Powers of Detection

Powers of Detection Page 1

by Dana Stabenow

  Contents

  The Contributors

  Introduction

  Cold SpellDONNA ANDREWS

  The Nightside, Needless to SaySIMON R. GREEN

  LovelyJOHN STRALEY

  The PriceANNE BISHOP

  Fairy DustCHARLAINE HARRIS

  The JudgementANNE PERRY

  The Sorcerer’s AssassinSHARON SHINN

  The Boy Who Chased SeagullsMICHAEL ARMSTRONG

  PalimpsestLAURA ANNE GILMAN

  The Death ofClickclickwhistleMIKE DOOGAN

  Cairene DawnJAY CASELBERG

  Justice Is aTwo-edged SwordDANA STABENOW

  About the Authors

  Copyrights

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Powers of Detection

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2004 by Dana Stabenow and Tekno Books

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0852-6

  AN ACE BOOK®

  Ace Books first published by The Ace Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: June, 2005

  THE CONTRIBUTORS

  MICHAEL ARMSTRONG . . . Author of the science fiction novels After the Zap, Agvig, and The Hidden War

  DONNA ANDREWS . . . Author of the Agatha Award–winning mysteries You’ve Got Murder and its sequel, Click Here for Murder (both featuring artificial intelligence personality Turing Hopper), as well as the multiple award–winning Meg Langslow mystery series

  ANNE BISHOP . . . Award-winning author of the Black Jewels Trilogy and several other novels of fantasy, as well as a four-story collection set in the Black Jewels world

  JAY CASELBERG . . . Author of the science fiction novels Wyrmhole and Metal Sky, and several short stories

  MIKE DOOGAN . . . Winner of the Robert L. Fish Award from the Mystery Writers of America for his first mystery, appearing in The Mysterious North

  LAURA ANNE GILMAN . . . Author of more than twenty short stories, three media tie-in novels, and Staying Dead, the first Retrievers novel, featuring Wren and Sergei.

  SIMON R. GREEN . . . New York Times bestselling author of twenty-seven novels including the Deathstalker series and the Nightside novels

  CHARLAINE HARRIS . . . Author of the Sookie Stackhouse vampire series

  ANNE PERRY . . . New York Times bestselling author of the Pitt and the Monk detective series, a new series set during World War I, and two fantasy novels, Tathea and Come Armageddon

  SHARON SHINN . . . Winner of the William C. Crawford Award for Outstanding New Fantasy Writer for her first book, The Shape-Changer’s Wife, and the author of the Samaria novels

  DANA STABENOW . . . Author of the Kate Shugak, Liam Campbell, and Star Svensdotter series

  JOHN STRALEY . . . Author of the Cecil Younger mystery series

  INTRODUCTION

  This anthology is all Laura Anne Gilman’s fault.

  A while back Laura Anne forwarded me an e-mail from author Rosemary Edghill, who was putting together a murder-in-a-fantasy-setting anthology. The e-mail came with a message from Laura Anne, which read, “You should do this.”

  That’s Laura Anne, always big with the subtle.

  I’d never written fantasy. I don’t even read that much of it, because after Middle Earth what is there? I like my speculative fiction hard, nuts-and-bolts, what happens next door. I want to go back to the moon and on to the asteroid belt and Mars and the moons of Jupiter and from there to Beta Centauri. Sword and sorcery is a little too woo-woo for literal-minded me.

  But I confess, I’m afraid of Laura Anne, so I doodled around a bit, so I could say “See? I tried!” and she wouldn’t hurt me.

  And then these two characters showed up between the doodles. Both women. One wore a sword, and the other carried a staff. They had magical powers, some of which appeared at puberty, some of which were acquired. More doodling, and they rode into town, one of them even on a white horse. A young woman was strangled, and by various magical means my duo discovered and brought the murderer to justice.

  By the time I stopped doodling I had forty-two pages, and to add insult to injury it was a sword-and-sorcery tale.

  It was also twenty pages too long for the anthology. Rosemary asked me to cut it to fit. I refused. I guess I thought my prose was too deathless to be tampered with. Yeah, right.

  So after all that, my story didn’t even make the anthology.

  Fume. So, I thought, I’ll put together my own magic-and-mayhem anthology. (Can we spell “hubris”?)

  I decided to ask for murder in a fantasy or science fiction setting, to broaden the appeal to both writers and readers. I went downstairs and looked at who was on my bookshelves. Hmm. Here we have Sharon Shinn. Writes the sf Angels-on-Samaria series. Also wrote that most elegiac of fantasy novels, The Shape Changer’s Wife. Over here is Charlaine Harris, who writes the Sookie Stackhouse novels, the best vampire series in the bloodsucking genre. And here is Anne Perry, who wrote me a short story for The Mysterious West. Could I go to that well a second time? (hyoo’bris, n. excessive pride or self-confidence; arrogance.)

  I asked them each to contribute a story, and displaying a touching belief in my ability to get this anthology off the ground, they all did. Sharon has written a lovely little magical boarding school murder, not at all à la Harry Potter, and which she said might evolve into something a bit longer one day. Say a novel? Charlaine has written a story set in that same Sookie universe, and if there was an award for first lines, her name would be on the short list. Anne takes us into the courtroom for a trial by magic, where the verdict isn’t what one might expect, and neither is anything else.

  I remembered talking to Donna Andrews about writing speculative fiction, and she was also a contributor to The Mysterious West, so I asked her for a story, too. She sent me a delightful tale of a mage with a cold, an apprentice with a clue, and a villain with neither.

  Then there are the writers who live in Alaska and whom I can personally browbeat into writing for me, Michael Armstrong, John Straley, and Mike Doogan. Michael has written a modern take on an old Aleut legend involving seagulls, and there must be some kind of bird thing going on among the menfolk because John wrote a detective story from the first-person viewpoint of a raven. Mike was the only one of my contributors to weigh in on the science fiction side of murder, although I’m not sure it is murder in the end. You decide. Enjoy his character names while you’re at it.

  Laura Anne offered a story of her own, based on characters who inhabit a series she had just sold to Harlequin Luna, and recommended I solicit stories from Anne Bishop, Simon R. Green, and Jay Caselberg. Laura Anne’s story is a come-hither into a world next to but not quite of our own, seen thr
ough the eyes of a cat burglar with, yes, special powers. Anne’s story is set in the world of her Blood novels, where a vigilante wearing a jewel of power exacts deserved if harsh justice upon a serial revenge killer. Simon has written a creepy little horror-ish noir story in which Sam Spade would feel quite at home, if Sam Spade was dead. Jay brings back the ancient Egyptian gods to modern-day Cairo, with a last line that will have you all diving under your beds.

  I heard Roger Ebert say once that the true test of a good film was how well it sucked you into its world. Same goes for good writing. In this anthology you can smell the coffee on the streets of Cairo, walk on the ceiling with starspawn, and negotiate with extreme care the social intricacies of the world of the Blood. You can run from the raucous call of an Alaskan seagull, and you’d better. You can chow down with an Alaskan raven, and you’d better not. You can belly up to Sookie’s bar and order your blood at an appealing 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. You can meet a gargoyle in a Savile Row suit, go mano a mano with piskies, and sneeze striped bats. You can sweat out the verdict at a trial by magic, conjure a reflecting spell at the Norwitch Academy of Magic and Sorcery, and, I hope, hear the song of the Sword in Daean.

  Enjoy your visit to these different worlds, but watch your back.

  It’s not safe in here.

  Cold Spell

  DONNA ANDREWS

  “Murder by magic?” Master Radolphus exclaimed.

  Gwynn wasn’t actually trying to eavesdrop on the headmaster. But how could she help overhearing when his study door hung wide open?

  Just then he looked up and saw her.

  “You wait here,” he said to someone Gwynn couldn’t see. “I’ll talk to Master Justinian.”

  What did a murder—even a magical murder—have to do with the Maestro, Gwynn wondered.

  But she didn’t dare ask. Radolphus strode out of his study, beckoned for Gwynn to follow, and set off in the direction of Justinian’s quarters at a half run, his voluminous black robes billowing behind him. When they arrived outside the familiar carved wooden door, Radolphus stopped. He fished a handkerchief out of his sleeve, pushed up his thick spectacles, and wiped his red and sweating face.

  Gwynn bent down to put her ear to the door.

  “Is he out?” Radolphus said, panting slightly.

  “Oh no, headmaster; the Maestro doesn’t feel well enough to go out,” Gwynn said softly. “I just don’t want to wake him if he’s sleeping.”

  Radolphus nodded approvingly and patted her head. Gwynn sighed. At twelve, she’d considered it an incredible honor, being apprenticed to Westmarch College’s most powerful mage. She still wouldn’t trade with any of her fellow students, but after two years, she’d begun to wonder if she owed her assignment to her superior magical talent or her reputation for working harder than any of the other students. Justinian did create a lot more work than the other masters. And needed more looking after than a first-year student.

  Suddenly a loud “Achoo!” rang out inside.

  “Oh, bother,” the Maestro exclaimed.

  “He’s awake,” Gwynn said, pushing open the study door.

  The tall diamond-paned windows, normally open wide even in January to let in sunlight, breezes, and any interesting bugs that might be passing by, were closed. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, though a lot of light leaked through the places where the Maestro’s cat had shredded them. A mysterious haze drifted through the room from a burning brazier just inside the doorway. Though the healer had assured Gwynn that burning this particular assortment of herbs would ease a stuffy nose, it didn’t seem to have had much effect, apart from evicting the goblins who had made a nest under the dining table. To her surprise, Gwynn missed the goblins, if only because they normally kept the place moderately tidy by devouring anything organic that fell on the floor.

  The Maestro’s great chair stood so close to the hearth that he was in serious danger of setting his slippers on fire again, and he sat, his long frame wrapped in several blankets, frowning at a selection of vials, jars, and flasks arranged on the table beside him. His hair, uncombed for several days, stuck out in random directions, making him look far younger than his thirty years.

  And just in case anyone doubted how sick the Maestro was, a small mechanical cigar-cutter in the shape of a gargoyle lay on the table among the medicines, still in one piece. Under normal circumstances, it would take all of fifteen minutes for Justinian to begin disassembling any mechanical object unlucky enough to fall into his hands. The gargoyle had lain on the table untouched for three days.

  A teacup teetered in midair in front of Justinian, levitating just beyond his grasp.

  “Take care of that, Gwynn, if you don’t mind,” he said.

  Gwynn glanced around to see if the Maestro’s latest sneeze had done any other accidental damage. No, nothing that she could see. No singing andirons, talking cats, invisible furniture, or randomly summoned demons. She sighed with relief. Then she grasped the teacup firmly, removed the levitation spell with a few quick gestures, and set the cup back on its saucer.

  “Thank you,” the Maestro said. “My head feels twice normal size, with about a tenth of its usual speed.”

  He sank back into the chair and closed his eyes.

  “Oh, dear,” Radolphus said. “I was so hoping you only had a slight chill. Because I’m afraid you’re needed up at the castle.”

  “Whatever for?” Justinian muttered.

  “There’s been a murder,” Radolphus said. “It’s magical. And also political. The duke asked especially for you to come and deal with it.”

  “Magical how?” Justinian asked. “Was someone killed by magic? Or did someone kill a mage? Or—achoo!”

  A few blue sparks twinkled through the room.

  “Bother! What now?” the Maestro asked, appearing to brace himself.

  “The bats,” Radolphus said, pointing to the archway between the study and the workroom, where the fledgling bats usually slept.

  The bats were now brightly colored. Some had stripes.

  “Oh, bother.” Justinian sighed.

  “I think they look very festive,” Gwynn said. “I’ll change them back later; they’re not hurting anyone now.”

  She was relieved when neither mage objected—she already had the faint beginnings of a headache, the kind you got from doing too many spells in too short a time. Or undoing them, in this case.

  “I know you’re in no shape to do magic,” Radolphus said. “But—”

  “We have to at least look as if we’re doing something,” Justinian said. “Put up a good show for a day or so until my powers are back to normal, and I can actually solve this.”

  He snagged his glasses from the nearby table and shoved them onto his nose in a determined fashion. Gwynn realized, with dismay, that he’d apparently sat on them again, then mended them with bits of sticking plaster. Ah, well; she’d fix them for real later.

  “That’s the spirit,” Radolphus said. “The duke’s manservant’s waiting in my study—shall I bring him down? He can tell you more about the problem.”

  “Might as well,” Justinian said. “Just give Gwynn a few minutes to tidy up.”

  Fortunately, Justinian’s definition of tidying only meant throwing an old tablecloth over the cold medicines and helping him into the velvet smoking jacket he liked to wear to impress visitors. Gwynn decided not to mention that at the moment its burgundy color brought out the chapped red condition of his cheeks and nostrils.

  “Try not to sneeze while he’s here,” Radolphus said as he hurried off.

&nb
sp; “Mind over matter,” Justinian muttered, standing and looking polite as Radolphus escorted in the manservant. Who didn’t seem the least bit awed or even curious at being allowed to enter the study of a master magician. He planted himself on the hearth with his back to the fire and stuffed his hands in his pockets—blocking the path to Justinian’s favorite chair. The Maestro had to clear the books from one of the other chairs to sit down. Radolphus, long familiar with the condition of Justinian’s furniture, chose to stand.

  “You Justinian?” the manservant said. “If you are, the duke sent me to fetch you.”

  “I am,” Justinian said. “Welcome to my study.”

  His dignity was only slightly undermined by the fact that all his m’s came out as b’s.

  “Young for a wizard, aren’t you?” the manservant said. “I thought you were all supposed to have long gray beards and warts.”

  Gwynn glanced at Master Radolphus, who fit the stereotype perfectly.

  “Master Justinian is the most gifted mage of his generation,” Radolphus said, in his sternest and most dignified headmaster’s voice. “Indeed, of our age.”

  The manservant shrugged.

  “And you are?” Justinian asked.

  “Name’s Reg,” the manservant said. “Been working for the duke a month now.”

  “What seems to be the problem up at the castle?” Justinian said.

  “Duke’s men caught a pair of anarchists skulking about,” Reg said. “Notified the king, and a party of royal guards comes down to take them back to the capital. Duke goes down to oversee the transfer, and one of the prisoners suddenly falls down bleeding and dies. Duke’s personal physician checks him over and finds a fresh stab wound in his chest. Only nobody in the room had a sword, or even a large knife, just muskets, and anyway, there’s no hole in the bloke’s clothes. We figured a magical attack, but the duke’s personal magician says he can’t detect any magic. So he says for you to come and figure it out.”

 

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