by Paula Guran
His jeans had a metal zipper and studs. “No way,” Jared said aloud, but a second later, shivering, he stripped them off and put them on top of his hoodie. In his underwear, shoes and socks, and T-shirt, he scanned the street. Nobody there—it was four-thirty in the morning. He picked up the rocks again. “Which way, you little bastards?”
The rocks grew warm in his hand.
Jared shrieked and dropped them. A sharp pain shot through his wrist, gone in a moment. The stones fell in a straight line toward the north end of Carter Street. Jared stared, disbelieving. He did it again, this time facing south. The rocks got warm, he dropped them, and they swirled around his body to form a line going north. The sharp pain hit his wrist.
He closed his eyes. No way. This psycho stuff doesn’t happen. All at once he would have given anything, anything in the entire world, to be back skating at the Civic Center with Shawn, ollieing off the steps and trying to do grinds down the rail, trying to land a 540 flip.
Instead, he picked up his clothing and the three rocks, got on his deck, and skated north.
At the next intersection, he again walked away from the board and jeans and hoodie, and said, “Which way?” The rocks pointed east.
Two more turns and he was glad to see the interstate, no turns off it for a long ways. His wrist throbbed from the repeated flashes of pain. Jared put his jeans and hoodie back on. His legs felt like ice—not a good way to skate. But he wasn’t going to do any tricks, just straight skating, and the speed would warm him. He skated up the on-ramp, then along the highway, dodging the trucks that blatted angry horns at him, keeping a sharp eye out for cops.
At the first exit, he got off the highway and did the stones thing. They told him to get back on. Jared glanced at the sky, worried; already it was starting to get red in the east. He put on his clothes and skated back onto the highway. His stomach grumbled and he cursed at it, at Kendall, at the world.
At the next exit, the stones told him to follow a deserted stretch of country road. Jared noted its name: County Line Road.
The house wasn’t far, fortunately: the third house, set back in the woods. A white van with muddy tires sat in the driveway. The van said McCLELLAN SECURITY. Jared remembered the man in the blue uniform in the picture.
He crept up to the house. All the curtains were shut and the basement windows painted black, but when he put his ear to the grimy glass, Jared could hear noises in the basement.
A thud. A groan. Then, “Once more, Doctor—all the names, please. Now. This is getting boring.”
Silence. Then Kendall screamed.
They were torturing him to get the Brotherhood names! Including Jared’s name. “You see, that’s our main advantage over the Other Side. We know a lot more about them than they know about us.” That’s what Kendall had said. But now—
No, not Jared’s name. They already had Jared’s name, thanks to Shawn. And if Jared had stayed five minutes longer at Kendall’s house, they’d have had him down in that basement, too.
He could skate away. Get back on the highway, never go home again, go . . . where?
Kendall screamed again.
A rage filled Jared. He thought he’d been angry before—at Shawn, at his mother, at the cops, at the crap that happened and went on happening and never seemed to stop. But it hadn’t been anger like this. This was the mother of angers, the huge one, the serious-hang-time-in-orbit of anger.
Woods bordered the back of the house. Jared thrashed a little way into them, shoved his deck under some bushes, added his jeans and hoodie. Then he stood there, twigs scratching his bare legs and some kind of insects biting at his face, and closed his eyes. He pictured rocks. All kinds of rocks, all sizes, pointy and smooth and rough, smashing through the black-painted basement windows and into the heads of every single bastard down there except Kendall. He pictured the blood and the wounds and the—
Jared screamed. Pain tore through his whole body, dropping him into the bushes. His arms and legs were on fire, he was going to die, he would never skate again—
The pain vanished, leaving him gasping. He staggered to his feet, just in time to see the rocks homing in on the house, flying in from every direction like fighter jets on some video game, but real and solid as Jared himself. All the painted windows smashed, and Jared heard yells and screams from the house. Then silence.
It couldn’t have happened. It did happen.
He struggled out of the bushes and ran to the front door. It was locked, and so was the back door. Finally, he ran to the closest busted window, knocked out the glass still stuck around the edges, and slid into the basement, careful to land on his sneakers amid the shards and splinters of glass.
Two men and a woman lay bleeding on the floor, covered with stones. Kendall was tied to a chair, gaping at him. The old man had a gash on his forehead and serious blood on the arm of his pajamas. Jared picked up the knife somebody had dropped and cut Kendall’s ropes. He doubled over, gasping, and Jared was afraid Kendall was having a heart attack or something. But then he straightened and staggered to his feet.
“Jared . . . I’m all . . . right . . . ”
“Sure you are. Never better, right? C’mon.” Jared helped him up the stairs, but then didn’t know what to do next.
Kendall did. He gasped, “Go back downstairs and get a cell phone from anybody who has one. Be careful—they’re not dead. Don’t kill anybody, Jared—we don’t want a murder investigation. Then come back up here and lock the door at the top of the stairs.”
Jared did as he was told, a sudden sick feeling in his stomach. It fought with a feeling of unreality—this can’t be happening —that only got stronger when he again saw all the stones lying around the basement.
He’d done that. Him, Jared Stoffel.
Kendall called somebody on the cell, said, “Code blue. The address is . . . ” and he looked at Jared. Jared gave it to him. They only had to wait a few minutes before a car screeched up and they went out to meet it. A silver Mercedes S, at least seventy grand. Jared blinked. A pretty black girl jumped out. She had on a school uniform like rich girls wore, green skirt and jacket and a little green tie on a white blouse. Ordinarily Jared hated kids like that, rich snobs, but now was different.
“He did it?” she said, talking to Kendall but staring at Jared, her eyes wide. “How did—”
“I don’t know yet,” Kendall said. “How much—”
“I hadn’t yet told them anything. But I would have, Denise.” She nodded, grimaced, and tenderly helped Kendall into the car, apparently not caring that he got blood on the leather seat. Jared climbed into the back. Denise must be old enough to drive, he figured, but she didn’t look it. Was the Mercedes hers, or her family’s, or maybe stolen?
She pulled the car onto the road and accelerated hard. Over her shoulder Denise threw Jared a glance at once respectful and a little scared. He sat up straighter in the backseat. She said, “Stones?”
“Yeah,” Jared said.
“We don’t have anybody that can do stone.”
He liked the tone of her voice. It let him say, “What do you do?”
“Wind. But strictly small-time. You’re gifted, dude.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet. You should see me skate.”
In the front seat, one arm cradled carefully in the other, Kendall smiled.
“No,” Larson said. “Absolutely not.” He wore his do-rag again and it looked, Jared thought, just as dumb as the first time. Larson himself looked furious.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” said the older woman in a business suit. Probably she’d been getting dressed for work when they pulled up, just like Denise had been getting ready for school. This house must be the woman’s—it looked like something a business lady would have, nice but really boring. Light brown rugs, brown furniture, tan curtains. The lady acted like she was in charge. Trouble was, Larson acted in charge, too. Jared thought they’d square off for a fight, but things didn’t work like that around here.
Jared said sharply, “Send? You mean me and the doc? Nobody’s sending me no place!”
Anna said, “I’m afraid we have to, Jared. The Other Side now knows about both of you. They’ll eliminate you if they can, and we might not be able to protect you.”
“Oh, right. You can’t just put a spell around my house or something? No? I guess you’re not real wizards after all!”
A voice behind him said, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” and Jared spun around. Denise, back from parking the car someplace. If he’d known she was coming back, he wouldn’t have sounded so snotty.
She said to Jared, “I can do wind magic, and Anna can communicate with wild animals, and so on, but only when we’re present at the scene, Jared. There’s no such thing as a spell that can just be left in place to guard someone. I wish there was.”
If anybody else had explained it like that to Jared, he wouldn’t have felt so stupid now. Kendall was off in a back room of this house, getting patched up or something. Jared crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “I can’t just leave and, like, move to some other city! I’ve got Ma and school and crap!”
Larson said brutally, “If you don’t go, you’re dead. And some of us, the ones you can identify, will be with you.”
“But my ma—”
“Will be told that you’ve been taken away from her by Child Protective Services. She’ll believe that.”
Jared felt hot blood rush into his face. So Larson knew all about his mother! Furious and embarrassed, he turned to slam out of the room, but Denise blocked the doorway.
Larson said, “We don’t need to send him to Tellerton. Send him somewhere else, to a nonactive cell. We don’t need a kid this angry in the very center of the Brotherhood.”
“I disagree,” Anna said.
“No one will be able to control him. He’ll endanger everybody there.”
“I won’t endanger nobody I don’t want to!” Jared said.
Anna said, “I think that’s true, Larson. And Nick will be with him.”
Denise, still standing in the doorway, spoke in a low voice that only Jared could hear. “I know it’s hard to be sent away. But Anna’s right—you’ll have Dr. Kendall with you. And the place you’re going . . . I know for a fact that it has an awesome skate park.”
“It does?”
“The best.”
He blurted, “Will you come there to see me skate?” and instantly hated himself. She was too old for him, she would think he was a little kid, she’d shame him in front of Larson—
“Sure. I think that one way or another, we’ll end up working together, anyway. Things are going to get much more serious soon, we’ll need every wizard we can get, and we don’t have a good stone man. You’re really talented.”
That was the second time she’d said that. Jared turned back to Anna, ignoring Larson. “Okay. I’ll go. Where is this Tellerton?”
“In Virginia.”
Jared blinked. “I—”
“Zack will drive you both down there this afternoon. The sooner you get out, the better.”
“My stuff! I have—”
“It has to stay here. They’ll get you new belongings in Tellerton. Don’t worry, Jared, you’re one of us now.” Anna left. Larson said, “Wait a minute, Anna, I want to talk more with you about the hurricane.” He strode after her.
Jared was left alone with Denise. He blinked, scowled, and said, to say something, “What hurricane?”
“It was on the early-morning news,” Denise said somberly. “A big hurricane suddenly changed direction and came ashore in Florida, and the hurricane season is supposed to be over. Eight people dead so far. At least one big warehouse was destroyed that we found out had just been bought by the Other Side. Now they’ll file all kinds of insurance claims on the stuff inside. Anna, one of our lawyers, just tracked the purchase and the warehouse insurance yesterday, but she hasn’t had time to follow through.”
Jared tried to understand. Denise was smart; all these people were smart. And wizard stuff seemed to involve nonmagic things like insurance claims, which Jared had never thought about. But one thing was clear to him, the part about eight people dead. So far.
He said, “They’d really do that? Kill, like, innocent people just to make money?”
“They would. They do.”
He felt a little dizzy. Too much stuff, too fast. Wizards and magic and moving away and stones . . . He could still feel the rocks warm in his hands, ready to tell him things. Him, Jared Stoffel, who nobody except Shawn ever told anything.
And Shawn . . . the so-called friend he’d trusted like a brother . . . “Shawn is gonna pay,” he said to Denise.
“Yes,” Denise said, and that was what decided him. No lame bull about not being into revenge, or calming himself down, or being too angry a kid to be useful. Just: Yes. She understood him.
All at once, Jared felt like he’d just ollied off a twelve-set and was doing serious hang time in the air.
A wizard. He was a wizard. He didn’t want to be, but he was. A stone man. And everything was different now.
Maybe that was a good thing.
He could learn about insurance claims or whatever. He wasn’t dumb. He had learned to do a Back-180 down a four-set; he could learn what he needed to. He could.
“Welcome to the Brotherhood, Jared,” Denise said softly. “Thanks,” Jared said.
Nancy Kress’s fiction has won four Nebulas (for “Out of All Them Bright Stars,” “Beggars in Spain,” “The Flowers of Aulit Prison,” and “Fountain of Age”), two Hugos (for “Beggars in Spain” and “The Erdmann Nexus”), a Sturgeon (for “The Flowers of Aulit Prison”), and a John W. Campbell Memorial Award (for novel Probability Space). She is the author of more than thirty books. Her most recent collection of short fiction is Fountain of Age: Stories; her latest novels are After the Fall, Before the Fall, During the Fall (2012) and Flash Point. Kress lives in Seattle with her husband, writer Jack Skillingstead, and Cosette, the world’s most spoiled toy poodle.
The City: The fantasy city of Hazar (a.k.a. The City of Distractions).
The Magic: Four aspiring wizards’ final exam—returning grimoires to the proper places in the Living Library, a collection of thaumaturgical knowledge capable of killing anyone who enters it unprepared—requires a large vocabulary and swords as well as sorcery.
IN THE STACKS
Scott Lynch
Laszlo Jazera, aspirant wizard of the High University of Hazar, spent a long hour on the morning of his fifth-year exam worming his way into an uncomfortable suit of leather armor. A late growth spurt had ambushed Laszlo that spring, and the cuirass, once form-fitted, was now tight across the shoulders despite every adjustment of the buckles and straps. As for the groinguard, well, the less said the better. Damn, but he’d been an idiot, putting off a test-fit of his old personal gear until it was much too late for a trip to the armory.
“Still trying to suck it in?” Casimir Vrana, his chambers-mate, strolled in already fully armored, not merely with physical gear but with his usual air of total ease. In truth he’d spent even less time in fighting leathers than Laszlo had in their half-decade at school together. He simply had the curious power of total, improbable deportment. Every inch the patrician, commanding and comely, he could have feigned relaxation even while standing in fire up to his privates. “You’re embarrassing me, Laszlo. And you with all your dueling society ribbons.”
“We wear silks,” huffed Laszlo, buckling on his stiff leather neck-guard. “So we can damn well move when we have to. This creaking heap of boiled pigskin, I’ve hardly worn it since Archaic Homicide Theory—”
“Forgot to go to the armory for a re-fit, eh?”
“Well, I’ve been busy as all hells, hardly sleeping—”
“A fifth-year aspirant, busy and confused at finals time? What an unp
recedented misfortune. A unique tale of woe.” Casimir moved around Laszlo and began adjusting what he could. “Let’s skip our exam. You need warm milk and cuddles.”
“I swear on my mother, Caz, I’ll set fire to your cryptomancy dissertation.”
“Can’t. Turned it in two hours ago. And why are you still dicking around with purely physical means here?” Casimir muttered something, and Laszlo yelped in surprise as the heat of spontaneous magic ran up and down his back—but a moment later, the armor felt looser. Still not a good fit, but at least not tight enough to hobble his every movement. “Better?”
“Moderately.”
“I don’t mean to lecture, magician, but sooner or later you should probably start using, you know, magic to smooth out your little inconveniences.”
“You’re a lot more confident with practical use than I am.”
“Theory’s a wading pool, Laz. You’ve got to come out into deep water sooner or later.” Casimir grinned, and slapped Laszlo on the back. “You’re gonna see that today, I promise. Let’s get your kit together so they don’t start without us.”
Laszlo pulled on a pair of fingerless leather gauntlets, the sort peculiar to the profession of magicians intending to go in harm’s way. With Casimir’s oversight, he filled the sheathes on his belt and boots with half-a-dozen stilettos, then strapped or tied on no fewer than fourteen auspicious charms and protective wards. Some of these he’d crafted himself; the rest had been begged or temporarily stolen from friends. His sable cloak and mantle, lined in aspirant gray, settled lastly and awkwardly over the creaking, clinking mass he’d become.
“Oh damn,” Laszlo muttered after he’d adjusted his cloak, “where did I set my—”
“Sword,” said Casimir, holding it out in both hands. Laszlo’s wire-hilted rapier was his pride and joy, an elegant old thing held together by mage-smithery through three centuries of duties not always ceremonial. It was an heirloom of his diminished family, the only valuable item his parents had been able to bequeath him when his mild sorcerous aptitude had won him a standard nine-year scholarship to the university. “Checked it myself.”