WHAT HO, MAGIC
By
Tanya Huff
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
"Introduction: Tanya Huff is…" Copyright © 1998 by Michelle Sagara West
"The Chase is On" Copyright © 1989 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in Amazing Stories, July 1989 "Underground" Copyright © 1992 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in Northern Frights, Mosaic Press, 1992 "I'll Be Home For Christmas" Copyright © 1992 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in The Christmas Bestiary, DAW, 1992 "Shing Li-ung" Copyright © 1992 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in Dragonfantastic, DAW, 1992 "First Love, Last Love" Copyright © 1993 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in MZB's Fantasy Magazine, Fall 1993 "Word of Honor" Copyright © 1995 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in Tales of the Knights Templar, Warner, 1995 "The Harder They Fall" Copyright © 1995 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in MZB's Fantasy Magazine, Summer 1995 "A Debt Unpaid" Copyright © 1995 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in Northern Frights 3, Mosaic Press, 1995 "February Thaw" Copyright © 1997 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in Olympus, DAW, 1997
"Symbols are a Percussion Instrument" Copyright © 1997 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in Tarot Fantastic, DAW, 1997 "A Midsummer Night's Dream Team" Copyright © 1997 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in Elf Fantastic, DAW, 1997 "This Town Ain't Big enough" Copyright © 1995 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in Vampire Detectives, DAW, 1995 "What Manner of Man" Copyright © 1996 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in Time of the Vampires, DAW, 1996
"The Cards Also Say" Copyright © 1997 by Tanya Huff. Originally appeared in The Fortune Teller, DAW, 1997 "The Vengeful Spirit of Lake Nepeakea" Copyright © 1999 by Tanya Huff. Published here for the first time.
All rights reserved by the publisher. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
WHAT HO, MAGIC!
An MM Publishing Book
Published by Meisha Merlin Publishing, Inc.
PO Box 7
Decatur, GA 30.031
Editing & interior layout by Stephen Pagel Copyediting & proofreading by Teddi Stransky Cover art by Todd Lockwood Cover design by Neil Seltzer
ISBN: 1-892.065-04-5
http: //www. angelfire. com/biz/MeishaMerlin
First MM Publishing edition: March 1999
Printed in the United States of America 0987654321
Tanya Huff is…
This book is the first collection of some of Tanya's short stories, and the stories, bristling with an elegant wit that never becomes either self-indulgent or pretentious, speak more clearly for themselves than I ever could.
I'd like to concentrate on the work, and the work alone, but there's so much of Tanya in the work she does it would be like telling half a story when I know more of it: doesn't feel right. Besides, anyone who's reading this has already bought the book, a sure indication that I'd be singing to the choir.
So, briefly, Tanya Huff is scum. A maggot. Moreover, I mean both words in the nicest possible way.
Perhaps a little background is in order.
The first time I met Tanya, I was fifteen years old. I was at my first convention, and very nervous; she was at her umpteenth, and very confident. She was also dressed up as Belit. I couldn't think of anything clever to say to her – a recurring theme – so I didn't say anything at all because, well, I was intimidated. Nevertheless, I remembered her clearly.
The second time I met Tanya was as a customer at Bakka, the science fiction bookstore in Toronto where we'd later spend six of her eight-year tenure working together. She had just sold a novella to Pat Price at Amazing – the Kelly Chase story – and she was determined to sell a novel before she reached the other side of thirty.
At that time, I was scribbling poetry and editing fledgling attempts at my own fiction, and she seemed to have stepped across the impossibly wide divide that separates the published – and publishable – from the unpublished. She was very matter of fact about the sale and her future career. I was impressed – and intimidated – so I didn't mention the fact that I was writing.
I started working at Bakka very shortly after that, part-time to her full-time, and when I finally graduated to full-time, we overlapped on four of our five days. During those years, as most of you probably did, I read Tanya's fiction. But I got to read it before it was published.
It was torture.
Poets tend toward melodrama and abuse of the language; they're always at least a bit infatuated with words and the cadence of words, and before they find their feet…well, it isn't pretty. That was me.
Misery loves company. Unfortunately, I never did get any, not that way.
Tanya has never had that problem. I'm fairly certain she knows what purple prose is, but I guarantee she's also incapable of committing it.
"Here, Michelle," she'd say, "I think this is too slow. Or too boring. Or maybe not enough is happening.'" So I'd read her very polished, highly amusing and often deeply moving writing – and then I'd slink off to my computer with an inferiority complex the size of a small planet. This was her idea of not good enough!
Tanya, I thought, you are scum. But I wasn't about to say that because I didn't want it to be taken the wrong way.
Well, the years went by. I managed to figure out that I wasn't Tanya Huff, and I wasn't going to be Tanya Huff, so I settled into my own style of writing, rewriting and revising. I started, bit by bit, to feel less intimidated. Maybe it was because of the times I'd watch her spend twenty minutes – in the back room of the store – writing the same sentence over and over again until the cadence was exactly right. Maybe it was the month she spent writing the same four pages of a novel over and over again because she knew where the book was supposed to be going, but her instincts as a writer are far too strong – and too good – to let her hack her way paint-by-numbers style through the plot; if she blocks, it's for a reason. The book veered sharply to the left, and once she and her subconscious settled on a reasonable compromise, she took the driver's seat again.
I still read everything she wrote as she finished it. Novels were bad, as they came chapter by chapter; short stories came in a complete chunk.
When she finished "I'll Be Home For Christmas" I had yet to start a story for the same anthology. I read hers, and almost didn't start one. "No," I told her, "there's no way I'm writing anything contemporary; it'll only get compared to that, and I can't come close."
I was very glad that I didn't have that problem with "Shing Li-Ung", one of my favourite stories, because I wasn't asked to write a story for that anthology. As someone with some background in being a banana – white on the inside, yellow on the outside, in case you haven't come across the term – I found the story to be particularly moving and well thought out, and I liked the end.
In fact, I like the way most of Tanya's stories end. Although she's at home with a very dark edge – as the two horror stories in the anthology clearly show – for the most part, she deals in hope. In ideals. In what it takes to meet those ideals half way. Her characters know, like she does, that life is tough, and that people aren't perfect – but they don't use the excuse of imperfection to become self-indulgent, whiny jerks. They deal with their lives. They live up to their promise.
But I digress. I was speaking about scum.
As Tanya and I got more comfortable with each other's writing we began to depend, to some extent, on each other's opinion. And one day, when she'd handed me yet another excellent chapter with a mournful, "this is way too slow, nothing happens, and no one's going to finish the book if they even get this far," I was going through a complete throw-the-book-away-and-rewrite-from-the-ground-up revision. Misery, as I mentioned above, loves company.
I read the chapter.
In addition, when I finished it, I looked up, met her expectant gaze, and said, "You are a crawling maggot."
"What?"
"You are scum. You are vile."
"Is that good?"
"I am in the middle of the rewrite from hell and you have the nerve to give me this and tell me that it's awfulT Because, of course, it was wonderful.
She's not stupid. "Wow. Scum," she said.
It became our quick way of saying something was really good. It was shorthand for You've completely hooked me and I couldn't put this down.
When she finished Blood Pact, she was living three hours outside of Toronto, but I still got to read the book chapter by chapter, and when I finished it, I phoned her – this was before there were cheap long distance rates in Canada – to call her scum. It took a long time. I loved that book.
I also had to take three days off writing; I couldn't get it out of my head and when I went back to my own work I could clearly see just where the cadence and humour, the earthiness of her characters, the contemporary accessibility, were missing from mine. This happens every time I read a Huff novel.
Doesn't stop me from reading her books, though.
Nothing I can think of – short of the obvious – could do that.
So, Tanya Huff is scum.
And you're about to find out why; just turn the page.
– Michelle Sagara West October 1998
"The Chase is On", the oldest story in this collection by a considerable margin, is pure space opera. I would never insult the many fine Writers of science fiction by referring to this story as such. There is no science in it.
Space opera; fantasy with ray guns and space marines.
It's a sub genre I've always loved, space opera, and given the continuing reaction to Star Wars and Star Trek, so have a whole lot of people. I've actually pitched a couple of ideas for Star Trek novels but, unfortunately, they went nowhere.
As this collection appears, I'm working on my first novel-length space opera (untitled as yd) probably out from DAW in the spring of 2000. It has nothing to do with Kelly Chase or her universe.
THE CHASE IS ON
"Blundering, incompetent idiot!" roared the Atabeg of Rayanton, Guiding Light of Forty Star Systems. "A simple removal, and you fail dismally!"
The commander of the Atabeg's Immortals, some four thousand men whose loyalty was absolute, stared straight ahead, carefully emotionless, ignoring the spittle that dotted the front of his dress uniform – the physical evidence of his lord's rage. To show any emotion in the presence of the Atabeg was unwise, although groveling was acceptable after a certain point in the interview.
"Exalted One," began the officer, wishing that he dared wet his lips. "If I may be permitted…we had to deal with his escort first. There were a great many places he could hide, and we had a very small force."
"And may I remind you, Commander," the Atabeg snarled, "that we speak of an eight year old boy." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw tanned fingers fiddling with something on the desk. "Pay attention, Darvish," he snapped. "This concerns you."
Darvish sighed, sat up straighter, and tried to look as if he cared. When the Atabeg turned again to the commander, Darvish let the expression drop and returned to buffing his nails and brooding about the unfairness of his life.
"An eight year old boy," the Atabeg repeated, "who must be removed. When my fat fool of a brother finally gets what's coming to him, my son will be Shahinshah, Defender of Infinity. Do you understand me, Commander? Get rid of that boy!"
"Most assuredly, Exalted One." The commander bowed and backed quickly from the room.
"Uh, Father…"
The Atabeg took a deep breath and faced his son, wondering once again how this exquisite lump, this posturing fop, could be flesh of his. He cursed his brother for the mind blocks that kept him from taking the throne for himself. "I don't want to hear it, Darvish," he said sternly. "You're going to be Shahinshah, and that's all there is to it."
Darvish sighed again.
Some hours later, a nine-man squad of the Atabeg's Immortals moved into defensive positions around the perimeter of docking pit 90. Their squad commander walked slowly toward the docked freighter, gripping his weapon tightly, and trying not to let his nervousness show. He knew that any sign of weakness could precipitate an assassination attempt by one of his men, and at least half the squad felt ready for promotion.
His eyes swept across the gleaming enamel and chrome until they rested on the registration numbers set into the metal by the cargo hatch. He wished he could swear. The independent pilots of Company space were so damned unpredictable; they often shot back. As he closed in on the ship, an external video relay swiveled and pointed directly at him.
"Hold it right there, buddy," boomed a mechanical but still definitely female voice. "Kelly, we've got company."
The squad commander glanced hastily from side to side. He saw no Kelly. A sudden noise brought his eyes back to the ship. He tightened his finger on the trigger as an access panel clanged back, exposing a pair of shapely legs.
The shapely legs kicked, jerked, and emerged, followed by an equally shapely body.
"Who the blazes are you?" she snarled, tossing the wrench she carried into a tool kit and dropping a hand to her sidearm.
This was not the reaction the squad commander usually evoked in tall, blonde, and strikingly beautiful young women. It almost startled him into taking a step back; a move his men would surely misinterpret, with fatal results. She moved closer, showing apparent disregard for his superior firepower. His men moved closer as well, although, admittedly, a very little closer. If they had no intention of being reported for cowardice, they had less of being caught in a crossfire.
The squad commander pulled a sheet of hard copy from his belt pouch and handed it over.
She scanned it quickly. "And just why does the Atabeg of Rayanton, Guiding Light of Forty Star Systems, et cetera, et cetera, want to run an energy scan of my ship? His customs brokers searched it when I landed. Everything is in order."
"A search is not an energy scan." He glowered forebodingly, an expression which never failed to strike terror into the hearts of subordinates. The woman didn't appear to notice. His eyes flicked over the sleek lines of the freighter. A pity that simple confiscation no longer remained an option. The empire needed the imports too much to scare the independents off with the one thing that outweighed their desire for profit: the possible loss of their ships. The squad commander sighed. The old ways had been easier. "The Atabeg, may he live forever, thinks you have something on board he wants."
A golden eyebrow rose. "Would you believe me if I said I don't know what you're talking about?"
"No."
"I didn't think so."
She dropped to the ground and a raking line of blue fire from the ship turned all ten men into smoldering piles of carbon.
Kelly Chase glanced around at the bodies and shook her head ruefully as she dusted off her knees. Her nose wrinkled in distaste as she stepped over the ruins of the squad commander.
"I've always wondered why they call them Immortals. Nice shooting, Val. A little overdone, but nice shooting."
"Dead's dead, Boss. They don't care how cooked they get." The gun ports closed and a hatch hissed open as the self-aware computer that ran the ship, that was the ship, began to warm the engines for lift-off. "Looks like we'd better blow this joint, huh?"
"Yes," agreed Kelly, "looks like we'd better."
The Atabeg and his son still sat at dinner when the dispatch came in from the commander. Scowling, the Guiding Light of Forty Star Systems snatched the hardcopy from his aide's grasp.
"Morons!" He threw the thin sheet of plastic down into the remains of the first course.
"Did he get away again, Father?" Darvish asked, his perfect brow furrowing as he plucked the message out of the white sauce.
A muscle jumped in the Atabeg's jaw. The aide stepped back. "Yes. He got away. Again."
"Oh, good." The young man favored his father with a dazzling smile. "Now I don't have to be Shahinshah."
"You don't have to be…" The Atabeg sputtered into silence then began again, his voice rising to a shriek. "For the last time, Darvish, you will be Shahinshah!"
"But…"
"Not another word!" He glared up at his aide, his anger a sizzling presence in the room. "Get me that ship and everyone on it. Call out the fleet if you have to!"
"Why me?" Darvish asked of no one in particular.
"What I don't understand," Kelly murmured, her booted feet up on the control console, "is how he knew I had the rocks on board."
"Maybe he was watching our dealer," the ship suggested.
"The Atabeg can't keep spies in Company space," the independent scoffed. "His men sell themselves too cheaply."
"Lucky guess?"
Kelly yanked both hands up through her loose curls. "Maybe." The only alternative, that one of their own had sold them out, didn't stand considering. Independents trusted few enough people as it was. If they couldn't trust each other, the whole system would fall apart. "How are repairs coming?"
"I'm running final systems checks now. Give me a few minutes, and I'll have full internal sensory input again."
The ship fell silent and Kelly amused herself by watching lights flicker on the control board as one by one the systems damaged in a small argument with a Company patrol boat came back on line.
"Uh, Kelly. Maybe they weren't after the rocks."
"What?" Kelly's feet hit the deck.
"I've just picked up an intruder in the lounge; within human parameters but small."
Kelly was out of the control room almost before the ship finished talking. She raced into the lounge and skidded to an abrupt halt. Backed against a bulkhead was a red-haired boy with a runny nose, a dirty face, and an energy weapon pointed at the general area between her chin and her navel.
"Come one step closer," said the youngster calmly, "and I'll blow you into a greasy smear on the deck."
"Lovely," said Kelly. "Just what I needed to round out my day." She took a step forward but stopped when the boy showed every indication of carrying out his threat. "Couldn't we talk about this?"
He shook his head, lips compressed into a thin line.
Suddenly, alarms shrilled and lights flashed. As the boy jerked, Kelly dove to the deck, seconds before an energy blast boiled the paint on the metal behind her head.
"I feel," commented Val, the boy and his weapon safely wrapped in the extensile arms she used in the lounge, "like a child molester."
"Child, hell!" Kelly snapped. "That little monster nearly fried me."
The little monster in question stopped struggling and relaxed against his bonds, frustration giving in to fatigue.
"This ship's self-aware," he said sulkily. "That's against the law."
"So, sue me." Kelly gingerly touched the blistered paint and shook her head. "Why didn't you grab him before I was in his line of fire?"
A shrug was implicit in the computer's sheepish tone. "I didn't think of it."
Kelly's brows rose. "You didn't think of it? The best interfaces money can buy, and you didn't think of it? Maybe I should turn you in for a good abacus, then if I get shot at, at least it'll be my own fault."
"My old man'll get you for this," the boy blurted out suddenly, more peeved at being ignored than confined. "You'll see."
Kelly sighed. "Listen brat, I don't know why you're on ...
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