Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

They called it the Cobh Reel, and it had only been played and danced once.

During Cromwell’s campaigns in Ireland, a contingent of men pledged to support a free Ireland found themselves caught between the Scylla of a Royalist garrison and the Charybdis of an advancing Republican formation. Their musicians, drawn from the hinterlands, had knowledge of the Reel passed down from the ancient time of the Irish High Kings, and proposed it to their commander. He, a coward that planned to watch the battle from a nearby escarpment and flee if it went ill, agreed.

He saw the Republicans and Royalists clash with his own force caught between. He even heard snatches of the music through the din of battle joined.

He did not see the force that emptied the battlefield of men, bearing them wailing off to parts unknown and leaving only blood and armor behind.

The few survivors were maddened by what they had seen–blinded, deafened, or shouting only in strange tongues. Every last one was caked in the blood of their fellows. Cromwell’s lieutenants reported that his forces had been wiped out by an ambush, and they were right enough about that. But as to who had done the ambushing, and what the Cobh Reel had to do with it, well…there was a reason it was only used once.

The Corvus family has been one of the most respected in the land for generations, producing great men and women of business before culminating in me, Nyla Corvus, daughter of Lady Galina Corvus and Sir Iain Ulworth of the equally-respected Ulworth clan.

Or at least that’s what I thought.

I grew up on my family’s estate , with the best education money could afford (the source of my poise and excellent social manners, naturally) with occasional visits from eminent relatives and the well-heeled in society. All was well with the world…until Sir Iain learned that I wasn’t his daughter. My own mother had been a degenerate, and had had a…a ‘fling’ with someone of questionable lineage!

I was only half the noble I thought I was, and Sir Iain was furious. He cast me out, with only a paltry sum of money (just one-fourth of his estate!). On my own at the tender age of twenty, I was nonetheless able to maintain a semblance of civilized life. The Corvus name and years of song and dance lessons got me into a highly-regarded bardic college, and my money funded a series of delightful social events.

Then, in my last year at the college, the money ran out–I’d bought my last perfumed pheasant.

“So, the agent had to infiltrate the enemy base…”

“Capital,” Jaycee said. “The agent had to infiltrate the enemy capital.”

“Right, their capital, which was also their main base. So she snuck onto a train going there…”

“A plane. She snuck on a plane,” insisted Jaycee.

“Who’s telling this story?” Brenda sighed. “You or me?”

“I know you’re telling it, but you have to tell it right,” Jaycee pouted. “If you say the agent was on a train when she was really on a plane, then it’s all ruined.”

Brenda rolled her eyes. She looked over at the agent, all dolled up in black for infiltration. “Did you really sneak on a plane?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” the agent nodded. “It’s faster.”

“I’m looking for a molder,” said Davis. “Someone who can manipulate the Permeable Lands.”

“Hell, we all can a little bit,” the bartender said. “Even out here in Grant’s Crossing.” To prove his point, he filled Davis’ cup not with liquor but with dust. A moment of concentration later–no more than a blink of the bartender’s eyes–and the glass was full of amber liquid.

“Is it…safe to drink?”

“Of course it is,” the bartender scoffed. “I’m very good at molding liquors. why do you think I run a bar? Just don’t be leaving the Permeable Lands before you piss, or you’ll be feeling the effects of a gutful of sand.”

“I need someone who can make a bit more than that,” Davis said. “A lot more, actually.”

“What is it? Most everyone here in Grant’s Crossing can make one or two things well.”

“A person,” said Davis. “I need someone to mold a person.”

“I’m getting a lot of interference,” said Ev. Her transmission was rent with static and artifacts. “I think if we spend too much time outside the planets’ magnetospheres, the solar radiation will fry our RPD’s.”

Cam swore under his breath. “Doesn’t that worry you?”

“It’s just a remote drone, Cam. If it’s disabled, we can buy another one.”

“Maybe you can, Ms. Trust Fund,” said Cam. “And have you ever been in an RPD when it goes dark? The connection overloads, and you get a nice, sharp jolt of pain that’ll have you seeing double for a week.”

The static faded as their RPD’s entered the magnetosphere of HD 11765d. “I guess that’s why Dale decided to hide out here,” Ev replied. “Not many people willing to blow their investment just to find him.”

Mayotte gingerly examined the revolver with gloved hands. “British issue Webley Mark I, 1887, pocket model, .38 caliber.” She worked the break action, which wouldn’t latch due to damage–it looked like a round had exploded in the chamber, mangling the top of the cylinder and tearing off the rear portion of the upper frame. “I’d say whoever fired it last got a nasty surprise.”

“Why would Aaron have had a gun that old, and that British?” Cynthia asked.

“It’s a Khyber Pass copy,” said Mayotte. “Afghanistan or Pakistan. See this marking here?”

“V. R. 2007,” Cynthia read.

“That’s the cypher for Queen Victoria, who died in 1901. The gunsmiths out there are working out of their backyard, making copies from a master. They don’t know or don’t care what the cypher means, they just slip in the current year. Aaron was in Afghanistan?”

“Yes,” Cynthia said. “The gun came back with his things.”

“Let’s see what it has to say, then.” Mayotte pulled off a glove and pressed her hand to the checkered grip. Immidiately, she was overwhelmed by a flood of memories.

I will not say that they lived happily ever after, for that is not the way things go. The mundanity of life soon pressed in, and the glow of victory faded in the face of a thousand day-to-day comings and goings. Friendships drifted apart, love affairs began and were ended, children were born and estranged. Some wore what had happened like a badge of honor; others lay awake nights trying to forget.

But know this: whenever they wished it, or whenever they met each other after long years lived in a world they no longer cared to understand, the strong and secret fire that had spurred each of the companions to shake the earth was rekindled. If only for a moment, everything could be as it once had been when they’d stood in the piercing light of victory and sacrifice.

And that’s more than most people can claim.

The ripples subsided, and in another moment Camley was alone on the glassy sea. The lifeboat was swamped but afloat.

There was much to be done. Bailing, repairs, rowing, even sending up a flare or two. But there was little strength left for that right now, so Camley settled down in his seat, propping his head on a gunwale, and watched the rising sun.

“Astonishing…” he muttered, “that the word could contain such beauty and such savagery, within mere minutes of each other.”

A friendly but uncertain dawn greeted him from over the horizon.

I’m not a thief. I prefer to be called a ‘kleptomaniacal instrumental-free bardlike entertainer’–it’s much more befitting to my status as the best nonsinging bard this world’s ever seen. Back home, just about everybody agreed that the only place for a dashing, talented bloke like me was the bardic college–they even took up a collection to pay my way. You’d think that after all the trampled flowers, broken gates and, uh, missing pocketbooks that they’d be a little less generous, but hey, they’re a good sort, and know godlike talent when they see it.

Only problem was, the hacks at the O’Doullgh college didn’t agree. They had the nerve to tell me that my kind weren’t allowed, and even called the guard when I did an unsolicited audition under their bedroom windows that night! Turns out my singing voice is the kind of stuff that scares cats and small children, but so what? The main job of any good bard is to sweep women off their feet…who needs singing for that?

So, I was forced to live in the city off the contents of, uh, lost purses and change, until I happened to accidentally thrust my hand into Nyla’s pocket. She was immediately overcome by my devilish charm and ravishing good looks, and what’s more, she was a last year student at the bardic college! She, being the nice lass that she is, agreed to tutor me in the bardic arts (not singing, though–no amount of the milk of human kindness can tame the cat in heat of my voice). And, after her graduation, we joined an acting company, and traveled sharing out gifts with the masses–for a fee, of course.

“The hero of my fantasy story has to have a tragic background,” said Ellis. “I was thinking orphan. Raised by the elves but never truly one of the elves.”

“Please,” Mickey snorted. “That one’s written in gold ink on page one of the Big Book of Cliches.”

“Well, how about an exile? A terrible crime he didn’t commit–or did he?–has led his own people to drive him off, and he finds refuge with the elves after saving one of their own, eventually living among them as one of them.”

“Yes, that’s certainly nothing like the Rangers in Tolkien,” said Mickey. “Weren’t you the one who said ‘if all fantasy authors were going to do was rewrite LOTR, they were better off writing stereo instructions?'”

“Fine then,” Ellis shouted, slamming his notebook down. “Let’s hear your brilliant hero backstory, Mr. Critic!”

“Hero is the incarnate form of the tears of a dead god, with the power to heal the world or destroy it.” Mickey mimed an NBA all-star dunk. “Swish!”