Farland L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume 30

The Best New Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year
1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-61986-262-3
Verlag: Galaxy Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 30, 400 Seiten, Format (B × H): 152 mm x 229 mm

Reihe: L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future

Celebrate

New Writers

New Winners

New Worlds

This is your window into incredible worlds of wizardry, warfare and wonder.

This is your escape into fantastic realms of the human mind lurking just beyond your imagination...and reaching deep into your wildest dreams.

This is your ticket to tomorrow.

Celebrate the future of science fiction and fantasy...now.

'Keep the Writers of the Future going. It's what keeps sci-fi alive.' -Orson Scott Card

Autoren/Hrsg.

Farland, David

Leseproben

Another Range of Mountains
The kidnappers had smashed the mirror. Lacra knelt over the mercurial remains, the slivers so minuscule they failed to give back even the tiniest glimpse of her tired face. Whoever had taken the girl had been aware of Lacra’s talents. The mirror was tipped onto its face, then crushed to fine glitter beneath a hard boot heel. Some of the larger pieces, still no bigger than her smallest nail, bore the streak of water-softened leather. It hadn’t rained last night. “Can you see anything?” Boyar asked. “Patience, please.” Behind her the oil lamp wavered in Count Boyar’s hand, betraying his anxiety. She couldn’t blame the man. His child had been stolen from her own bed; a bed tucked away behind his walls and his guards. Useless ornamentation to the determined thief, and Boyar was paying that price now. Lacra reached out, allowing her leather-gloved fingers to sift through the rubble. Ah, there. She felt a lump beneath the rug and pulled the edge aside. It was a small shard, no bigger across than the palm of her hand and no wider than two fingers, but it would be enough. She ignored the hopeful sigh behind her. Reaching into her supply case, a battered thing with wooden handles and wooden fasteners, she pulled out her notepad and charcoal pencil. She found a clear space on the ground and set the pad in her lap, pencil poised over its naked face. She laid the shard down before her with care and let her eyes unfocus, falling backward through the memories imprinted in the mirror. Her hand covered it, sudden light as it was found and the rug pulled back. She saw its crazy descent from the shattered whole, flickering light and dark. Then there—in the moment before the breaking. A hooded face, but the profile was strong. She held onto it, and sketched. When she was finished she blinked back into the world and looked down at what she’d drawn. It wasn’t much to go on. A hawk-nosed man with heavy brows. The hood covering him was thick, and she’d cross-hatched in its rough texture. Cheap, then. Either it was disposable or he was poor. Hard to tell. “Is that the monster?” Boyar hovered over her shoulder, angling the lamplight so that they could both see better. “Maybe. It’s a beginning.” She tucked her supplies into her case and stood, brushing off the little bits of mirror that clung to her leggings. A night breeze chilled her. The wooden shutters the kidnapper had come through had been left open upon his egress, and the night was only half done. The bedposts were old wood, good and sturdy, but the thing was made with tongue-in-groove construction. A testament to its craftsman, but without brass fittings it gave her little to work with. The silly girl had placed her hand mirror facedown on the nightstand. Seeing nothing else reflective in the room, she crossed to the window and looked out over the city below. The count’s estate backed against the tallest hill at the northern end of the city, giving him a comprehensive view of the land he governed and the Katharnian Mountains to the south. It wasn’t a very big city, and that was just fine by her. The close quarters of Alrayani constricted her senses, while these wide streets shadowed by desolate mountains were much more to her liking. But then, her mother was of these mountains. Lacra had been born here herself, though she had been a babe and remembered none of it. It was a pity she couldn’t stay much longer. The king’s men would catch up with her eventually. A path caught her eye, a way down the ornamental carvings from the window into the little sitting garden below, then over the outer wall into the street beyond. It would not be an easy path to take; one would have to be an experienced climber to attempt it. She did not yet know enough about her quarry to discount the possibility. “The lamp.” When he gave it to her she shuttered three of its sides, so that only a slim beam sliced through the night. Slowly, so very slowly, she angled the beam toward the suspected place of ingress and swept the light across it. There was a tiny glint by the wall. A puddle, probably left by overwatering the flowers. Bad for the garden; good for her. “I’m going out now,” she said, knowing that her words sounded stilted to him. The Kathari language was not an easy one for her tongue, and the words got tangled when she attempted longer sentences. She was used to round vowels and lilting consonants, not a language as craggy as the landscape which birthed it. “I’m going with you.” He looked firm about it, but it was hard to take a man seriously when he was dressed in his bedclothes and house slippers. “No. You distract. I go alone. You should have called for me sooner.” “The constable was confident he could find her.” Boyar twisted his sleeve between his fingers. “He doesn’t know I called you.” She shrugged, “Good. I go now, before the light changes.” “Take Costel then. You’re vulnerable when you sketch, and he doesn’t fear you like the others.” “Fine.” Boyar took her hand in both of his and squeezed. “Please, bring my Tatya back. She’s all I have.” Lacra thought of her pursuers, spreading north from Alrayani, drawing the noose tighter. She also thought of the portrait of the late countess hung above the fireplace, of how the count cleaned the gilded frame every day with his own soft hands, teasing out the tiniest particles of dust with a mink brush. “I will do my best.” It felt good to have Costel with her. He was an anxious man, but his incessant worry made him a more stringent follower of her protocols. He stood in silence while she hunched over the puddle, notepad supported on one knee, and he steadied her with his hand on her shoulder. Pulling out the imprinted memories was more difficult on a malleable surface, and they had to stay very still while she waited for the minuscule ripples their footsteps had caused to settle. Winding backward. The clouds slipping the wrong way across the sky, too fast as she sped it up, dug deeper. An anxious face, the hawk-man’s, posture hunched and burdened, a bulging sack strapped to his back—dead weight. She hesitated, stopping the flow of images. If she drew this, Boyar would have proof of his daughter being taken by the man, but no more detail. If she let the moment slip by, it could not be recovered. Reflections which were pulled from the mirror were lost unless there was an anchorpoint, a linchpin connecting all the imprints together. She decided to risk a closer look. A shattering splash—turbulence. Boot in the water? Nothing but clouds again, and then the hawk-man’s first arrival. Too quick, the splash came before his face resolved. Not enough detail. She let the imprints fade, her fingers still over the pad. “Anything?” “He came this way and left with Tatya. I cannot get a hold on what he really looks like.” Costel frowned. He was better at understanding her accent than Boyar, but it still took awhile. “An Easterner?” “Perhaps; it is too early to be certain.” He nodded, and she knew what he was thinking—that it was definitely an Easterner. Lacra made a habit of remaining impartial during her investigations, but she forced herself to admit the possibility was strong. Boyar had been increasing his border skirmishes with his Eastern neighbors of late. She snorted. Grown men arguing over who owned a piece of useless rock face just because their stories said a god died there. Ridiculous. The other side of the wall offered no new vantage. Gas-fueled streetlamps pushed back the night around the city’s central carriageways, making them an unlikely route for an escaping criminal. She saw Boyar’s messenger run out of the front gates in the direction of the constable’s office, feet slapping to wake the dead. She turned away to skirt the estate wall toward the darker hollows of the city. “You don’t like him, do you?” She blinked, startled from her concentration. “Who?” “The constable.” “He thinks I’m a witch.” “Are you?” She shook her head. “I just see differently than you.” Silence pervaded as she explored the side street. Well, a kind of silence, anyway. She could practically hear Costel thinking, turning over what she’d said. Trying to fit it into what he knew of the world. She pressed down a sigh and tried to focus on the task at hand. Ever since word of her ability as a mirrorpainter had gotten around, some of the more superstitious shopkeepers had taken to putting up butcher’s paper inside their windows in an attempt to mute any reflections. Lacra suspected that it was really to hide illicit dealings, but Boyar had brushed her off as being too cynical. To him, it was just an extension of the old ways. In truth, it only hampered her ability to see what happened inside those rooms. If anything, the solid backdrop enhanced the detail she could tease out of the window glass from the street side. She had failed to mention as much to Boyar. His loose lips seemed to be where most of the rumors about her sprouted, and she dared not volunteer more fuel to that mounting fire. Their progress down the lane was slow as she hesitated at every papered window to dip momentarily into its imprints. He had come this way; she could see that much. Hood down, face obscured, running. She didn’t...