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.”

Here’s another opening scene.

Virit looked up as another fireball came over the wall. She paused and watched as it arced across the sky, trying to estimate where it was going to hit. The catapult crew had probably been aiming for the market square, but even Virit, who was not at all familiar with the city, could see they had missed badly; the fireball sailed well beyond the market. She tried to remember what lay in that direction, and guessed it was headed toward the street of the jewelers.

She supposed that jewelers, due to the nature of their business, generally had good protective spells, but someone should still do something…

But then a dozen voices called, and alarm bells sounded, and Virit decided she was not needed. The locals could take care of themselves. She turned and resumed her interrupted journey, back to their lodging.

Zalgar ti-Partha was standing in the door of his shop, staring down the street, watching people hurry past. When he saw Virit he waved. “What’s happening?” he demanded.

“Another fireball,” Virit told him, pointing. “Down that way, maybe near the jewelers.”

“But the gates are still shut?”

“So far as I know, yes.” Virit did not stop as she answered the old man’s questions, but rounded the corner and hurried up the stairs that led from the alley to the rooms above the shop, lifting her skirts so she would not trip on them.

The door was unlocked, and she stepped in to find her grandfather seated in the big rocking chair by the front window while their host, her distant cousin Burud kif-Lessi, stood beside him and stared out at the street. He turned as Virit entered. “I heard the alarms,” he said. “What happened?”

“Fireball,” Virit said, as she tried to catch her breath.

“Where?” Burud asked.

“I suppose they were aiming at the foundries,” her grandfather said.

“No, Grandfather,” she said. “I think it came down near the street of jewelers.”

“They don’t want to damage the foundries,” Burud said patiently. “That’s what they want for themselves. Capturing them intact is the whole point of the siege.”

“Hmph.” The old man turned to his granddaughter. “What did the captain say?”

Virit hesitated, then admitted, “He wouldn’t talk to me.

Her grandfather straightened in his chair. “What?”

“He wouldn’t talk to me. He sent me to talk to a lieutenant – Lieutenant Aggris. I told him I represented a visiting dignitary, and he said he didn’t care who I was; he took his orders from the Master of the City, and nobody else.” She did not mention the open contempt that both the captain and the lieutenant had displayed when she said she was speaking on behalf of an Elder of the Surushalla; that would do nothing but upset her grandfather.

She saw the expression on Burud’s face, though, and thought he could guess what had happened.

“You told them who I am?”

“Of course, Grandfather. I used your full title.”

“You told them we are Surushalla of the mountains, and not the decadent knaves who live in their filthy city?”

Burud’s mouth tightened, and it was at just that moment that his assistant, Ganur kif-Tsashu, appeared in the kitchen doorway holding a teapot in one hand and a stack of cups in the other. He exchanged glances with his master, then cleared his throat. “Tea, anyone?”

“Yes, please,” Virit said, before either Burud or her grandfather could say anything that might antagonize the other. “Let me help.” She hurried to take the cups.

As she and Ganur poured, she said, “Grandfather, I told them exactly who you are. They said it didn’t matter. Nobody goes in or out of the city without the Master’s permission. They said that if you want to leave, you’ll need to talk to him or his courtiers, not the soldiers at the gate.”

“It’s foolishness! We have nothing to do with this war.”

“I don’t think they care, Grandfather.”

“Of course they don’t, Elder,” Burud said. “They’re concerned with their city, not with us. It’s not as if you were the Walasian ambassador; you’re just a tribal leader from up in the mountains, visiting his cousin. You claim to be a dignitary, but you didn’t present yourself at court.”

“Why should I?” the old man demanded, thumping his fist on the arm of the rocking chair. “I didn’t come here to trade compliments with some confounded Chordravine overlord! I came to discuss the future of our people.”

“And that’s the problem, Elder Turunis,” Ganur said. “The Master doesn’t care any more about you than you care about him, and opening the sally port for any reason could be dangerous.”

“Hmph,” the old man said again. “Then we’ll talk to this Master.” He turned to Burud. “Arrange it, Burud.”

A change of pace tonight — the opening scene of a novel I’m working on.

Footsteps echoed from the marble walls as the two men strode along the gallery, their red cloaks billowing behind them. The older man glanced at his companion, at the youth’s eager expression. This was still all new to him, new and exciting.

The younger man noticed the other’s gaze, and broke into a grin.

“Now, now,” the older man said. “Let’s try to maintain decorum, shall we?”

“Yes, sir,” the younger replied, trying to smother his smile.

Then they were at the door they sought, and turned to face it. Both men composed themselves, straightened their cloaks, threw back their shoulders; then the elder rapped sharply on the polished wood, three quick knocks.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice called from within.

“Guards!” the elder answered.

“You may enter.”

The elder swung the door open, then led the way into the sunny, richly-appointed salon. Three women were clustered in the center of the room, two seated on a small couch and the third standing close by. All were young, beautiful, and dressed in wonderful flowing gowns, but one of the seated pair was clearly in charge, and the other two her attendants. A gentle spring breeze stirred the gauzy draperies that hung in the doorway to the balcony.

“Your highness,” the elder guard said, with a sweeping bow. The younger hastily bowed, as well.

“Ah, Third,” the woman said. “Who is this?”

The elder guard straightened, but did not reply; instead he stared straight ahead, stone-faced. The two attendants looked puzzled by his silence, glancing from him to their mistress.

She cocked her head to one side, so that a torrent of silky black hair spilled across her shoulder, then smiled. “My apologies – I had forgotten the date. Second, is it?”

“Yes, your highness.” The elder guard relaxed and smiled, then turned to his companion. “Allow me to present the Sixth of our order. Sixth, may I present her highness Princess Sharva, the granddaughter of our beloved Emperor.”

“Welcome to our household!” The woman rose to her feet with a single graceful movement, and held out her hand.

The younger guard stepped forward, knelt, and kissed her fingers. He was mildly surprised to see she wore no rings or bracelets, but naturally did not let that surprise show.

“Rise, guardsman!”

The Sixth obeyed, clicking his heels and coming to attention.

“So you’ve only just given up your name, and begun your tuition?” the princess asked.

“Yes, your highness,” he answered.

“You have thirty years of service ahead of you. That must be a daunting prospect.”

“Not at all, your highness. I look forward to every minute of it.”

She smiled, then she turned her attention to the elder guard. “And why have the two of you come to see me today?”

“Primarily to present our new Sixth, your highness,” the Second said, with a wave at his protege. “It will be his duty to guard you in the event of any disturbance. But also, your highness, I came to report that there is a disturbance on the Promenade. As yet we do not believe there is any danger, to you or anyone else, but matters may develop quickly. It’s possible that it may become advisable to leave your apartments on short notice, so we ask that you do not involve yourself in anything that would make a quick departure inconvenient – a bath, for example.”

The two attendants exchanged worried glances, but neither of them spoke. They had not said a word since the guard’s knock.

The princess frowned. “What sort of disturbance?”

“Nothing new, your highness,” the Second replied. “People are concerned about the recent disappearances, and are demanding the government do something – bring back the missing, provide an explanation, something.”

“I don’t blame them,” Sharva said. “I find the disappearances worrisome myself.”

“Then you don’t know what’s causing them?” the Sixth asked.

She shook her head. “No, of course not,” she said.

“If you will forgive me, your highness, none of the rest of your family seems very concerned,” Second said. “I had assumed they knew something the rest of us do not.”

The princess grimaced. “If they do, they have not deigned to inform me of it.” She shook her head. “I agree they do not seem worried, but I don’t know why. Much as I love them, I sometimes find my father’s family hard to understand. Perhaps I shouldn’t admit it, but I think I take more after my mother. Wizards often baffle me as much as they baffle anyone.”

“But…” Sixth began, then stopped, looking confused.

Sharva smiled at him again, and leaned in close. “You know, Sixth, as a member of the Imperial Guards you’ll be expected to keep many secrets.”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Well, here’s one of them – I’m not much of a wizard. Oh, I can do a few spells, but no more than some of the better sorcerers.”

“But… you’re the Emperor’s granddaughter.”

“Yes, I am. And my father is a mighty wizard indeed, as is my uncle, the heir to the throne. But whatever you may have heard to the contrary, my mother is merely human, with no magical ability whatsoever, and as I said a moment ago, I seem to take after her. My brother is more fortunate, and seems to have a gift for magic, but even a simple binding can confound me.”

The Sixth’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “Yes, your highness,” he said.

“Come on, then,” the princess said, turning toward the balcony doors. “Let us take a look at this disturbance.”

“Your highness, I am not sure that is wise,” Second said.

“It probably isn’t,” Sharva replied, without looking back. “I’m going to do it anyway.”

Well, I’ve gone and done it — I’ve just launched my Kickstarter campaign to finance the publication of my science-fantasy novel, Vika’s Avenger. You can get the details on the Kickstarter page, but here’s a little about it:

On a distant planet, 12,000 years in the future, a country boy named Tulzik Ambroz comes to the ancient city of Ragbaan seeking the man who killed his sister Vika. Ragbaan’s civilization has risen to astonishing heights of power and technology several times — and then collapsed each time, so that now most of the city is abandoned and empty, and the three million remaining inhabitants make no distinction between magic and technology. How can a stranger, with only a portrait his sister drew to identify his quarry, hope to find a single individual in such a place?

And if he does find him, what will he do about it?

If you want to have a chance to read the story, come pledge something. You have just thirty days.