by Bill Fawcett
Masters of Fantasy
edited by
Bill Fawcett
&
Brian Thomsen
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2004 by Bill Fawcett & Associates; all stories copyright © 2004 to the authors thereof.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 0-7434-8822-9
Cover art by Jeff Easley
First printing, July 2004
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Masters of fantasy / edited by Bill Fawcett & Brian Thomsen.
p. cm.
"A Baen Books original"—T.p. verso.
ISBN 0-7434-8822-9 (hc)
1. Fantasy fiction, American. I. Fawcett, Bill. II. Thomsen, Brian.
PS648.F3M37 2004
813'.0876608—dc22
2004005565
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH
Typeset by Bell Road Press, Sherwood, OR
Printed in the United States of America
Baen Books also edited by Bill Fawcett:
The Warmasters
From Category to Genre
in a Bookselling Sense
Or
When Sales and Popularity
Begin to Command Respect
We all have friends who might look at our reading tastes as being a bit eccentric.
You know who I mean—those who call it "sword and sorcery stuff" and seem to think that every fantasy needs a Frazetta or Boris cover that will appeal primarily to adolescent boys in search of cheap thrills.
There was a time when their point of view was in the majority and fantasy titles were relegated to the same level of respect afforded to other "category" fiction titles.
"Category" is a pejorative. For example, in category terms, westerns were "horse operas" or "shoot 'em ups," romances were "bodice rippers," and fantasies were "that Conan stuff." And the principal venues for sales were drugstore and gas station wire racks next to this month's issue of Good Housekeeping, Popular Mechanics, or Playboy. Category books were sold at the bottom of the list and engendered little respect from either the publisher or the bookseller.
Then, a funny thing happened.
Category books began to break out and sell like hotcakes, and not just at the truck stops but in the book stores as well.
Louis L'Amour became a topselling author of western fiction (notice "western fiction"; that's a genre designation, not just a category), romances became either "historical romances," "regency romances" or "contemporary romances" (again, with genre-specific designations) and fantasies, well . . . let me tell you what happened.
First, the powers that be began to split hairs.
Tolkien wasn't really fantasy; it was fiction, just like Richard Adams's talking rabbit novel, Watership Down, and John Gardner's Grendel. Any new book that commanded an equal amount of respect like, say, The Mists of Avalon, was also obviously fiction, and therefore not like those category fantasy titles that appeared in paperback and usually were part of some large series like Conan (you know, just like Mack Bolan except without the guns and gadgets).
They were considered a flavor-of-the-month sort of thing where the authors didn't really matter except to a small but rabid fandom.
The truth was, however, that the fandom wasn't that small, and in no time at all their buying power became more noticeable.
In 1982, Ogre, Ogre by Piers Anthony made the New York Times paperback bestseller list, something category books were not expected to do.
Now, Ogre, Ogre was a paperback original (no hardcover edition), part of an ongoing series, with no special movie tie-in (à la Star Wars) or critical prestige.
It made the list solely because it sold or, more specifically, because enough people wanted to purchase it as soon as it was available—and subsequent books in the series followed the same pattern.
Soon, other authors' works followed suit with successful paperback series making the list, such as Foster's Spellsinger books, Weis and Hickman's Dragonlance and Dark Sword series and Lackey's Valdemar books. And in no time at all every publishing house realized that a commercially successful fantasy series was every bit as significant as a bestselling mystery or historical romance. Such books no longer received a "category" treatment because there was the potential for even greater sales.
Such books became treated like "fiction" titles and, from a bookselling standpoint, fantasy went from being a category to a genre.
As a result of these new sales and the attention they engendered in-house, science fiction and fantasy lines sprang up everywhere, with independent new publishers specializing in the genre beginning to command respect. Books that were formerly paperback originals became hardcovers.
Fantasy had become a force to be reckoned with.
It had gained the respect of booksellers and publishers alike, the same respect that its fans had had for years.
This book contains brand new stories set in some of the series that were part of the bestselling phenomenon that brought this about, written by the authors who earned their now well-deserved respect.
Enjoy!
—Brian Thomsen
Out of the Deep
A Valdemar Story
Mercedes Lackey
Now this was a forest!
Trees crowded the road, overshadowing it, overhanging it. You didn't need a hat even at midday; you almost needed a torch instead to see by. Herald-Intern Alain still couldn't get used to all of the wilderness around him—trees that weren't pruned into symmetrical and pleasing shapes, wildflowers that were really wild, ragged, and insect-nibbled. All of his life—except for the brief course in Wilderness Survival—he'd never seen a weed, much less a wilderness. He kept expecting to wake up and find that all of this was a fever-dream.
By all rights, he shouldn't be out here, league upon league away from Haven on his Internship Circuit. He was a Prince, after all, and Princes of Valdemar had never gone out of Haven for their Internships, much less out into the furthermost West of the Kingdom, where there were no Guardsmen to rescue you if you got into trouble, and often nowhere to shelter if nature decided to have a bash at you. He should have been serving his Internship beside one of the Heralds who helped the City Guard, the Watch, and the city judges.
There was just one teeny, tiny problem with that.
:Actually,: his Companion Vedalia observed, :There are seven rather tall and vigorous problems with that. And four slender and attractive ones as well.:
Alain sighed. It wasn't the easiest thing in the world, being the youngest of twelve royal children who had all been Chosen.
:It wasn't the easiest thing in the world trying to find things for all of those young and eager Heralds to do,: Vedalia pointed out. :It wouldn't take more than a candlemark for any of you to figure out that he'd been set make-work. As it was—:
As it was, it was just bad luck that Alain was not only the youngest of his sibs, he was the youngest by less than a candlemark. Queen Felice was not only the most fecund Consort in the history of Valdemar, she had the habit of having her children in lots. Three sets of twins and two sets of triplets, to be precise. The Heir, whose real name was Tanivel but who they all called Vel for short, was the eldest of hi
s set of twins. Alain was the youngest of his. And in between—
:It is rather a good thing that your mother was never Chosen,: Vedalia observed. :I'm not sure her poor Companion would have gotten much exercise, much less attention. . . . :
It was true enough that until after Alain had been born, no one in the Court could remember her in any state other than expecting. The fact that she actually possessed a waist had come as a complete surprise to everyone except the King. Everyone wanted to know—and no one dared ask—both the "why" and the "how" of it.
The "how" was easy; multiples ran in her family. Felice was one of a set of twins, and not one of her sisters had ever given birth to less than twins. Her family history held that it had something to do with a blessing placed on them, but by what—well, there were several versions.
The real question was "why"—having had Vel and Vixen (his twin's name was Lavenna, but no one ever called her that) she could have stopped with the traditional "heir and a spare." Certainly most women would have called a halt at the next lot, which were triplets. Not Felice. Rumor had it that she was trying to fill all the extra rooms in the newly rebuilt Heralds' Collegium with her own offspring.
Only Alain had dared to ask his mother what no one else would. She'd hugged him then looked him straight in the eye and said, "Marriages of state. You're Heralds, all of you. You don't need a spouse to be loved."
Now, Alain knew his blunt-spoken mother well enough to read between the lines. Shockingly blunt in this case . . . except . . . well Felice had not made a love-match with King Chalinel; she cared deeply for him, but theirs had been a marriage made in the Council chamber. She knew very well that the way to cement the loyalty of a powerful noble house was to marry into it; the way to ensure a foreign alliance was to send (or send for) a bride or groom. Neither she nor the King would force one of their children into a marriage he or she did not want; they would consent to any marriage, even to a beggar, where love was. But this way . . . if an alliance had to be made, there would be someone available to make it at the altar.
Vanyel Ashkevron had made his terrible sacrifice decades ago; Queen Elspeth was Alain's great-great-grandmother. Valdemar's borders had expanded as more and more independent nobles sought to come under the banner of those who had defeated the Karsites. Those nobles—some no better than robber-barons—had no traditional ties to the Valdemaran throne, and no real understanding of what Heralds (the backbone of Valdemaran authority) were and did. One of the obvious solutions was Felice's. After all, it had worked for her family. Her father had gone from an uneasy ally to a doting grandfather who would no more dream of a disloyal thought than jump off the top of his own manor.
And all of his grandchildren—Chosen. That truly brought it home to him and every one of his people what Heralds were and what they did. The lesson was painless and thorough, and the Baron soon was accustomed to having white-clad Heralds coming and going on his lands.
Both Heralds' Collegium and Valdemar had benefited by the arranged marriage with Felice—for now eleven other Heralds, whose skills would be useful outside the capitol, would be freed up by Felice's brood for those other duties while the Princes and Princesses took over.
All of the ten eldest had done well in their classes. Alain and his twin sister Alara had run through the Collegium curriculum like a hot needle through ice. How not? They'd listened to ten siblings as they recited their lessons, they'd practiced weapons-work and archery with ten older siblings, watched and listened with ten siblings. King Chalinel often said that intelligence in the family just kept increasing with each set of children and culminated with Alain and Alara. Alain didn't know about that—all of his sibs were clever . . .
:But you and Alara made it through a year early, and Kristen, Kole, and Katen lagged behind because they lost a year to the scarlet fever. With five of you going into Internship at once, there was something of a problem, since we don't like to Intern relatives with relatives,: said Vedalia.
Which was, of course, why he was out on Circuit in the wilderness. No one wanted to risk the health of the triplets after that near-miss with fever, which meant they had to stay within the confines of Haven.
And there were only four Haven Internships available. The four Haven Internships had gone to his other siblings, yes, because of the triplets' uncertain health, but also because they all had Gifts that were useful in those internships. To create a new position just for Alain would have been wrong—
:Yes, well my so-called Gift probably had something to do with why I'm out here, on the edge of the Kingdom, and not somewhere else,: Alain observed.
Vedalia's tone turned sharp. :There is nothing wrong with your Gift,: he said. :It's as strong as anyone in the Collegium has got, and stronger than your sister's.:
:And a fat lot of good Animal Mindspeech would have been, Interning with the Lord-Martial's Herald,: he retorted. :What would I do, interrogate the Cavalry horses? What else can I do? Nothing that a weakly Gifted Herald can't. I don't even have enough ordinary Mindspeech to talk to Herald Stedrel—and he's got the strongest Mindspeech of any Herald anyone's ever heard of!: He couldn't help it; a certain amount of bitterness crept into his thoughts. He hated not being able to MindSpeak other Heralds—when he could Hear a tree-hare chattering at ten leagues away.
Vedalia was silent so long that Alain thought the conversation was over.
:Look around you,: Vedalia said. :Listen to the birdsong in the trees. Feel that free wind in your hair. Take a deep breath of air that no human has been breathing but you. Think about all you're learning from the wild things. Are you really so unhappy that your Gift brought you here?:
Well, put that way. . . .
:Hmm. I suppose not.:
:And admit it; it's a relief to be away from Alara for the first time in your life.:
Alain laughed aloud; Herald Stedrel looked back over his shoulder and smiled at him, then turned his attention back to the trail ahead.
It was a relief to be away from Alara, who thought she had to have the last word in everything they did, who bossed him as if she was five years, not half a candlemark, older than he. It was a relief to be away from all of his siblings, and from the Court, and all the burdens of royal birth. And so far, although no one could call circuit-riding in the hinterlands a pleasure-jaunt, he'd been enjoying it. He would probably change his mind as soon as winter set in and they were riding with snow up to Vedalia's hocks, but right now, he was enjoying it.
Out here, no one knew he was a Prince. He could flirt with pretty village girls, he could swim naked by moonlight, he could dance at fairs and sing rude songs and no one would make a face or take him aside to remind him that he must act with more decorum. Stedrel actually encouraged him to kick up his heels within reason. He might even try the experiment some time of getting really and truly drunk, though he'd have to wait until he was pretty sure he wouldn't be needed.
:You'll regret it,: Vedalia laughed.
:Probably. But at least I'll have tried it. And maybe I'll try a few more things, too—:
:Tch. Sixteen, and delusions of immortality,: Vedalia teased.
:Doesn't that go with being sixteen?: he retorted.
No, on second consideration, he wouldn't trade being out here for any of the Internships his sibs had. He wished Alara joy of the Lord Martial, who thought that women in general were useless and good only as decoration, and female Heralds in particular were a nuisance. She wouldn't get around him by speaking in a slightly higher, more breathy voice and acting hurt, or by turning bossy either.
Maybe that was the point. Internships were supposed to teach you about really being a Herald.
He wondered just what he was supposed to learn out here.
:A good question. Now find the answer to it.: Vedalia tossed his head and Alain smiled.
Then he asked Vedalia to move up alongside of Stedrel's Lovell. "Is there anything I should know about the next village, sir?" he asked respectfully, drawing a smile from the taciturn Heral
d.
"This'll be our first fishing village, Alain," Stedrel told him. "Do you remember your classes about the Lake Evendim fisher-folk?"
Alain nodded, but not because he recalled his classes as such; one of his yearmates had been from Lake Evendim, and had regaled them all with stories about "home." "Not exactly Holderkin, are they, sir," he responded tentatively.
Sted just snorted. "Not exactly, no. But at least if one of the girls sneaks you off into the water-caves you won't find yourself facing a father, a priest, and a wedding next day." He grinned when Alain blushed. "And unless you have the stamina of a he-goat," the older Herald continued wickedly, as Alain's flushes deepened, "You won't flirt the way you have been with more than one girl at a time."
"They—wouldn't!" Alain choked.
"They would, both together," Sted replied. "Or even three—if you're monumentally stupid enough to put that to the test. With the men out on the boats so much, and fishing being the hazardous occupation that it is, the girls get—"
"Lonely?" Alain said, tactfully.
Sted laughed.
:Thinking of another experiment to try, Chosen?: Vedalia asked innocently.
Alain spluttered, but held his tongue—not the least because he was thinking that very thing. And none of his sibs would be around to tease him and cross-examine him about it afterwards, either.
But when they finally came out of the woods—abruptly, for the trail ended on a rocky cliff-face that dropped steeply down to the gray-green waters the lake—any tentative plans he might have been making vanished abruptly.
The little village that they were making for was built in a river-valley cutting through the cliff, making a narrow and gravel-strewn perch for the Evendim longhouses he'd heard so much about, and a harbor for the fishing boats. The boats should have been out this time of day; instead, they were pulled up on the gravel beach, and the place was in an uproar. They must have been expected, because the moment they came into view, someone spotted them and set up a shout.