Here’s the next Ethshar novel, at least in theory — but right now I’m pretty upset about it, because when I opened the file to pull this sample I discovered that a little over two thousand words are missing. The most recent file I can find is from January 2013, but I last worked on it in March 2013, and according to my records had ten pages more than any file I can find. Gaah!

Anyway, this is what I’ve sometimes called “the Big Fat Ethshar novel,” and it may actually wind up as three (or more) intertwined stories, rather than one big one. If it does get subdivided, this will be the opening of Lord Landessin’s Gallery.

Morvash of the Shadows leaned over the rail, ignoring the glares of the crewmen who obviously wished passengers would stay below, out of sight and out of their way, while the ship maneuvered up the Grand Canal into the heart of Ethshar of the Spices. One advantage of being a wizard, though, was that no one was going to actually order him to move, so he was able to stay where he was and watch as the warehouses of Spicetown slid by to starboard. If he stretched a little and peered forward he could see the yellow walls and red tile roof of the overlord’s palace, but judging by the shouted orders and the men hauling ropes the ship would not be going that far.

Indeed, a moment later the first mooring line was flung to a waiting dockworker, and the ship’s forward motion stopped. Morvash watched with interest as that first rope was used to haul a much larger, heavier rope, which was then secured to a bollard at the end of a wooden dock. A second line quickly followed, then a third and a fourth; when those had been pulled tight, securing the ship to the dock, two more were added. That seemed unnecessarily thorough to Morvash, but he assumed the sailors knew what they were doing. Their movements seemed assured and practiced.

Once all six lines were secured the gangplank was run out, and the bustle on the deck shifted focus. Most of the sails had been taken in before venturing into the crowded waters of the canal, but now the remaining canvas was furled and various parts of the ship’s superstructure were secured or rearranged. It all seemed to be happening very quickly.

Morvash turned his attention to the dock just as a carriage came rattling to a stop. He squinted, trying to see better; the coach was painted in the family colors, maroon and silver, so it was probably his uncle’s. He straightened up, turned toward the stern, and called, “May I go ashore now?”

The captain was standing on the afterdeck, keeping an eye on his ship and crew, but now he glanced down at the wizard. “Please yourself,” he said.

Morvash nodded, and made his way to the gangplank.

His feet had just landed on the dock when the carriage door opened and a man stepped out, a man considerably fatter than Morvash remembered his uncle to be, and with gray hair rather than black – but it had been a long, long time.

“Morvash?” the fat man called.

“Uncle Gror?” Morvash picked up his pace, and the two men met and embraced midway between the ship and the coach.

“Welcome to Ethshar of the Spices!” Gror exclaimed. “You’ve grown!”

“I would hope so,” Morvash said. “I was eight the last time you saw me.”

Gror laughed. “And here you are, a grown man and a wizard! It’s been too long.”

“You could have come to visit,” Morvash said. “My mother and Uncle Kardig would have been glad to see you.”

“Oh, I’ve seen all I need of Kardig,” Gror said, slapping Morvash on the back. “He’s here every year, and all he does is complain about the prices.”

“I can believe it,” Morvash replied. “But when was the last time you saw my mother?”

“Far too long ago, I admit it,” Gror said. He looked past his nephew at the ship. “How was your voyage? Do you have luggage?”

“The journey went well enough,” Morvash said. “We had calm seas, and I was able to frighten off the pirates near Shan with a simple pyrotechnic spell.”

“I don’t suppose the captain saw fit to pay you for defending his ship?”

“Of course not. But I did eat better after that.”

“And your luggage?”

“I’m afraid there’s a lot of it – possibly more than will fit in your carriage. Shall I hire a wagon to have it brought to the house?”

“Oh, I’ll have my staff fetch it. Just tell the captain.”

“I think that would be the purser’s concern, but I’ll tell someone.”

“I hope there won’t be any serious pilferage.”

Morvash laughed. “Uncle, I’m a wizard! Nobody steals from a wizard. I’ve drawn runes on every case, just to be sure.”

Gror looked intrigued. “What sort of runes? What do they do?”

Morvash smiled and leaned close. “Nothing,” he whispered. “But they look like magic, and that should be enough.”

Gror smiled back. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t meddle with a wizard’s belongings if I saw mystic runes on them. Come on, then, say your farewells to the captain, and let’s get home.”

Morvash started to say something about it not being his home, but he caught himself. It was his home now, at least for the moment. Instead he turned back to the ship and called out.

Twenty minutes later the carriage rolled through the elegant gates of Gror’s mansion on Canal Avenue, in the heart of the district still called the New City more than two centuries after it was built. The gates were wrought iron, depicting a pair of dragons; the house itself was of fine yellow brick, with broad windows, white-painted trim, and a red tile roof. It blended nicely with its neighbors. Morvash looked up at the elegant facade and frowned; except for the bright colors it seemed rather plain, with no turrets or gargoyles. In fact, most of the buildings here seemed pale and insubstantial compared to the architecture of his native city, Ethshar of the Rocks – wood and brick and plaster, instead of the dark, solid stone structures of home. It probably came of using the materials that came readily to hand; after all, it was called Ethshar of the Rocks for a reason, while Ethshar of the Spices was built on clay and sand.

A footman opened the carriage door, and another was holding open the door to the house; Morvash climbed out of the coach, then waited for his uncle to lead the way inside.

“I hope you’ll like it here,” Gror said, as they crossed the forecourt. “As I understand it, you’re planning an extended stay?”

“Yes,” Morvash said. “Uncle Kardig… well, he and Mother think it would be unwise to show my face in the Rocks or Tintallion for the foreseeable future.”

“Is it as serious as all that?”

“I don’t really know,” Morvash admitted, as they climbed the steps. “It seems to be. But honestly, Uncle Gror, I didn’t have any choice. Doing what they wanted would have been a violation of Wizards’ Guild rules, and I swore to obey the Guild law – I could be killed if I broke it.”

“Did you tell Kardig that?”

“Of course!”

“I suppose he thought you were just making excuses. I know he had really been looking forward to having a wizard in the family.”

Morvash stepped past the footman into the hall, planning to reply, but once he was inside the house he stopped dead. “By the gods!” he said.

Gror smiled at him. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“All these statues!” Morvash said, staring.

“Lord Lendessin collected them,” his uncle said. “The whole house is jammed with statuary of one sort or another.”

This one’s a bit longer than usual because there really wasn’t anywhere earlier to break it. It’s in a setting that I came up with originally for a completely different story that hasn’t yet gotten past the outline stage; I’m hoping for three or four stories there eventually.

Veran heard her father’s voice as she approached the house. He sounded angry. She hoped he wasn’t mad at her – she hadn’t been out that long, and he hadn’t actually told her to stay in the house.

“…boys for miles in every direction are already sniffing around her, and if we don’t…”

He stopped abruptly when Veran lifted the latch. She peered around the door to see her father standing in the middle of the room, arms raised, while her mother sat quietly in her rocking chair. Veran’s mother’s mouth was tight, and she was looking down at her hands, not at her husband – so she was angry, too.

They had probably been arguing, then, and Veran probably wasn’t the target of her father’s ire after all. She smiled as she stepped into the house, pretending she hadn’t heard anything.

Her father had not merely stopped talking; he seemed to be holding his breath. Now he let it out in a sigh as he looked at her. “Veran,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“Playing down by the river,” she said.

Her parents exchanged glances. “Who were you playing with?” her mother asked.

“Gorbin, and Dalleth, and the Weaver girls.”

“That sounds all right,” her father said. “But remember – ”

“There must always be another girl,” Veran said, completing his sentence. “I know.” She closed the door.

There was a sudden howl of wind, and the entire house shook; all three of them froze in astonishment.

“What was that?” Veran’s sister Helria called from the attic.

“I don’t know,” her father called back. He turned to Veran, and started to ask a question.

Before he had gotten beyond, “Did you…” there was a heavy knock at the door.

Startled, Veran whirled around.

“Was there someone following you?” her mother asked. She sounded worried.

“No!” Veran said. “The Weavers went home, so I came back, and Dalleth and Gorbin were still splashing around when I left. I didn’t see anyone else!” She didn’t mention that at least half an hour had elapsed between Alzi and Morin’s departure and her own.

The knock sounded again. Veran looked to her father for guidance.

“Who is it?” he bellowed.

“One who you would be unwise to offend, Larzam of Korbek!”

“The wizard,” Veran’s mother gasped.

“Open the door, girl,” her father barked.

Veran hurriedly turned and obeyed.

Wind swirled in the instant the latch released, and flung the door back against the wall, revealing a tall old man in a flowing black robe, his long white hair and beard fluttering in the breeze. His eyes were so pale a blue they almost seemed to glow, and Veran stared at his face, fascinated.

This, she realized, must be Algath Skybreaker, the wizard who lived atop the Gray Mountain and ruled the surrounding valleys – including the one her family lived in.

He stared back at her.

“Dread master,” her father said, kneeling. “What can I do for you?”

The wizard kept his gaze locked on Veran’s face; she was becoming very nervous, but did not dare look away. “This girl,” he said. “She is your daughter?”

“Yes, my lord. Her name is Veran.”

“How old is she?”

Veran blinked. Why was the wizard here, and asking about her?

“Thirteen, my lord.” His voice shook slightly.

The wizard’s expression changed; he cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtful. Veran tore her eyes away and glanced at her parents.

Her father looked nervous, but her mother, usually so calm in appearance, looked terrified. Veran swallowed uneasily, and turned her attention back to the wizard.

“That’s too young,” he said, not addressing anyone in particular. “But then, it may take some time to arrange matters and prepare her.”

Her father cleared his throat, and the wizard raised his gaze, looking over Veran’s head at him.

“Prepare her for what, my lord?”

“For what I have in mind,” the wizard replied. “I have a use for a beautiful woman, and my magic tells me that this girl has the potential to be by far the most beautiful woman in the Six Valleys.”

Veran blinked. Beautiful? Her?

“We… we had noticed her beauty, my lord. It has been… we have been concerned about it.”

“Concerned?”

“The local boys, my lord – they’re taking an interest. But as you say, she’s still too young!”

The wizard frowned. He looked down at Veran again. “Then perhaps we can come to an arrangement that will please us both.” He thought for a moment.

Veran wanted to say something – she had a hundred questions, and besides, they were talking about her as if she wasn’t even here – but she didn’t know how to talk to a wizard. And Algath Skybreaker, Lord of the Six Valleys, Master of the Gray Mountain, was not just any wizard; he was the ruler of the entire area. His magic permeated earth and sky for miles in every direction, and everyone who lived in the Six Valleys did so at his sufferance. He made the soil fertile, and kept away crows and locusts that would eat the crops. His magic cleansed the water and made it safe to drink. She couldn’t just talk to him as if he was an ordinary man.

And then she had missed her chance, as the wizard said, “I will have need of your daughter at some point in the future; I can’t say exactly when. Until that time, she will be under my protection, and anyone who would harm her, or touch her against her will, does so at his peril. I will provide you with rich fabrics, fine thread, and jewels, and you will see to it that she has clothing befitting her new role; if you and your wife are not capable of sewing suitable garments, I will find another to undertake the task. Beginning on her fifteenth birthday… ah, but wait. Do you consider a girl of fifteen to be of marriageable age?”

Veran turned to see her parents’ reaction; they were staring at one another.

“Sixteen,” her mother said.

The wizard sighed. “Very well. Her sixteenth birthday, then. From that day on she must always dress and conduct herself as if she were a king’s daughter, so that should she be snatched away without warning and brought to a royal court, she will give no evidence of her humble origins, but will appear to be a princess of the highest breeding. If you feel yourselves incapable of training her in the manners appropriate to a woman of high station, a tutor can be provided.”

“I… I think that would be a good idea, my lord,” her father said. “We’re just ordinary folk.”

The wizard nodded. “I will see to it that, however ordinary you may be, you will be very successful folk, for as long as you obey these instructions to my satisfaction.”

“We will?”

“Oh, yes. As long as you remain in my domain, and do as I have told you, your every enterprise will be met with good fortune. No vermin will trouble you. Whatever you may grow in your garden shall bear plentifully, and game shall present itself to you to be trapped or shot. Any man who displeases you will displease me, as well.”

“But… I don’t understand, my lord. Do you intend to wed my daughter?”

“Me?” The wizard jerked upright as if stung. “Me? By the good earth, no! I have no interest in children, no matter how lovely.”

“Then… I don’t understand.”

“I have a use for a woman of exceptional beauty. Your daughter will become such a woman, and there is no other in all the Six Valleys who will be her equal in the next hundred years. I am setting forth the terms under which you will grant me your daughter for my purpose.”

Keeping this one pretty short. This may or may not eventually be part of a series about a guy named Wayne Ellsworth who’s a “weirdness magnet.”

It stood a little over seven feet tall, with skin the mottled gray of New Hampshire granite. Its eyes were set inhumanly low and far apart; its snub nose was black and appeared to have four nostrils. Its mouth had a divided upper lip that vaguely resembled a cat’s, but its blue-gray teeth didn’t look catlike at all – or like anything else I’d ever seen before. It wore a baggy sweatshirt that failed to hide the fact that its shoulders were structured wrong. The four-fingered hand that was still hovering near the doorbell had far too many joints, and was at the end of an arm with three elbows.

“Hi,” it said, in a voice that was obviously not human. It had a slight lisp and the faintest trace of a Brooklyn accent. “I’m Fred Smith, from Number Nine, down the block. I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“Uh,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. I look pretty strange.” It glanced over its misshapen shoulder and asked, “Could I come in?”

“Uh,” I said again.

Its mouth did something I really can’t describe that I guess was a grimace, and it said, “Maybe this was a bad idea, but honestly, I didn’t know where else to go.”

I wasn’t ready to invite it in for tea, but despite its appearance and the weird voice, it sounded so normal that my brain finally started to slip into gear. “What kind of a favor?” I asked.

“Could you make a phone call for me? Maybe tell a little white lie or two?” It looked around uneasily. “And if you could let me in, out of sight, I’d really appreciate it. I don’t want to start any trouble, and I’m pretty nervous out here in the open.”

That made perfect sense. I couldn’t help taking a quick look at its hands and teeth, but I didn’t see any claws or fangs – in fact, it didn’t appear to have fingernails at all.

“Come on in,” I said, stepping aside, “and tell me about it.”

It ducked its head to fit through the door, then straightened up again once it was inside, and looked around.

“You have a lovely home,” it said.

“Thank you,” I replied automatically.

This one starts out as just about the most generic fantasy opening imaginable; that’s deliberate. I like to think it goes somewhere a lot less predictable, though.

Marga dodged the outstretched foot deftly; the tray balanced on her hand did not wobble. Once upon a time she had wondered why so many customers tried to trip her – was it really that funny to see her spill ale all over someone? Now she didn’t even think about it; avoidance was completely automatic.

She glanced over at the two soldiers in the corner. You’d think that with two of Lord Gorzoth’s killers here the regulars would behave themselves better, but apparently habit and beer were capable of partially overcoming common sense.

Only partially, though – the three tables nearest the soldiers were all empty, and nobody was looking at the pair, or calling to them. Marga hoped there wouldn’t be any trouble. She knew the soldiers probably weren’t going to pay for anything, and she was resigned to that, but she did not want to be cleaning up blood or bodies, or having to tell anyone’s family that he’d been stupid enough to anger one of Lord Gorzoth’s men.

The door to the street opened as Marga set two foaming mugs on the table where the weaver’s twins waited; she looked up to see a figure looming in the doorway, one she did not immediately recognize. She glanced quickly over at the soldiers, but they were involved in their own conversation, paying no attention to the new arrival.

The newcomer stepped down into the tavern, and Marga could see two more strangers behind him; the first man had completely hidden them.

That first man was big, bigger than Vromir Smith, who was the biggest man in town; Marga didn’t think she had ever seen anyone as tall, or as broad in the shoulder, as this fellow. He was wrapped head to toe in a brown woolen cloak, a hood pulled forward to hide his face, but as she watched he reached up both hands – hands clad in heavy leather gloves – and pulled the hood down to reveal a strong, handsome face. His golden hair and beard were clean and brushed, but had not been trimmed for awhile. He scanned the room, looking for an empty table.

There were only three – the three nearest Lord Gorzoth’s men. The big man stood for a moment, gazing at the two soldiers. Then he shrugged, and headed for the nearest of the unoccupied tables.

His two companions trailed behind him. They were of far more ordinary dimensions than their leader, their heads scarcely topping his shoulders; one was lean and dark, and had apparently been clean-shaven several days ago, while the other had a broad face framed by brown curls, sporting a shaggy mustache and a goatee.

As Marga watched, the trio marched straight to their chosen table and sat down, with only the barest glance at the soldiers. She hesitated only an instant, then told the twins, “Let me know if you need anything else,” tucked her now-empty tray under her arm, and hurried over to the newcomers.

“Can I get something for you gentlemen?” she asked.

“Something to eat,” said the brown-haired one.

“And ale,” the dark one added.

“The commons tonight is roast pork and carrots, half a crown each,” Marga said. “The ale’s two slivers a pint.”

The big man thumped a purse on the table, thumbed open the drawstring, and fished out a heavy coin. “Will this feed us all?” he asked, in a deep, warm rumble of a voice that stirred something in Marga’s belly.

Marga picked up the coin and studied it. She had never seen one like it. It had the color and shine and heft of gold, but she knew those could all be feigned in one fashion or another. The emblem on one side was of the sun rising above a hill; the other showed an open hand encircled by an inscription in an unfamiliar alphabet. Something about it tugged at an old memory, and she stared at it, trying to dredge up that faint recollection.

Then she realized that not only were the three newcomers watching her, but so were Lord Gorzoth’s men, and a few of the locals. It suddenly seemed more important to avoid trouble than to perhaps accept a counterfeit – and really, what counterfeiter would have come up with something like this, instead of a more ordinary coin? The thing was almost certainly a genuine coin from somewhere, and probably more than enough to cover the cost of a meal. “Been awhile since I’ve seen one of these,” she said. “It should do fine. I’ll fetch your supper right away.” Then she tucked the strange coin in her apron pocket and headed for the kitchen.

Another one from the Bound Lands — set in Ermetia this time.

Prince Dalvos was late – or at any rate, he had not come. Since there had been no specific appointment he was not exactly late, but Burren had expected him to appear at more or less the usual time and place, and was slightly puzzled that he had not.

He had nothing better to do with himself, so Burren strolled down from the terrace outside his apartments, into the gardens, along the back route that Dalvos would most likely have taken from the royal compound at Heathertop if he had indeed come. Burren half-expected any minute to see the prince trotting along the path, calling out a greeting and apologizing for his late arrival.

He ambled down past the tea garden and through the trellis gate, then turned onto the hedge-rose path. At the arcade he paused, considered for a moment settling on one of the stone benches – but he had not brought a book, and simply sitting did not suit his present mood. Instead he strolled down the steps to the herb garden and steered himself toward the willow grove beside the duck pond.

Around him the bees bumbled and beetles clicked and buzzed; leaves rustled in the warm and gentle breeze, and every so often a snippet of birdsong trailed by. The day was far from silent. The realization that a human voice was mixed in the springtime hum was slow and gradual, but at last unmistakable – someone was in the willows, talking quietly.

Burren had no desire to intrude on anyone’s privacy, and called out, “Ho, there!”

Willow branches whickered, and shadows moved amid the greenery, but no one replied. Burren frowned slightly. There were a thousand innocent explanations possible, but the chance that this reticence was an indication of guilt could not be denied. Thieves and poachers were not unheard of here, though his father’s estates were less troubled than most.

Burren considered calling out again, but shrugged and began whistling instead. If the voice was that of a trespasser, Burren would give him a chance to flee – but would not let him be.

The willow rustled again, but no one fled.

Burren strolled nonchalantly forward, around the drooping branches, and found his prey – Prince Dalvos was there, leaning one outstretched arm against a willow tree, his back to Burren, his attention firmly fixed on Tira, the chamberlain’s daughter. Tira stood with her back against the trunk of the tree, Dalvos’ arm blocking her escape on one side. Her skirt was twisted somewhat awry, and one hand was clutching it, trying to straighten it, while the other was on Dalvos’ chest.

She did not look as if she were enjoying the prince’s attention.

“Prince Dalvos!” Burren called out, “What a pleasant surprise!”

Reluctantly, Dalvos turned his head.

“Hello, Burren,” he said. “What brings you down this way?”

Burren saw the expression on Tira’s face, and quickly concocted a lie.

“I was looking for your companion, I’m afraid,” he said.

Tira blinked at him in surprise. “Me?” she squeaked.

“What do you want with her?” Dalvos asked, startled.

“I don’t want anything with her,” Burren said hastily. “It’s Megrin the witchwoman who wants her.”

Dalvos straightened up and dropped his hand. “The witchwoman?”

“Apparently young Tira has been assisting her in her witchery,” Burren said.

“Really?” Dalvos turned back to Tira.

“That’s right, your Highness,” Tira said quickly. Her performance didn’t strike Burren as entirely convincing, but Dalvos didn’t seem to notice anything wrong. “I fetch her the powders and herbs, and stir the kettle.”

“And Megrin wants her to come help with the stirring right this moment, I believe.”

“Then of course she must go,” Dalvos said, stepping away from the tree.

“Thank you, your Highness,” Tira said. She tugged her skirt back where it belonged, then gathered it up above her ankles and hastened away, running up the path toward the palace. She glanced back over her shoulder as she left the grove and threw Burren a quick smile.

“A pretty little thing, isn’t she?” Dalvos asked as he watched her flee. “I must say, Megrin’s timing might have been better.”

“Witchwomen are notorious for their inconvenience,” Burren replied, stepping up to the prince’s side.

“True enough,” Dalvos agreed. He turned and slapped Burren on the shoulder. “Well, at least this means I see more of you today than I had expected, so it’s not all bad. How goes it with you today?”

“Oh, quietly, my prince, quietly,” Burren said. “I was glad of an errand to run.”

“Were you, indeed? Then perhaps I can assign you another. That wench has my blood running hot – do you think you might find some other who could cool it? This is your town, not my own, and I know little of its hidden ways.”

Burren hid his distaste at this bald request; he was a duke’s son, not a pimp or procurer. “Not at this hour, Highness,” he said. “It’s yet morning, and the nightbirds fast asleep.”

“Ah, then I must suffer a few hours more, I suppose.”

“Or find another means to cool your ardor, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” Dalvos turned away. “Come, let’s go up to your father’s palace, and see what amusements await us there.”

“As you will, my prince.” Burren followed as Dalvos headed up out of the willows.

I have a dream. I dream that someday, someone will actually comment on something I post here.

Meanwhile, this is the opening of a story intended to be the first volume of a contemporary fantasy trilogy.

Alicia awoke coughing.

She was sitting up in bed, coughing uncontrollably, before she opened her eyes and saw the smoke. It was everywhere, surrounding her; her room beyond the bed was a vague blur. Her eyes widened, and she called, “Mom!”

She didn’t wait for an answer; she rolled out of bed and stooped down, trying to stay below the smoke, the way they had taught in safety class back in grade school. She pulled open a bureau drawer and grabbed a pair of panties, wriggled into them, then hesitated, trying to decide what else to grab. Those long-ago lectures had said that the first priority was to get out, get out of the house before the heat and smoke could overcome you. Don’t stop for anything – get outdoors!

But she really didn’t want to wind up standing on the lawn in nothing but black lace panties and an old Nirvana T-shirt.

She coughed again, and looked around, trying to see where the smoke was coming from, and where her best escape route might be. She didn’t see any flame, but the room was filled with smoke, rolling clouds of blue, gray, and black that seemed to be expanding downward, almost as if it was following her toward the floor. Even down on one knee as she was, she wasn’t below those billows. She couldn’t see the ceiling at all; the window was merely a paler patch of smoke.

But… Nirvana and black panties?

She didn’t see any flame, and she didn’t feel any heat. She knelt in front of the bureau and rummaged through the drawers, struggling not to cough as the smoke swirled around her.

If she was going to die of smoke inhalation, she told herself, she hoped it wouldn’t happen until after she got some clothes on.

Jeans! An old pair of jeans – those would do. She pulled them on, then groped for the door. At the last second she remembered the old instructions and put a hand to the wood. It felt cool.

Where was the smoke coming from, then? She looked around again, squinting; her eyes were starting to tear up, but the clouds didn’t seem quite as dense.
The smoke seemed thickest right above her bed – was the mattress on fire? But it hadn’t felt warm when she first woke up, or at least no warmer than normal.

It didn’t make any sense, but she was starting to feel dizzy, and knew she had already waited too long. She flung open the door and plunged out into the hallway.

Smoke billowed out behind her, filling the corridor around her.

“Mom!” she yelled again.

“What?” came her mother’s voice, from somewhere in the direction of the stairs. She sounded annoyed.

“Fire!” Alicia called, before being overcome by a fresh bout of coughing.

“What?” The tone was very different this time, and the word was followed by the sound of rapid footsteps as Alicia’s mother ran up the stairs. “Oh, my God! Are you all right?”

“Call the fire…!” Alicia managed, before coughing cut her off again.

“Get out of there, Ali!”

Alicia was dazed and dizzy, but that penetrated her mental haze. She looked back over her shoulder at the smoke rolling out of her bedroom, then got to her feet and ran, stooped over, for the stairs.

She was already out on the lawn, straightening up and trying to get her coughing under control, when her mother finally managed to call 911. Smoke of various colors was pouring from the eaves and upstairs windows, blending into the surprisingly dense morning fog, but Alicia still saw no flame anywhere, and as she watched the smoke seemed to lessen.

I’m experiencing technical problems with the tape recorder, so no more music reports yet. Instead here’s another opening. This time it’s not part of a series, just a story that insisted I start writing it. It hasn’t insisted I finish it, though…

Dan Calvert was up late, finishing a report for one of his more annoying clients, when he heard a sound from his daughter’s bedroom. He looked up from the keyboard.

He wasn’t sure exactly what to call the sound – a whoosh, perhaps? It wasn’t anything he could identify immediately. It sounded as if it might be caused by a vacuum cleaner or a water pipe doing something peculiar. He was fairly sure that it wasn’t a sound that should be coming from Ali’s bedroom at half past midnight.

He glanced down at the computer. The report wasn’t due until Monday; he just hadn’t wanted it hanging over him during the weekend. It could wait overnight for a final polish. He saved his work, then got up and walked down the hall to the door of Ali’s room, where he put his ear to the painted wood and listened for a moment.

He didn’t hear anything.

Maybe it had been something caught in a vent – but the furnace wasn’t running. Or maybe it had been something falling, perhaps one of the posters over Ali’s bed. Dan frowned, hesitated, then carefully and silently turned the knob.

Ali was sixteen, and as jealous of her privacy as any teenager, but surely it would do no harm to glance in and make sure she was okay. He opened the door a crack and peered into the dark room.

At least it was dark; she wasn’t sitting up late. There was no glow of a TV or computer screen, just her alarm clock’s red digits reading 12:27. Nothing was obviously out of place in the sliver he could see.

He pushed the door open a little wider, and let light from the hallway spill in.

The posters were still in place; there was her bed, nothing on it that shouldn’t be…

But it was empty.

Dan blinked.

Maybe she got up to use the bathroom, he thought. Maybe that was the noise he had heard. He turned and looked across the hall.

The bathroom door stood wide open, and the bathroom was dark. Ali wasn’t in it. He turned back to the bedroom and looked in again, thrusting his head in through the crack.

She was definitely not in the bed; the blanket was pulled up, but no one was under it.

She wasn’t at her desk, or sitting in the chair in the corner, either. Baffled and concerned, Dan stepped into the room and looked around.

Ali wasn’t anywhere.

He flipped on the light, but his daughter did not magically appear; with the light on the bed was still empty, the desk deserted, the chair unoccupied. Ali was not standing in one of the corners.

Both worried and annoyed, Dan crossed the room and yanked open the closet door, revealing a lot of dirty laundry flung on the closet floor, but no sign of his missing daughter.

“Ali?” he said.

No one answered.

Feeling foolish, Dan knelt down and looked under the bed, discovering several forgotten CDs, an old pizza box, and a healthy crop of dust bunnies, but no teenage girl.

She was gone; there was simply no doubt of it.

Could she have crept down to the kitchen for a late snack, perhaps? That would have taken her right past the nook where he had been working, but he had been pretty involved in that stupid report; it wasn’t totally beyond the realm of possibility that she had walked right past him without being noticed. He left the room, turned off the light and shut the door, and walked quickly down the stairs to the kitchen.

No sign of her.

It would seem she had snuck out of the house.

That was bad. That was very bad. It also didn’t seem like her at all – and that made it even worse, since it meant that Dan didn’t know his daughter as well as he had thought he did.

Then an even worse possibility struck him, and he hurried back upstairs to her room, this time not bothering to be quiet about it.

The windows were both securely locked. No one had broken in and dragged her out.

That was some relief, but not much. She had left under her own power – if she hadn’t gone out the window, then she would have had to have gone past where he was working to leave the house, and there was simply no way that could possibly have happened if she hadn’t gone willingly.

Now the obvious question was what he should do about it.

The obvious answer was to wake up his wife and tell her, but he really hated that idea. Ali and Sue hadn’t been getting along very well of late – nothing serious, so far as he knew, just the normal teenage mother-daughter stuff, with Sue worrying about Ali’s friends and grades and behavior, and Ali feeling that she was constantly being nagged and picked on, but still, there had been enough conflict that Dan really didn’t want to wake Sue unless he had to. In fact, waking Sue up for any reason was usually a bad idea; she was not a person who handled disturbed sleep well at all.

And he certainly couldn’t call the police without first waking Sue up and conferring. If he did call the cops, and Ali turned up ten minutes later, or was found alive and well sleeping over at a friend’s house…

But she wasn’t sleeping at a friend’s house, or at least she wasn’t supposed to be. She had eaten dinner with Dan and Sue, and they had all watched “Once Upon A Time” together even though it was a rerun.

That hardly seemed like someone who was about to run away from home, and honestly, Dan couldn’t think of any reason Ali would want to run away. He and Sue weren’t perfect as parents, but they weren’t monsters, either, and the tension between Ali and Sue hadn’t seemed anywhere near running away level stuff.

Slipping out with friends on a dare, or meeting some boyfriend – that, Dan could believe, though he hadn’t known about any boyfriends at the moment. It seemed likely to him that Ali would be back safe and sound later tonight.
That left him two choices – well, more than that, really, but two he seriously considered.

First, he could go to bed and pretend he had never noticed she was gone, and if she was back in the morning he could talk to her privately later and find out what the story was.

Second, he could stay up until she came in, and have that talk right away.
That, he decided, was the way to go. He would get a book and catch up on his reading, there in her room.

Five minutes later he was settled on the chair in the corner with a John Grisham novel.

By two a.m. he was having trouble staying awake; he would find himself reading the same paragraph three or four times. He decided that wasn’t going to work. He got up, stretched, and went down to the kitchen, where he made a pot of coffee. While it was brewing he put the book away and fished yesterday’s newspaper from the trash – working the sudoku puzzle ought to be better than reading, he thought.

He wasn’t very good at puzzles, but an hour later he had finished both the puzzle and a cup of coffee, and Ali had still not reappeared.

He once again debated waking Sue, but now he really didn’t want to – she would demand to know why he hadn’t done so at 12:30, rather than three in the morning, and he didn’t have a good answer.

He drank another cup of coffee and tackled the novel again, and this time made some real headway – either the caffeine had kicked in or he had his second wind, he wasn’t sure. All the same, at about a quarter to five he decided he didn’t care whether the hero won his case, and put the book aside.
He had thought Ali would be back by now. He was not at all happy that she wasn’t. He wasn’t happy about any of this. He had thought she knew better than to do anything like this without at least leaving a note. He stood and stretched, and looked out the window.

The eastern sky was starting to lighten. The sun would be up soon, and his daughter was still out there somewhere instead of safe in her bed. He really should have wakened Sue in the first place, he decided. He turned and took a step toward the bedroom door.

There was a dull thump, and Ali was lying on the bed, wearing a flannel nightgown that had been a hand-me-down from her mother. She was lying on top of the blanket, not tucked in.

This one I’ve been working on for some time now; I’ve written over 200 pages.

Mareet found herself looking up at a man’s face, but it was neither her father’s, nor that of Lord Salchen, the sorcerer to whom she was to be apprenticed. This was a stranger’s face, broad and bearded and blond, with intensely blue eyes that were staring into her own. His skin seemed unnaturally pale, though a slight flush reddened his brow, and his deep-set eyes appeared almost inhumanly large.

“Father?” she asked, turning her head away from that fearsome gaze, trying to make sense of her surroundings. She was not sure whether she had just awakened, or undergone some more curious transition. Her memories seemed oddly fragmented and uncertain, and she had no idea where she was, or how she came to be there.

“No,” the blond stranger said gently, in a voice that did not match his strong features. Despite his foreign complexion he spoke flawless, unaccented Walasian. “I am Barzal of Blackfield, and I have just bought your contract from Lord Salchen.”

“But… where’s Father, then? He was to negotiate the terms.” She did not look at the blond man, but at the room in which she found herself.

She was in a stone chamber, one that looked somehow familiar, though she could not remember where or how she might have seen it before. Sunlight slanted through a row of windows in one wall, illuminating rich red-and-gold carpets and a row of heavy chairs of what appeared to be finely-carved walnut, but the light brought little warmth. A strange, acrid odor hung in the cool air.

She was sitting in one of the chairs, slumped down in it, her hands clutching the arm-rests, and the big blond man was standing just a foot or two in front of her, looking down at her with an expression of concern. He was, she realized vaguely, finely dressed, in green velvet and yellow satin, and carrying a carved walking stick.

At one end of the room, a dozen feet away, stood a black-robed, black-haired figure – Lord Salchen, she belatedly realized. He looked somehow different than he had when last she saw him…

“Your father isn’t here,” Barzal said. “This isn’t what you think; it isn’t when you think. I’m afraid I’ve taken the liberty of erasing your memories of the last two or three years. This is the fourteenth day of autumn in the twenty-third year of the Emperor at Lume.”

Her eyes turned forward and upward and met his again. “No, it’s the seventeenth of spring in the twenty-first – ” she began.

“No,” he interrupted firmly. “It isn’t. You simply don’t remember the two and a half years you have dwelt here.”