Under Cover of Darkness

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  THE SCORIA

  THE GATHERERS’ GUILD

  KYRI’S GAUNTLET

  FALLING LIKE THE GENTLE RAIN

  THE THINGS EVERYONE KNOWS

  THE INVISIBLE ORDER

  BORROWED TIME

  SHADOW OF THE SCIMITAR

  THE GOOD SAMARITAN

  SEEKING THE MASTER

  WHEN I LOOK TO THE SKY

  THE SUNDERING STAR

  THE EXILE’S PATH

  THE DANCER AT THE RED DOOR

  ABOUT THE EDITORS

  This didn’t have to be demons from hell.

  Easing the clip back into the grip, I gently worked the slide to chanber a round and leaned back in my chair. Might be pure coincidence that a visitor came exactly at midnight and fog blanketed the city. Hey, anything was possible. I tightened my grip on the Glock, disengaging the safety. Then again . . .

  The footsteps thumping along the hallway stopped right outside my door. There was a short pause, and then somebody politely knocked twice.

  “Excuse me, I saw the light under your door,” a soft feminine voice said. “May I use your bathroom?” She sounded sweet and southern. Pure corn pone and hominy grits. A delicate flower of the South. “The one in the lobby is broken, and I really have to pee something fierce. Please?”

  “Just a sec,” I answered cheerfully, aiming at chest level where the heart would be on a human being. Yeah, she was from the South, all right. Straight down south. Near the core of the planet. Hell.

  —From “Falling like Gentle Rain” by Nick Pollotta

  Also Available from DAW Books:

  Hags, Harpies, and Other Bad Girls of Fantasy, edited by Denise Little

  From hags and harpies to sorceresses and sirens, this volume features twenty all-new tales that prove women are far from the weaker sex—in all their alluring magical, and monstrous roles. With stories by C.S. Friedman, Rosemary Edghill, Lisa Silverthorne, Jean Rabe, and Laura Resnick.

  If I Were an Evil Overlord, edited by Martin H. Green-berg and Russell Davis

  Isn’t it always more fun to be the “bad guy”? Some of fantasy’s finest, such as Esther Friesner, Tanya Huff, Donald J. Bingle, David Bischoff, Fiona Patton and Dean Wesley Smith, have risen to the editors’ evil challenge with stories ranging from a man given ultimate power by fortune cookie fortunes, to a tyrant’s daughter bent on avenging her fahter’s untimely demise—and by the way, rising to power herself—to a fellow who takes his cutthroat business savvy and turns his expertise to the creation of a new career as an Evil Overlord, to a youth forced to play through game level after game level to fulfill someone else’s schemes for conquest. . . .

  The Magic Toybox, edited by Densie Little

  Thirteen all-new tales about the magic of childhood by Jean Rabe, Esther Friesner, David Bischoff, Mel Odom, Peter Morwood, and others. In this exciting short story collection, toys come to life through the love and belief of the children who play with them. A tiny Mr. Magoo yearns to escape the Old Things Roadshow and get home to the woman he’d been stolen from. A child slave in Rome dreams of owning a wooden gladiator—could an act of magic fulfill his dream? Can a ghost who’s found refuge in a what-not doll solve a case of unrequited love?

  eISBN : 978-1-101-04206-9

  Copyright © 2007 by Tekno Books, Julie E. Czerneda, and Jana Paniccia.

  All Rights Reserved

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1392.

  DAW Books is distributed by Penguin Group (USA).

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  First Printing, February 2007

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  S. A.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Introduction © 2007 by Julie E. Czerneda and Jana Paniccia

  The Scoria © 2007 by Doranna Durgin

  The Gatherers’ Guild © 2007 by Larry Niven

  Kyri’s Gauntlet © 2007 by Darwin A. Garrison

  Falling Like the Gentle Rain © 2007 by Nick Pollotta

  The Things Everyone Knows © 2007 by Tanya Huff

  The Invisible Order © 2007 by Paul Crilley

  Borrowed Time © 2007 by Stephen Kotowych

  Shadow of the Scimitar © 2007 by Janet Deaver-Pack

  The Good Samaritan © 2007 by Amanda Bloss Maloney

  Seeking the Master © 2007 by Esther M. Friesner

  When I Look to the Sky © 2007 by Russell Davis

  The Sundering Star © 2007 by Janny Wurts

  The Exile’s Path © 2007 by Jihane Noskateb

  The Dancer at the Red Door © 2007 by Douglas Smith

  INTRODUCTION

  Julie E. Czerneda and Jana Paniccia

  THERE IS A world beyond the one we know.

  T Whispers reveal paths to its location. Symbols decorate its lintels. Handshakes gain entry into its domain.

  A domain of power—where oath-bound men and women hold the keys to tantalizing knowledge, astonishing magic, and unparalleled authority. Under cover of darkness they live out their lives as reflections of ordinary citizens, even while working to shape the course of human destiny.

  We debate their motives. We debate their influence. We debate their very existence. Yet what do we really know without belonging ourselves?

  What of those few who do step through the veil shrouding our world from that hidden one? What cause sparks their desire, leads them to knock on that unseen door, to accept the responsibility of knowing the truths most of us can only imagine?

  This is the premise we gave our talented group of authors: journey beyond the whispers, the rumors, and the hearsay . . . delve into the realities of those who become a part of the secrets and those who live and die to keep them.

  We hope you enjoy the results as much as we have.

  THE SCORIA

  Doranna Durgin

  Scoria: The refuse from the reduction of metal ores.

  ‘ALLEKSA! ALLEKSA!”

  Voices raised in joy, in a rare daring.

  Galetia twisted from her sentry spot and raised her own hands high, flashing fingers open and closed in the approval of their kind. “Alleksa!” she shouted down into the bowl of the arena ruin, a midnight darkness spotted with tiny ground fires and fire spinners on the move. A spontaneous, whirling circle closed around the central dark spot that held Alleksa.

  Hidden here outside the city, only the Scoria celebrated the night.

  And only the Scoria celebrated surviving the coming of age that the citties took for granted. Alleksa proved more blessed yet . . . she would not only survive, she would thrive. Everyone saw the signs—the flashes of change without fever, without shakes, without chills. The ripples of ethereal otherness across her face, without the rash that so often came with such a strong turning.

  She would be one of their strongest.

  She might even live through to adulthood, protected by this secret gathering of the abandoned, the discarded . . . those both lost and found. Each year, more infants were plucked to the safety of loving arms. Each year, more youngsters lived throu
gh the change.

  But, oh, the authorities had begun to suspect. There were too many of them now—too many who survived exposure on the rugged ceremonial hillside so steep, so treacherous, even those who left vulnerable infants to perish sometimes fell to their own deaths. For all Galetia knew, her own father had met that fate. She felt no regret at the thought. He’d seen those brief, newborn signs of who she was—of what she was—and he’d abandoned her. In spite of him, she’d lived. In spite of them all, she’d grown. And now, with barely eighteen years claimed, she was one of the elders of the Scoria, almost ready to attempt full integration into the copper-spawned city.

  From within the city she could observe . . . she could send warnings to the Scoria. They had to be more careful than ever these days if they even hoped to survive. For it was the Scoria come-of-age that those in city had feared all along.

  Galetia had come of age a handful of years earlier, and had exchanged her hunter-gatherer duties for those of the watch, employing her new facilities to protect those younger. Thanks to the change and new affinities with the animals of her world . . . she could see in the dark, perceive an amazing range of sounds, manage a sense of smell above all others . . . and more. Owl, bat, fierce iron-hided rhino . . . her instant ability to connect with the animals she encountered, to borrow from them, had outmatched any of the other Scoria before her. Her ability to connect with her fellow elders had created a level of communication the Scoria had never before experienced.

  Until Alleksa. Alleksa would certainly surpass her . . . Alleksa, if she gained wisdom to match her innate ability, would almost certainly lead the Scoria into a new era. All the elders spoke of it, having seen the signs in the gangly young woman. All the elders were determined to lead Alleksa to that wisdom.

  Galetia hadn’t yet decided if Alleksa herself had that same determination.

  Didn’t matter, not tonight. Tonight was for the celebration—the certainty of the younger’s survival. The Scoria filled the arena, lithe, immature bodies whirling fire pots on pilfered chains, dancing in a frenzy only the constant fear of annihilation could so freely bring to the surface. The crumbling arena held them in safety, hiding them . . . nurturing them.

  This old arena, long abandoned, held a deep warren of burrows beneath the stone structure of the steep seating rows. Half the oval arena lay destroyed by a long-ago mud slide. The other half had withstood the onslaught of mud and trees, and the debris piled high against the outer wall. Over the years the Scoria had extended their burrows through that architecture of trees and natural mortar; they’d dug deep into the hill, stealing stone bones from the crumbled arena to shore up their dwellings. They kept vigil on the hillsides, they ran a nursery as efficiently as any city nanny, and they made daring nighttime raids for supplies the rugged, spare surrounding hills and ridges couldn’t provide. They stayed hidden from city eyes, their outrunners and elders always alert.

  ’Ware!

  Denye’s voice came to her inner self, a voice she heard only within. An inner ear for which the citties feared her, feared them all.

  Dive? she asked him. To sound the dive would send the youngers scurrying for their burrows, dousing their lights and clearing the arena faster than any cittie could imagine. To sound the retreat would send them bolting for distant, ready caves—but they hoped never to make that run.

  Too late for dive.

  That shook her. Too late? Had someone managed to come so close unperceived?

  Only if they’d meant to. If they knew to stay concealed.

  That shook her more deeply yet, a hard fist clenching around her insides. After all this time, did someone suspect? Did someone hunt them?

  Can’t—

  Denye’s voice cut short, interrupted by another of the elders in a focused call that Galetia couldn’t hear. Didn’t matter. She understood. Denye wasn’t in a position to stop the intruder without giving them away—or worse, without killing the cittie.

  And that was the strongest of their rules. No killing the citties; no hurting them. Not even in self-defense. Those things would only draw attention to the arena.

  As something else already had.

  Galetia glanced down into the arena, taking an instant to open wide, both arms spread in reception, both hands opening and closing in unconscious hand flashing as she did what no cittie could ever do—that which made the Scoria pity them all, and never regret who they were. She drank in their joy, their exultation. Alleksa!! they shouted, as loud in their unspoken celebration as in their spoken.

  And then she whirled into the darkness, leaping familiar architecture with the surety of the hill goats, bounding cityside with the confident abandon of her otherness , knowing her face held the overlay of the changes and her eyes had gone huge and wild. She circled downwind of the crooked footpath that had once been a heavily traveled road and almost instantly picked up the scent—a single man. He wore an expensive scent overlain with dank, nervous sweat and he oiled his hair, and it was enough to tell her more than he’d ever suspect.

  Merchant. Thought much of himself. Had an important patron.

  And there was no good reason for him to be here. No good reason for anyone to be here—not on this road, not at this time of night. Not ever. He’d heard something; he’d guessed something. And he looked to impress his patron with information of unique importance.

  Galetia ran a parallel path uphill of the one the man traveled. None of the Scoria ever used it; they hoped for it to grow over. They kept idle explorers away, fostering the belief that the arena had become a nest of cabra dens—using the carefully relocated carcasses of actual cabra kills to do it. They developed a cabra team, those who could most influence the big cats and who practiced guiding them—herding them. Taking them to staked-out prey, until the cabras came to associate the herding with the pleasant coincidence of food, and resisted less and less.

  Only a fool would come out here at night. And a fool could be easily fooled.

  She eased in so close she could smell nothing else, could hear his rapid breathing, could even feel the warmth of his body radiating into the night, a body perfectly visible to her in the scant moonlight he used to navigate. “Rrrrrr-chk-chk-CHK!”

  Only one thing made that noise.

  The man gasped, freezing so abruptly he stumbled in his tracks.

  “Rrrrrr-chk-chk-CHK!” She brushed her hand through the dried grasses of autumn, a rustling so faint she wasn’t sure the man would even hear.

  He heard. The stink of his sweat increased; his breathing all but stopped.

  “Rrrrrr!”

  “Goddess!” he gasped, and turned on his heel, bolting back down the path in the moonlit darkness, even though running from a cabra only guaranteed that the cabra would leap to pursue.

  A real cabra.

  Galetia laughed into the darkness and bounded back to join the celebration.

  Alleksa did not noticeably crave wisdom.

  Made restless by the onset of the change, made wily with the new skills that came and went like the breaking of a young man’s voice, she slipped away from her outmatched vigil sitters to run in the hills, to sit along the ridges with the breeze lifting her thick ragged hair, to crawl through the interlaced branches of the north slope bittertree woods. She took her sling and brought back small game; she took bow and arrow and brought back a yearling deer. But she couldn’t slip Galetia off her trail. Galetia ghosted her, the only one whose skills ran nearly as deep as Alleksa’s would—but did not, not quite yet. Galetia tried to reach her mind, found it polished and impenetrable . . . kept trying anyway. And unseen, she followed Alleksa as the younger ran the ridges closer and closer to the city, gaining enough ground to look down into that crowded collection of homes and grand official buildings and the colorful awnings and brightly painted stalls of the marketplace.

  Galetia did not have to touch her mind to know her thoughts. Once the youngers had mastered the change, they became elders. And the elders were allowed into the city. There they
used their skills to steal much-needed supplies, took odd jobs to earn coin for the group, and learned the skills the citties knew. They learned to blend in . . . to pick up bits and pieces of information, sometimes even to hear when someone’s newborn had shown glimpses of otherness in those few precious hours before it subsided, hidden until the change.

  Then the Scoria knew to send someone to the hillside, to snatch the baby from the certain death that waited.

  All the Scoria obsessed about their first encounter with the city. With the citties themselves. And Alleksa, a girl raised with lessons of mistrust that had never quite taken, now driven by the changes, barely sane at that . . .

  Galetia caught her, once, on the verge of descending the hill to creep in the backside of the city. She stood at the edge of an outcrop, hidden by a sentinel of stone. Her features had gone fey with the change, her expression determined.

  And Galetia, atop that stone sentinel with Alleksa none the wiser, spoke sharply, with intent to startle. “Lose your change-phase halfway down, and you die. No plain old younger can make that slope. No cittie.”

  Startle Alleksa did, with those first few words. She leaped back into the darkest shadows of the rocks, looking for Galetia with a mix of guilt and insanity. “You!” she said. “You shouldn’t be able—no one should be able—”

  “Too true.” Galetia swung her legs over the side of the sentinel and leaped down, as light on her feet as the stealthy cabra she’d imitated only a few nights earlier. “Ought to say something to you, that.”

  Alleksa’s pretty face closed up in stubborn denial. Her lips, pouty baby lips, pursed. “Give me a few days,” she said. “You won’t be able to do it anymore.”