Fearsome Magics Read online

  Also Edited by Jonathan Strahan

  Best Short Novels

  (2004 through 2007)

  Fantasy: The Very Best of 2005

  Science Fiction: The Very Best of 2005

  The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volumes 1 - 8

  Eclipse: New Science Fiction and Fantasy (Vols 1 - 4)

  The Starry Rift: Tales of New Tomorrows

  Life on Mars: Tales of New Frontiers

  Under My Hat: Tales from the Cauldron (forthcoming)

  Godlike Machines

  Engineering Infinity

  Edge of Infinity

  Reach for Infinity

  Fearsome Journeys

  With Lou Anders

  Swords and Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery

  With Charles N. Brown

  The Locus Awards: Thirty Years of the Best in Fantasy and Science Fiction

  With Jeremy G. Byrne

  The Year’s Best Australian Science Fiction and Fantasy: Volume 1

  The Year’s Best Australian Science Fiction and Fantasy: Volume 2

  Eidolon 1

  With Jack Dann

  Legends of Australian Fantasy

  With Gardner Dozois

  The New Space Opera

  The New Space Opera 2

  With Karen Haber

  Science Fiction: Best of 2003

  Science Fiction: Best of 2004

  Fantasy: Best of 2004

  With Marianne S. Jablon

  Wings of Fire

  INCLUDING STORIES BY

  TONY BALLANTYNE

  JAMES BRADLEY

  ISOBELLE CARMODY

  FRANCES HARDINGE

  NINA KIRIKI HOFFMAN

  ELLEN KLAGES

  GARTH NIX

  K J PARKER

  JUSTINA ROBSON

  CHRISTOPHER ROWE

  ROBERT SHEARMAN

  KARIN TIDBECK

  GENEVIEVE VALENTINE

  KAARON WARREN

  First published 2014 by Solaris

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.solarisbooks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-84997-780-7

  Introduction, story notes and arrangement copyright © 2014 Jonathan Strahan.

  “Dream London Hospital,” copyright © 2014 by Tony Ballantyne.

  “The Changeling,” copyright © 2014 by James Bradley.

  “Grigori’s Solution,” copyright © 2014 by Isobelle Carmody.

  “Devil’s Bridge,” copyright © 2014 by Frances Hardinge.

  “Where Our Edges Lie,” copyright © 2014 by Nina Kiriki Hoffman.

  “Hey, Presto!” copyright © 2014 by Ellen Klages.

  “Home is the Haunter,” copyright © 2014 by Garth Nix.

  “Safe House,” copyright © 2014 by K J Parker.

  “On Skybolt Mountain,” copyright © 2014 by Justina Robson.

  “The Dun Letter,” copyright © 2014 by Christopher Rowe.

  “Ice in the Bedroom,” copyright © 2014 by Robert Shearman.

  “Migration,” copyright © 2014 by Karin Tidbeck.

  “Aberration,” copyright © 2014 by Genevieve Valentine.

  “The Nursery Corner,” copyright © 2014 by Kaaron Warren.

  Cover art by Tomasz Jedruszek

  The right of the authors to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

  For Garth, with thanks and gratitude,

  for the years of friendship, the fine times,

  and, of course, the stories!

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This past yearhas been a challenging one, but I have loved working on this book and would like to thank my Solaris editor Jonathan Oliver, Ben Smith, and the whole team at Rebellion for all of their kindness, help, and consideration over the past year. I would also like to thank all of the book’s contributors for letting me publish their wonderful stories. Special thanks to Garth Nix, Genevieve Valentine, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, and Kaaron Warren, who all came through when I really needed them to. And, as always, I’d like to thank my agent, the ever wonderful Howard Morhaim, and his assistant Kim-Mei Kirtland.

  And, finally, an extra special thanks to my wife Marianne and to my two daughters, Jessica and Sophie, for their love and support.

  INTRODUCTION

  Introduction, Jonathan Strahan

  The Dun Letter, Christopher Rowe

  Home is the Haunter, Garth Nix

  Grigori’s Solution, Isobelle Carmody

  Dream London Hospital, Tony Ballantyne

  Safe House, K J Parker

  Hey, Presto! Ellen Klages

  The Changeling, James Bradley

  Migration, Karin Tidbeck

  On Skybolt Mountain, Justina Robson

  Where Our Edges Lie, Nina Kiriki Hoffman

  Devil’s Bridge, Frances Hardinge

  The Nursery Corner, Kaaron Warren

  Aberration, Genevieve Valentine

  Ice in the Bedroom, Robert Shearman

  Also From Solaris

  INTRODUCTION

  JONATHAN STRAHAN

  MAGIC TAKES MANY forms. In our world, and in any story set in a world that is recognizably ours, magic is either a matter of sleight of hand or a matter of faith.

  Stage magicians, like storytellers, produce illusions for entertainment, using legerdemain or sleight of hand to persuade our eyes that they see one thing while another is actually happening.

  Magicians or sorcerers, on the other hand, use magic to understand, experience or influence the world using rituals, symbols, actions, gestures or language. While modern magic is often about personal spiritual growth, the belief in and practice of magic as part of religious faith dates back to the very earliest human cultures and was believed to materially influence the physical world.

  Magic in fiction is a more slippery thing, and even a close examination of the many, many fantasy texts published over the past hundred or so years reveals very little consistency about it beyond the fact that if magic is possible then almost anything can happen.

  There is, however, one thing that every kind of magic has in common: one characteristic that is true, whether magic is practiced by a stage conjurer, a Wiccan priest or priestess, or a liberal arts graduate trying to write a follow up to Game of Thrones. Magic is about rules. Magic practiced on a stage has to conform to the physical rules of our world. Magic practiced as a matter of faith and belief must follow the rules and tenets of that faith. Magic in fiction, though, must only follow the rules of its creator and the rules that have been created for a fictional world. This makes a coherent structured set of rules for magic critical because magic without limitations, without consequences unbinds story, lets events run amok, and undermines dramatic power.

  Each and every one of the great works of fantasy fiction that in some way use magi accepts this, whether it be Alice as she falls down a rabbit hole or Frodo, as the great ring of power drains him of his life force as he journeys into Mordor. Sometimes the driver behind a story is the consequences of magic playing out, or the consequences of not following the rules that apply where magic is practiced.

  In Fearsome Magics storytellers take different approaches to magic and how magic manifests in their tales, but never lose sight of the importance of rules and consequences. Tony Ballantyne creates a set of eerie and disturbing rules to govern how the sick and injured pass through the wards and surgeri
es of his dream hospital, while in James Bradley’s story rural traditions have tragic consequences. Possibly more than any other writer here, Isobelle Carmody takes rules and consequences to their limit with her mathematical tale of unbinding, while Frances Hardinge builds magical bridges that that take their builder and her passengers to their destinations, but at a price, just as Nina Kiriki Hoffman does in the strange world of twins. Ellen Klages gives us a glimpse into the behind-the-scenes lives of stage magicians while Justina Robson takes magic and politics and shows us both must follow inevitable rules. Christopher Rowe turns a tale on the clauses and sub-clauses of the written word while Robert Shearman steps through the searing stages of grief. Karin Tidbeck, Genevieve Valentine, K.J, Parker, and Kaaron Warren take their turns as well, and Garth Nix’s ragged pair, Sir Hereward and Mr Fitz, look to enforce the rules of magic in one of their most thrilling adventures.

  When the time came to sit down to do a follow up book to my first Solaris book of fantasy, Fearsome Journeys, I didn’t expect to end up delivering a book that so thoroughly weighed and assessed, or indeed turned on magic. I hadn’t, in truth, intended to use a consistent series title like Fearsome this or Fearsome that. Instead, I thought I might do a book called simply The New Solaris Book of Fantasy: Volume 2. Instead, wiser heads prevailed. My editor, the sensible and intelligent Jonathan Oliver, suggested the book should have a title that echoed Fearsome Journeys and it didn’t take long for Fearsome Magics to emerge as the title of the book. That seems to have inspired writers who have turned in a series of sometimes dark and sometimes frightening, though often humorous and adventurous, stories that explore just how fearsome magic can be.

  As always I would like to thank each and every one of the contributors who have stories in the book you now hold. Some were there when the project was hatched, and some came onboard in the days just before the project was complete. I’d also like to thank the writers who, for whatever reason, fell by the wayside. There are many reasons this happens, but I am always grateful to them for trying to be part of the book. Next time. My thanks too, to Jon Oliver and the Solaris team, to my agent Howard Morhaim, and my wife Marianne and daughters Jessica and Sophie.

  I hope that you, as you journey through these pages, find yourselves thrilled, entertained, disturbed, and moved. That is what magic, fearsome or not, can do. And, above all, I hope we get to take this magical journey once more soon.

  Jonathan Strahan

  Perth, Western Australia

  May, 2014

  THE DUN LETTER

  CHRISTOPHER ROWE

  THE JUNIPER BUSHES in front of the house had grown so high and wild they almost concealed the gray clapboard walls and even the sagging, leaf-choked gutters. The screen window on the storm door had rents in it, and the door itself was held open by half a crumbling cinder block. The cement porch had been painted red once, a long time ago.

  It was the kind of house, Tansie thought, that other kids bet each other to spend the night in. It looked abandoned and haunted.

  She fumbled her keys out of her knockoff Michael Kors purse and opened the front door, calling for her grandmother as she went.

  “Who’s that?” came the answer.

  Her grandmother’s voice was trembling and hoarse, as always. Frightened, as often.

  Tansie turned down the volume on the television, tuned to a religious channel and blaring as loud as the old set’s speaker could manage. Her grandmother sat in the same place Tansie had left her before leaving for school that morning, not facing the television but sitting to one side, so that her good ear was as close to the set as possible. The old woman looked anxiously out into the room with milky eyes, worrying her heavy oak cane with arthritic hands.

  “It’s just me, Grandma,” said Tansie. “Just Tansie, home from school.”

  “Tansie? Where’s Eileen? Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

  These were the same questions her grandmother always asked. Tansie, with a hint of who are you? And Where is my daughter? And Can I feed you? Make you warmer? Make you safe?

  “It’s you needs something to eat, I bet,” said Tansie. “Did you eat the lunch I left set out for you?”

  But she could see into the kitchen and the plate covered in aluminum foil still sat on the counter, undisturbed. Sighing, Tansie walked over and peeled back the foil, revealing a baked chicken leg, canned peas, fried potatoes, all leftovers from the dinner she had made the night before. She took the plate and a glass of water into the living room and set up a tray in front of her grandmother.

  “Here, Grandma,” she said, taking the old woman’s hands and guiding them to the water glass and a fork. “It’s the same thing we had for dinner last night, set out the same way. Do you remember?”

  Her grandmother did not answer, but set down the fork and lightly ran her fingers over the food, knocking a few peas rolling onto the tray. She found the chicken leg and took a healthy bite. Tansie was thankful again at how careful her grandmother had always been with her teeth. She didn’t think she could deal with dentures on top of everything else.

  The next-door neighbor’s dog started barking wildly, in the particular way that meant the mailman was working his way down the block. Tansie went out to the porch and was disappointed to see that Mr. Stevens, the usual carrier, must have been sick or on vacation. A slight woman she’d never seen before, wearing uniform shorts and shirtsleeves despite the cool and damp of the autumn day, picked her way daintily through the weeds that cracked the front sidewalk.

  Usually, Mr. Stevens would pause for a few minutes and ask after Tansie’s grandmother, and maybe tell her a corny joke. A few years before, she had told him he should save the candy he used to give her for other children on the route, but he still called her Little Miss.

  This sharp-featured woman, shorter even than Tansie, who was not tall, unshouldered her leather bag and nodded in a quick way that reminded Tansie of the parrot in the biology lab at school. She held out a bundle of envelopes and sales flyers expectantly, but did not speak.

  “Thank you,” said Tansie. Then, “Is Mr. Stevens sick?”

  The postwoman narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Stevens?” she said. Her accent was odd to Tansie’s ears, like someone from public television, but pitched strangely low for such a small woman.

  “The usual mailman,” said Tansie. “The man you’re substituting for.”

  The woman sniffed. “I substitute for no man,” she said, and turned on her heel.

  Tansie shook her head at the rude response, and carried the mail in to the dining room table, where she did her homework and kept all the household correspondence. They had only used the dining room on holidays even when her grandmother still did the cooking.

  She flipped through the sales flyers first, looking for sales on groceries. She regretfully tossed the coupons for pizza places into the bin filled with paper she used to kindle the woodstove. Tansie loved pizza but could never figure out how to make the checks her grandmother received from the government and from her late grandfather’s pension fund stretch to cover much more than the monthly bills. She had to be satisfied with the greasy rectangles the school cafeteria called pizza every other Thursday.

  There were two bills, water and gas, and she put them at the bottom of the stack on the edge of the table. That was her method. She paid them in the order they arrived, timing the payments according to how much was in her grandmother’s checking account on any given Monday night, which was bill night.

  There was an offer for a credit card addressed to her grandfather, who had been dead for over ten years, and an assortment of advertisements for magazines, cable television (something else they couldn’t afford), and a plumber. Most of these went into the woodstove pile as well, but she set the plumber’s flyer aside, just in case. It said ‘free estimates’ and Tansie had noticed that the water was taking longer and longer to run hot when she bathed her grandmother.

  She looked back into the living room. Her grandmother was using her
fingers and fork to chase peas around her plate. The bone of the chicken leg was on the floor.

  Finally, she looked at the last four envelopes, the ones addressed to her mother.

  Urgent. Your attention is needed. Final notice. To be opened only by.

  The first one was from a law firm that sent letters which arrived regularly every Tuesday. The second and third were from collection agencies with generic sounding names. Tansie only knew they were collection agencies because they had called constantly when the phone was still connected.

  The fourth letter was unlike anything Tansie had ever seen.

  The paper of the envelope was thick and felt rough to her fingers. Its color was like the edges of a coffee stain on a white dishrag, somewhere between brown and gold. There was no return address, and neither was there a stamp. The address read simply ‘Eileen Abnett’ followed by the name of the street without the number, then the city without the state or a zip code.

  Tansie turned the envelope over. There was a smear of red wax holding it closed, and a seal had been pressed into the wax that looked like letters in some alphabet she didn’t know. All together it was like something out of one of the Regency romance novels her grandmother used to read to her at bedtime.

  Normally, Tansie put all of her mother’s mail into brown paper grocery bags beneath the table to turn over if she showed up for Thanksgiving or Christmas, and this was what she did now to the first three letters. She didn’t know why she left the fourth one laying on the table when she went to clean up after her grandmother.