a little. They will intrude on the human world. Humans are amusing to them, in the way humans find pet monkeys amusing. Monkeys that could be enchanted.

It is a rare human that finds the charms of the hollow lands of the Aos Sí pall on them. But then, their lives are short.

Áed did not miss it much. But then the feasting, womanizing and finery were not for the lesser spirits such as Áed. They were bred to work, much as sheepdogs are, and while the great ones could weave glamour and work spells of power in the underworld, Áed liked the change and the challenge out here, and even the weakness of his master. Given a choice, Áed would remain in the wind and wild of the world above.

Few humans, though, once the magic of Faerie had touched them, were strong enough to make that choice.

* * *

Molly had met Hailey Burke before, introduced by the delusion that some adults had that because you were both girls who were not too far apart in age, and who lived near to each other out in the Whoop-Whoop, you’d naturally be the best of friends. It had been dislike at first sight from Molly’s point of view. They had almost nothing in common. Molly had decided Hailey was a horrible little airhead who had never read a book in her life, but was a faithful follower of fashion and celebrities. By the way they’d never met up again, it seemed Hailey hadn’t liked her either.

Watching Tim’s reaction to meeting her here, and Hailey ignoring him, just made her feel sorry for Tim and want to slap Hailey. He just looked like such a hurt puppy. But he had seriously bad taste.

They’d walked around the photographs and painting and embroidery. He’d emerged from his dismals enough to tell her that he really loved her sea picture, and his gran’s veg would lick anything they had here.

But she could see that his mind, and his heart, was elsewhere.

It was pretty irritating, really.

* * *

When Tim got back to the house, his grandmother was out somewhere. He was glad of that. He was glad of the silence of the farm. He didn’t want anyone. He didn’t want to talk either. He’d done that. Made polite conversation. Molly’s parents were okay. A bit weird, and asking far too many questions about his family. He didn’t have a clue how long there had been Ryans on the island. What did it matter, really?

At least they’d stayed off questions about his mother and father. Or too much about Melbourne.

He sat disconsolately on his bed for a bit. Then thought he might as well play some computer games. His head was too all over the place to read. What he really wanted to do was to go fishing or to do something exciting…but he’d play a game or two. Starcraft just didn’t grab him right now. He had a CD of stupid old first-person shooter games in his bag that he’d been given for his birthday by his mother, who didn’t understand games and had found these really cheap. A couple of them were quite good, even if they weren’t new. That might do.

He took the old Spiderman II bag down from on top of the cupboard. Feeling for the CD, he found his passport instead.

 

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 10

Death’s Bright Day – Snippet 10

CHAPTER 4

Bergen and Associates Yard, outside Xenos

Daniel eyed the Princess Cecile in her slip and felt the usual rush of…well, love was the best word he could come up with. He smiled at Lieutenant Vesey and said, “The first time I saw her, she was passing overhead and shooting off fireworks in a parade on Kostroma. That was probably the only sort of action she’d have seen if she’d stayed in Kostroman hands.”

“I came out of the Academy…” Vesey said. She was also looking at the corvette. Her eye might have been more critical, but it was affectionate also. “Thinking that unit-body construction was so much stronger than modular that no one in her right mind would use modular construction for a warship.”

She grinned at Daniel. “A voyage on the Sissie convinced me that I’d been wrong,” she said.

Because the Princess Cecile was a private yacht in this commission, she was being fitted out and stocked by civilians. Vesey, Daniel’s long-time First Lieutenant, was waiting for dry stores to arrive from the suppliers she had chosen with only cursory oversight by the owner and captain.

Foodstuffs would have to wait for Chazanoff and his crew of missileers to finish striking down the main armament. The Sissie carried two missiles in her launch tubes and twenty reloads when her magazines were full. A corvette couldn’t put out the volume of metal that a larger warship could, but a direct hit from a five-ton projectile at terminal velocity would wreck even a battleship.

The chance of a corvette’s missile getting through a battleship’s defensive armament was very slim: a bolt from an 8″ plasma cannon vaporized enough of a projectile to shove the rest of it off in a harmless direction. Even so, a skilled missileer — or a lucky one — even in a corvette was a threat. Daniel was both skilled and lucky.

“How’s the crew coming along?” Vesey asked.

The question — from Vesey — meant more than the words themselves; but it was a polite way to ask, and there was no reason not to give her the full background. Daniel smiled until the lengthy crash crash crash of missiles rolling from a lowboy into the Princess Cecile’s magazine hatch had died away.

“I’ve got Rene in the office to take the names of any latecomers,” Daniel said, “but we’re already staffed at war complement and maybe a little beyond.”

He said “Rene” instead of “Midshipman, Passed Lieutenant, Cazelet” because on the ground Vesey and Cazelet lived together. Cazelet had come to the Sissie as Adele’s protégé, but he had from the first been an asset to the ship and to the RCN generally. With the present peacetime reduction in the RCN establishment he might have a very long wait before he got the lieutenant’s commission which his abilities amply justified, but the prize money which had come the way of Daniel’s crews meant that Cazelet was better off than many senior officers who didn’t have family money.

“Rene said that you’d accepted some applicants who hadn’t been on the Princess Cecile herself,” Vesey said. “The Milton had the complement of a heavy cruiser.”

Daniel’s grin went hard. Not all of the Milton’s crew had survived the battle above Cacique, of course, but far more had than a corvette could carry.

“Of course, you can afford the paybill, sir,” Vesey said, embarrassed to have pushed for what had not been volunteered. “I’m not prying.”

“I’m at fault for not being more honest with my officers,” Daniel said, a polite way to say that he expected her to talk with Cazelet. “I’m signing extra personnel now in case some want to leave when we make landfall on Jardin. I’ll arrange passage back to Cinnabar for them, of course.”

Vesey frowned, but she didn’t ask why he thought they might lose more than the usual few spacers who might overstay liberty because they were jail, in hospital, or dead.

“As soon as we’re in orbit,” Daniel said, “I’m going to explain that I expect the Princess Cecile to take a contract as a mercenary warship in the navy of the Tarbell Stars. I won’t expect personnel who signed on for a honeymoon voyage to accept a posting to a civil war.”

Vesey’s frown didn’t change. “You’re concerned,” she said in a deliberate voice, “that spacers who’ve served with you are going to balk when you tell them that you may be taking them into battle?”

“Put that way it does sound pretty silly,” Daniel admitted. “Still, I think they ought to have the choice.”

A gondola marked McKimmon Cereals had arrived at the entrance to the yard. The driver of the tractor pulling it had gotten out of his cab to continue his discussion with Midshipman Hale from the ground.

He might as well have stayed where he was. Shouting in Hale’s face wasn’t going to make her change her mind, and the train of lowboys hauling missiles was in the way regardless.

People like to think that their convenience is important. Daniel had found that as a general rule the universe didn’t agree, and that other human beings tended to be a subset of ‘the universe’ in this regard.

“I think the crew expected that they were signing on for more than a honeymoon cruise,” Vesey said, looking toward the cereals vehicle and then away: it would come when it came, and she would check the supplies in when they arrived. “With the exception of Pasternak I think they’re all hoping for action again. And Pasternak was probably the first to sign on.”

Vesey had mousy hair, an excellent mind, and an earnest personality. Her features were unremarkable, but they were sharpening as she aged. Surprisingly that added character and made her more attractive.

“Pretty close,” Daniel agreed. “I’m lucky to have him. We’re all lucky.”

Chief Engineer Pasternak was a quiet man with the skill and seniority to run the Power Room of a battleship at a much higher base pay. He would have been subordinate to a commissioned officer on a large warship, however, whereas Daniel left him to his job.

The fact that he had earned a fortune in prize money as a senior warrant officer under Daniel Leary seemed to bemuse Pasternak From what he had said, though, it was very important to his wife that he was the richest and most important man in Wassail County. The risk that came with being Chief Engineer to a fighting captain was for Pasternak far outweighed by his freedom from the social demands of staying home.

“I saw Lady Leary come on board yesterday,” Vesey said. “Is that really all her luggage?”

“Mistress Leary,” Daniel corrected mildly. “I’m not the heir, thank heavens, and I’m sure my father feels the same way. And yes, Miranda insisted on packing like a midshipman. I told her she had all the volume she wanted — I’d land a missile if I needed to and pick one up for ready money on route to Peltry, that’s the Tarbell capital.”

“A strong willed woman,” Vesey said, looking toward the gate and speaking without emphasis. “I suppose she’d need to be.”

“I suppose she would,” Daniel agreed.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that — how he felt about Miranda or even about marriage. He’d always taken his duties seriously, but he’d lived his personal life at his own convenience. Over the years since Daniel met Miranda when he delivered the news of her brother’s death, he’d found that he was happier with her presence in his life. Keeping her there imposed reciprocal obligations, not because Miranda demanded them but because he was a Leary of Bantry and honor demanded them.

 

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 19

Shadow’s Blade – Snippet 19

From Chandler, I made my way to the Phoenix-Wickenburg Highway, which was the quickest route to Wofford, where my old man’s trailer was located on a small plot of open desert.

Wofford wasn’t much of a town and while I loved desert wilderness I had to admit that my dad’s place was not the most scenic spot in the Sonoran Basin. The trailer sat at the end of a short, rutted road on top of a gradual rise. When it was new, the trailer was kind of nice, but it hadn’t been new in fifteen years. During the summer, Saorla’s weremancers used spells to fracture the cinderblocks that served as its foundation, causing the entire trailer to topple over.

We had managed, using the ten grand Amaya gave me, to prop it back up and repair the shattered windows. We had also replaced most of the kitchenware and picture frames that broke when it fell over. But the place remained tired and rundown, a bit like my dad.

He liked to sit out front on a lawn chair, holding an old pair of Leica binoculars that he trained on every bird that soared past his place. His doctors didn’t want him to get too much sun, so a few years back I rigged a sort of covered patio using two-by-sixes and a plastic tarp. That had been destroyed this summer as well, but I’d set up a new one that worked even better than the first.

My father was subject to delusions and hallucinations. He had days when he could barely function, and when even the simplest attempts at communication left him flummoxed and frustrated. And he had others when he seemed damn near normal. He wasn’t really a danger to himself or to others, which was why I had been able to keep him out of a mental health facility. But he didn’t do well around crowds; he grew confused and quick-tempered. So, I did his shopping for him, coming out to restock his refrigerator and pantry every Tuesday morning, and I only took him into the city on those occasions when he needed to see his doctors.

If he had managed to keep track of the days this week, he’d be surprised to see me. But that was a big if.

These trips out to Wofford were always a bit of a crap shoot. I never knew what condition I’d find him in, what mood. He could be ornery and lucid, or docile and utterly incoherent, or pretty much anywhere else in between those extremes. Today I was counting on him being clearheaded enough to function and help me out, which, I knew, wasn’t very realistic.

I drove up to his place, the Z-ster bouncing over the dirt road, and stopped the car. A cloud of red dust billowed behind me, twisting in the cool wind. Dad sat slumped in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him, the binoculars resting in his lap. He wore an old flannel shirt over his usual t-shirt and jeans, which was a good sign. When he was really out of it, he didn’t bother with weather-appropriate clothing. I could also see, however, that he had on tennis shoes but no socks. I muttered a curse. In the many years I’d spent scrying my father’s state of mind, I had learned that more often than not, no socks meant he was out of it.

He had looked over at the car as I pulled up, but now was staring out over his land, his eyes fixed on the New River Mountains to the east, an unsteady hand raised to his brow to block the sun, which still hung low in the eastern sky.

“Good morning, Pop,” I called, climbing out of the car and shutting the door.

He glanced my way and lifted his other hand in a half-hearted wave, so at least he knew I was here. But he didn’t say anything and soon turned away once more. Mixed signals.

I walked to where he sat and leaned down to kiss his forehead. His skin felt cool, and he didn’t smell bad, as he did when he hadn’t showered for a few days. “How are you feeling today?”

He shrugged, but said nothing, his gaze never leaving the mountains.

“Are you hungry?”

He considered the question and nodded.

“How about a bowl of cereal?”

Another nod.

I stepped into the trailer, filled a bowl with raisin bran, and poured a little bit of milk over it. Dad could be particular about the foods he ate. He only liked a certain brand of cereal, and he could tell the difference if you tried to slip a cheaper brand into his breakfast bowl. I’d learned that one the hard way many years ago. He liked milk on his cereal, but not too much. He had other preferences as well, all of them specific and none of them open to negotiation. But that was okay: At his age, with all that he had been through, he’d earned the right to be a little picky.

I brought him his cereal, along with his favorite spoon — don’t ask — and then pulled out a second lawn chair, which I set next to his.

He took a spoonful of cereal and chewed it slowly, following the flight of a hawk with his eyes. Usually he would have told me the species, but he didn’t say a word.

“Have you been sleeping all right?”

He nodded.

“And you’ve been eating?”

A frown crossed his features, but after a moment he answered with another nod. I guessed that he had last eaten sometime yesterday, but couldn’t remember when.

I let him down the rest of his breakfast in peace, wondering if I had wasted a trip. I needed his help, but he wouldn’t be able to do anything for me in this state.

It occurred to me that if he hadn’t eaten before my arrival, he probably hadn’t had anything to drink, either. I went back into the trailer and filled two glasses with ice water. When I walked outside again, his bowl was empty. I took it from him and handed him the glass. He drank deeply, draining half the glass.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome. You’re talking.”

His brow creased. “Was I not?”

“Not a word.”

“Sorry. I thought I was.”

“You feeling all right?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I suppose. A little muddled. It Tuesday already?”

I shook my head. “Saturday.”

“Was I in bad shape on Tuesday?”

“No, you were fine. I came out today because I need some help.”

“From me?”

I nodded.

“Magical?”

“In part.”

He sat up a little straighter and took another sip of water. “I don’t know, Justis.” He and Kona were the only people in the world who called me by my full name. “It’s been a while since I cast any spells that matter.”

“Since this summer?” I asked. “When we fought Saorla?”

“Yep, I think that would be the last time.”

“Well, if you can’t do it, I can try to find another way.”

“What is it you’re trying to do?”

I looked him in the eye. “Hide from Saorla.”

He grimaced, ran a hand through his white hair so that it stood on end. “She’s not going to like that.”

“No, she probably won’t.”

“Then I’m in.”

I laughed.

“Why me, though? You know other weremystes.”

“Honestly? Because Saorla knows I come out here a lot. And she thinks you’re nothing more than a burned out old weremyste.”

“I am nothing more than a burned out old weremyste.”

“Dad, that’s not –”

“It’s all right. I think I understand. Going to another weremyste would draw her interest. But she doesn’t think much of me, and she doesn’t pay too much attention when you come out here.”

“Exactly. I need to track down a woman, another weremyste. I think Saorla and her friends are after her, and I want to get to her first, without Saorla knowing about it.”

“So what kind of spell would you need me to cast?”

I stood and peered around the far side of the trailer to where my father’s 1989 Ford F150 pickup was parked. It was one of those two-tone models, chestnut brown with a broad tan stripe along the side panels. “Well, first of all, when was the last time you started up that old truck of yours?”

He swiveled in his chair so that he could see it. “My truck? What’s the matter with your car?”

“Saorla knows it, and so do her flying monkeys.”

I could tell he didn’t like the idea of lending it to me. He probably hadn’t driven the thing more than ten times in the last year, but that truck had been his baby for a quarter century.

“Keys are in the trailer,” he said, sounding like he begrudged every word, “on a hook inside the door.”