IGMS - Issue 22 Read online

  Table of Contents - Issue 22 - April 2011

  Love, Cayce

  by Marie Brennan

  We Who Steal Faces

  by Tony Pi

  Exodus Tides

  by Aliette de Bodard

  Exiles of Eden

  by Brad R. Torgersen

  The Long Way Home

  by G. Norman Lippert

  The Bus Stop

  by David Lubar

  InterGalactic Interview With Robert Silverberg

  by Darrell Schweitzer

  Love, Cayce

  by Marie Brennan

  Artwork by Dean Spencer

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  The good news is, nobody's dead anymore.

  Maggie says I shouldn't tell you that up front, because you'll freak out over knowing somebody died. I say that if I don't tell you up front, you'll freak out when I get to the bit where the temple roof fell in, because you won't know we're all alive now. It's better this way, right?

  (Starting with this also lets me say: Dad, despite what it's going to sound like, it wasn't Bjartald's fault. So please don't go charging off to Stoneheart Hall, because Helga will only drop you off the Bridge of Granthun Tol again, and then you'll have to bribe the under-gnomes to let you out, and I know Mom's still ticked about the promises you made last time.)

  With that out of the way, let me tell you what your only daughter has been up to since she left home, and why she hasn't been writing letters like she promised.

  I admit, I wasn't real optimistic when I walked out of the Rose and Crown. Just because you and Helga and Liraiel and Martin were great friends back in your adventuring days doesn't mean your kids will get along, too. Hell, I honestly thought it was the setup for some bard's tragic ballad, and the only question was which of us would go evil and betray the others. Urgoth or Shariel was my guess, depending on who's writing the ballad. (Not me, of course. I would never dream of going evil. Except, possibly, after three straight weeks of listening to Urgoth and Bjartald snore in harmony.)

  And that send-off party in the Rose and Crown almost convinced me to climb out a window and run off on my own. Yeah, it's great that you guys were big heroes once upon a time, with friends everywhere from Okwengu to the northern tundra, but you know, I've listened to the stories my brothers tell. Being the kid of the adventurers who killed Irix Fellshadow isn't all it's cracked up to be. For one thing, you and your old pals have enemies in all those places, too, and for another -- does the word "pressure" mean anything to you? And my luck, I get old enough to strike out on my own just when Shariel and Bjartald do, too, and then Martin shows up out of nowhere for the first time in years with a not-entirely-human son in tow, so now it isn't just me, it's a whole pack of us, and gee, wouldn't it be great if you kids all adventured together? Just like in the old days!

  If I sound bitter, it's because I was. I can hear Mom now: "You should have told us, sweetie!" Yes, I should have. Only the Unblinking Eye knows how different things would have been if I had. But what's done is done; I decided to let you go ahead and relive your glory days through me, and for that alone, everything that's happened since is at least partly my fault.

  But don't worry -- I don't blame myself for all of it. There's more than enough finger-pointing to go around.

  So off we go, out the tavern door, with everybody cheering us on, one more merry band of wet-behind-the-ears kids off to save the world. We felt like idiots. The instant we got out of sight, Urgoth clammed up (didn't say a word again for three days), Bjartald started complaining that we'd given him more than his fair share of the baggage just because he's a dwarf, and Shariel, to shut Bjartald up and cover for Urgoth's uncomfortable silence, started lecturing us all on the ancient kingdomthat ruled the Heartlands four thousand years ago. Off to a great start, we were.

  That night we had our first argument, about where to go. Bjartald was full of advice from Helga, and Shariel had these delusions of going after the ghost of Tel Korass -- you know, that undead necromancer you guys never got around to dealing with? Urgoth just sat there and stared at the fire, which meant it was up to me to play umpire between "But Mutter says" and "I'm sure we won't have the slightest difficulty." The only thing we agreed on was that we weren't going within ten miles of that corrupt village priest you all were dropping anvil-sized hints about. The only thing more embarrassing than being sent off with an adventuring party your parents put together for you is accepting Baby's First Quest from them, too.

  Thank the gods of all our races for Shadyvale, the town we came to a couple of days later, and the bandits that were attacking its caravans. That was something we could manage. Which we did -- and then Bjartald, who may or may not have felt he had anything to prove after some comments I may or may not have made about him being a whiner, volunteered to open up the treasure chest because he figured he could deal with whatever trap was on it (where "deal with" translates to "take it in the face"). But those bandits were vindictive bastards; they'd rigged the chest to a booby-trap on the whole hut, and Shariel ended up with a broken arm and a concussion. So much for protecting the wizard, eh?

  Yes, I know what you've always said. Helga wasn't the only parent full of advice. And contrary to family legend, I do sometimes listen to what you say. So I hereby admit it: you were right, and we need a thief to deal with traps. That's Maggie, who I mentioned before. The most cleverest of halflings, and beautiful, too, with eyes like autumn honey -- so she tells me to write, anyway. (She's leaning over my shoulder right now.) Maggie, aka Margarethadel Mapleweather, was the one who guided us to the bandit camp, and after the hut collapsed we offered her a job with us -- even if she did fall over laughing when she saw Bjartald's beard was burnt half off.

  (Don't worry; it's grown back. But do me a favor and don't tell Shariel's mother about the concussion.)

  But you know, not all of your advice is good! "Goblins," you always said, "goblins are good pickings for young adventurers just starting out." After all, that's how you did it, back in your day. Unfortunately for us, the goblins are tired of being picked on by baby adventurers. The survivors of that raid you did on the Snaggletooth tribe? They've started a coalition among the goblins of the Heartlands, recruiting help from other monsters. Which we didn't find out until we went after a nice easy village about two days west of Shadyvale and ended up in the Dragontrap.

  And that's where things started to go wrong.

  Uh-oh -- the caravan's about to leave. If I don't post this now, you'll never get it; there isn't exactly regular mail service in the Wayyir Desert. Yes, I'm in Wayyir. Yes, I know Dad once got his skin peeled off here, and I remember your warnings never to come within a hundred leagues of the place. No time to explain now. I'll write again later, if I can.

  Love,

  Cayce

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  Thank you for the care package -- even if its arrival made Abu ibn Jaqsa completely panic, because if you could find us (or probably Liraiel -- you totally went to her with my last letter, didn't you, even though I asked you not to), then he thought it meant his shield against scrying had failed in the night. Since we're paying him to keep us hidden through Wayyir, I suppose I'm glad he panicked; better than him being asleep on the job, right? I explained about the amulet you had that crazy gnome implant in my hip, but he isn't convinced. (I'm still not sure I am, either. Every so often I think I feel it twitching.)

  But the healing potions are very much appreciated, as well as the gold. You forgot, though, to include instructions for how to use the petrified dragons' ears, or even what they're for. Are they food? Bjartald keeps insisting they're food. And did Helga really not clip some of his hair before he left, in case of serious death? I can believe it of Martin, but not Helga Hammerhard.

  Speaking of Ma
rtin -- I think I did a very bad job, at that send-off party in the Heartlands, of hiding how uncertain I was about Urgoth coming with us. I want to say it had less to do with what Urgoth looks like, and more to do with Martin appearing out of nowhere with him just a few months earlier; as dubious as I was about adventuring with Bjartald and Shariel, at least I'd been to their birthday parties as a kid. Then again, I might just be fooling myself. It's hard to trust a stranger, but it doesn't get any easier when he has green skin and tusks. Even if they're little tusks.

  Well, please convey my apologies to Martin. Urgoth has saved my sorry ass more times than I can count, and it was wrong of me to imagine he might one day turn on us. (But I take back nothing I said about Shariel. Oeu bless her pointy little ears, but if any of us are going to go evil, it'll be her, just out of sheer bloody curiosity.) Maybe if Urgoth's mother had raised him among her people, there'd be a problem, but as it stands he's really more human than orc. And you know, orcs aren't entirely bad -- for one thing, they've got better hygiene than dwarves. So if you can reassure Martin (subtly!) that his son's a good adventurer, please do. I know Urgoth worries about it.

  Anyway, I've clipped hair from him and Bjartald both, though I'm not sure when I'll be able to send the vials back; Abu ibn Jaqsa insists that teleporting them to you will mean our enemies can find us, though I'm not sure I follow his logic. Then again, what do I know about magic? I'm also enclosing some hair from Maggie -- I'd feel pretty rude if you guys resurrected us, but left her dead, just because her parents aren't old adventuring buddies of yours.

  So, that letter you put into the care package was pretty fascinating: Shariel's trying to figure out how you got it to telepathically scream certain parts only into my head, and Maggie wants to know where Mom learned to swear like that. Is this any example to set for your impressionable daughter? I appreciate that you guys actually kept your promise not to scry on me once I left home (and, more impressively, seem to have made Liraiel keep it, too), but I'm beginning to think I never should have sent that letter. It's done bad things to your peace of mind. There are things you need to know, though, and since there isn't a lot to do while riding across the Wayyir except sleep -- the dust-fiends are mostly nocturnal, so I'm up all night defending the camp -- I might as well fill you in.

  (YES, Mom, I'm getting enough rest. Is nagging like that something they teach in every seminary? Because it's like you shrank two feet and grew a beard, every time Bjartald opens his mouth.)

  So we were going after that goblin village, right? Well, they lured us straight in, and we didn't see the magic circle until we were standing in it. A beginner mistake, I know, and one that blew up in our faces rather spectacularly. Some robed creature starts chanting -- I have no idea what he was; not a goblin, that's for sure -- and next thing we know we're halfway across the world and halfway up a mountain. Dad, you'd be proud of me; I took a look around at the vegetation and figured out we must be in the Dragontrap before the first dragon showed up to eat us.

  For the record: your stories do not do that place justice. Maggie almost fell off the ledge we appeared on, and I think she would have had another birthday before she hit the ground. It's kind of gorgeous, really, with all the granite slabs and snowmelt waterfalls. Pity you can't take the time to appreciate it when you're trying desperately to stay alive.

  It was around then that I figured out Shariel's historical lectures are actually a calming mechanism that kicks in when she's nervous. No sane creature of any humanoid race would respond to "Oh shit, we're in the Dragontrap" with a perky declaration that the wizards who constructed the trap-spells achieved it by fusing the imperative art-speech of the ancient Rowhaurangan enchanters with the conjurational whatever of the whoevers. Not unless she's trying to keep herself from screaming. But screaming turned out to be kind of inevitable before she got more than twenty words in, because, well, DRAGON.

  As much as I'd like to tell you we bravely whacked off its scaly, horned, fanged, fire-breathing head, the truth is we ran like scared little bunny rabbits. Which doesn't work real well on a surface that's more vertical than horizontal: we promptly fell off the ledge. But hey, there are advantages to thousand-foot-drops; they give you time to think! And also to spellcast. Shariel's calming mechanism must work, or else the screaming settled her down, because she managed first to float our fall, then to make us invisible, and with the winds tearing around in the valleys no dragon was going to be able to track us by scent. Of course, floating as we were, the winds also scattered us to hell and gone, and getting back together when you're all invisible and trying not to be found by dragons is a cute trick.

  But we managed it, and then we started running again (this time on flatter ground), and kept running until we were past the boundary of the trap-spells. Funny how fast even a halfling and a dwarf can run with dragons nipping at their heels -- okay, Bjartald just tried to knock me off my camel for writing that, and I think Maggie's going to knife me in my sleep. Maybe it will appease them if I also say that it's amazing how far an elf -- no, on second thought, I don't want to find out what other spells Shariel has up her sleeves, so I'll just stop while I'm, er, behind.

  (Urgoth was great, though. And I'm not just saying that because his sword's as big as I am.)

  Insert a lot of gloating here about how good I am, getting us out of the Dragontrap without a map or any of the magic weapons you guys didn't give us because we should, and I quote, "have the fun of winning treasure for yourselves." I'd write the gloating out myself, since my ego could use some balm against the bruises it's taken, but we've lost most of our baggage along the road and Abu ibn Jaqsa's stingy with his paper, so I'm trying to keep this short. Also, it would be embarrassing to write all that, then admit at the end that although I got us out of the mountains, I didn't realize how far south we were.

  Yeah. We, er, missed Bhuvak, and crossed over into Lunggar instead.

  On the bright side, the slavers apparently never saw a halfling before, and thought Maggie was some kind of mutant breed of beardless dwarf. Which she was quick enough to take advantage of, at least for herself; she got the royal treatment, by captivity standards, all the way to Phrasom. (Did you know that's the capital of Lunggar? I didn't. And why didn't I? Because Dad, when giving me geography

  lessons, pointed at the map and said "That's Lunggar, but trust me, hon, you don't ever want to go there," and moved on to places he considered suitable for his daughter to adventure in. Sorry to break it to you, Dad, but I appear to be on a Grand Tour of everywhere you never wanted me to go, and it would be nice if I knew something about the places I'm being teleported and chased and flown and dragged and shadowstepped to.)

  (Just kidding about the shadowstepping. So far, anyway.)

  So where was I? Phrasom. I'm not sure what happened with Maggie while we were in the slaver pens; we all got crammed into one big cage, and she went somewhere else. But Bjartald found a Gorevyish priest who spoke enough Heartlander to tell us more than we wanted to know about the slavers' plans for us: they were going to whack off Shariel's fingers and cut out her tongue, then sell her as a pleasure-toy, ship Bjartald off to die in a mine, and send me and Urgoth to their gladiatorial arenas. Apparently there's a big market for female gladiators. They didn't think I'd last long, and I wasn't sure whether to be terrified or offended.

  Those plans ended up being useful to us, though. They weren't going to mutilate Shariel until a buyer showed interest (because maybe somebody would want to buy an intact wizard, for the excitement of keeping her from killing him? I don't even know), and the mine overseers only come once a month, so those two were safe for the moment. Urgoth and I, not so much, but when they moved us into a different pen with the other would-be gladiators, I found myself truly grateful, for the first time, that you guys really do have friends everywhere. This old guy in the pen (not a gladiator himself, but a trainer) turned out to be Ba Xiue -- you know, the Lunggarian mercenary you guys helped escape the geas put on him by his employer? Somehow he reco
gnized Martin in Urgoth's face (don't ask me how), and once all the "hey, how's your father doing, oh I'm sorry to hear his orcish romance didn't work out" formalities were done with, Ba Xiue helped us get a message to Maggie.

  Whereupon we proved to the slavers that sticking all the would-be gladiators into one pen is a really bad idea, even if you don't give them weapons. Where there's a will, there's a way to kill people.

  After Maggie picked the lock on the pen and Urgoth led the Charge of the Pissed-Off Prisoners, we were pretty close to home free -- for values of "home" that put us on the wrong side of the continent from the actual holder of that title. Sure, some of the guards got away, and sure, they put the entire standing army of Phrasom into the streets, but Ba Xiue's apparently been itching to lead a rebellion, so we let him get on with that, and got out while we could. Aside from the weird tentacled beastie some conjurer sent after our party, we had a relatively easy time escaping Lunggar.

  Once we were in Bhuvak, we started looking for a boat to take us to someplace we'd rather be. Which was pretty much anyplace other than Lunggar or the Dragontrap, at that point. But, well, you know pirates, and I don't mean Cousin Eddie, either. And according to Shariel, the storm that caught us while we were fleeing the pirates wasn't normal, it was some kind of magic thing -- I didn't understand her explanation, but it has something to do with a wizard casting a dimensional spell under the wrong conditions during a storm? Judging by what it did to us, it's the same thing you guys ran into when you were on vacation in Asterrhion. Thanks to your stories, I knew enough to keep me and the others from being ripped into bite-sized pieces -- though not all of the sailors were so lucky. Of course, the downside to the stories is that I also knew enough to dread what would happen after that. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, or at least better than the alternative.

  Dammit, Abu etc won't give me more paper. Sorry for tiny scribble. Will mail this on other side of desert. More later.

  Mostly in one piece,