Unbound
UNBOUND
Tales by Masters of Fantasy
EDITED BY
Shawn Speakman
Grim Oak Press
Seattle
Unbound is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations,
and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the
authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
UNBOUND
Copyright © 2015 by Shawn Speakman.
All rights reserved.
“Madwalls” by Rachel Caine. © 2015 by Rachel Caine.
“Stories Are Gods” by Peter Orullian. © 2014 by Peter Orullian.
“River and Echo” by John Marco. © 2015 by John Marco.
“A Dichotomy of Paradigms” by Mary Robinette Kowal. © 2015 by Mary Robinette Kowal.
“Son of Crimea” by Jason M. Hough. © 2015 by Jason M. Hough.
“An Unfortunate Influx of Filipians” by Terry Brooks. © 2015 by Terry Brooks.
“The Way into Oblivion” by Harry Connolly. © 2015 by Harry Connolly.
“Uncharming” by Delilah S. Dawson. © 2014 by D.S. Dawson.
“A Good Name” by Mark Lawrence. © 2014 by Mark Lawrence.
“All in a Night’s Work” by David Anthony Durham. © 2015 by David Anthony Durham.
“Seven Tongues” by Tim Marquitz. © 2015 by Tim Marquitz.
“Fiber” by Seanan McGuire. © 2015 by Seanan McGuire.
“The Hall of the Diamond Queen” by Anthony Ryan. © 2015 by Anthony Ryan.
“The Farmboy Prince” by Brian Staveley. © 2015 by Brian Staveley.
“Heart’s Desire” by Kat Richardson. © 2014 by Kat Richardson.
“The Game” by Michael J. Sullivan. © 2015 by Michael J. Sullivan.
“The Ethical Heresy” by Sam Sykes. © 2015 by Sam Sykes.
“Small Kindnesses” by Joe Abercrombie. © 2015 by Joe Abercrombie.
“The Rat” by Mazarkis Williams. © 2015 by Mazarkis Williams.
“The Siege of Tilpur” by Brian McClellan. © 2015 by Brian McClellan.
“Mr. Island” by Kristen Britain. © 2015 by Kristen Britain.
“Jury Duty” by Jim Butcher. © 2015 by Jim Butcher.
“The Dead’s Revenant” by Shawn Speakman. © 2014 by Shawn Speakman.
All rights reserved.
Dust jacket artwork by Todd Lockwood.
Interior artwork by Stacie Pitt.
Book design and composition by Rachelle Longé McGhee.
Signed, Limited Edition ISBN 978-1-944145-00-2
Trade Hardcover Edition ISBN 978-0-9847136-9-1
eBook ISBN 978-1-944145-01-9
First Edition, December 2015
2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1
Grim Oak Press
PO Box 45173
Seattle, WA 98145
www.grimoakpress.com
For those who enter the realms of imagination
And who find it hard to leave
“I propose to speak about fairy-stories, though
I am aware that this is a rash adventure.”
—J.R.R. Tolkien
“I’m staying here to read: life’s too short.”
—Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Contents
Introduction: A Geek Trying to Do Good
Madwalls by Rachel Caine ■
Stories Are Gods by Peter Orullian ■
River and Echo by John Marco ■
A Dichotomy of Paradigms by Mary Robinette Kowal ■
Son of Crimea by Jason M. Hough ■
An Unfortunate Influx of Filipians by Terry Brooks ■
The Way into Oblivion by Harry Connolly ■
Uncharming by Delilah S. Dawson ■
A Good Name by Mark Lawrence ■
All in a Night’s Work by David Anthony Durham ■
Seven Tongues by Tim Marquitz ■
Fiber by Seanan McGuire ■
The Hall of the Diamond Queen by Anthony Ryan ■
The Farmboy Prince by Brian Staveley ■
Heart’s Desire by Kat Richardson ■
The Game by Michael J. Sullivan ■
The Ethical Heresy by Sam Sykes ■
Small Kindnesses by Joe Abercrombie ■
The Rat by Mazarkis Williams ■
The Siege of Tilpur by Brian McClellan ■
Mr. Island by Kristen Britain ■
Jury Duty by Jim Butcher ■
The Dead’s Revenant by Shawn Speakman ■
Introduction:
A GEEK TRYING TO DO GOOD
When I published Unfettered , I had one goal in mind: end the outrageous medical debt that had accumulated from treating my Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
I did not do this alone. Two dozen of my friends came to my aid, donating short stories and artwork to produce Unfettered , a genre anthology featuring short stories by some of the finest writers working today. It sold unbelievably well and helped introduce many readers to new authors they otherwise would not have tried.
Once all the bills were settled and I was healthy again, I had a serious question to answer, though.
Should I continue Grim Oak Press?
The answer did not come to me immediately. I started the press to take care of my medical debt. We succeeded with that. Originally, I had no desire to continue it afterward. Owning a publishing house is hard work—quite possibly the hardest job in the entire industry—and I didn’t want to see that work overshadow my own writing goals.
But upon reflection, I decided not using the platform that Unfettered created would be irresponsible. As Patrick Rothfuss is fond of saying, it is imperative—if nothing else—to make the world a better place than when we entered it. I fully believe that. And with Grim Oak Press, I think I can do that very thing.
Unbound is the beginning of an answer to my question. It is another unique anthology similar in scope to Unfettered . It features talented authors doing what they do best, and every one of them exceeded my expectations. And just like the first anthology, Unbound has no theme; the contributors were allowed to submit any genre tale they desired.
The result? An amazing collection. Unbound is sure to keep you reading when you open it right from the first, the stories as diverse as they are extraordinary. Jim Butcher sends Harry Dresden to jury duty. Rachel Caine creates mad walls in the Citadel. Terry Brooks revisits Landover, where Ben Holiday must deal with the worst threat ever—G’home Gnomes! Mary Robinette Kowal visits the stars with a reluctant painter. Mark Lawrence returns to his Broken Empire setting to reveal a Brother’s name. And so many more stories. I enjoyed every tale in Unbound . I think you will too.
I published The Dark Thorn to learn how to publish Unfettered . Unbound in turn will give me the leverage and resources to publish Unfettered II , with all proceeds of that anthology going to alleviate medical debt for authors and artists who find themselves in the same situation I was in. This is the way I can pay forward the aid I received; this is the way I can do my part to begin making the world a better place.
I hope you enjoy Unbound . I hope you review it and share it with your friends and family.
It is the beginning of something far greater than myself.
Happy reading!
Shawn Speakman
Publisher, Grim Oak Press
October 2015
Madwalls
Rachel Caine
On her sixteenth birthday, Samarjit Cole was taken to the Citadel to meet the captive. She wasn't expected to start her turn of duty yet, but it was necessary, her father said, to see it for herself, and to know what she would be facing when she did take up the role of Watcher.
"Did you read everything?" he asked her in the car on the way there. She pulled her long black hair back behind her ears and made a sound that could have gone ei
ther way. She'd read it. Twice. She just didn't like being questioned. "Because, I can't stress this enough, he'll play with your mind. You have to be prepared. You have to know the rules backwards and forwards. It's important, Sammy."
She sighed. "I know."
"What are you doing?"
She didn't look up from her tablet. "Explaining to my friends why I'm being dragged off for the whole weekend."
"Sammy—"
"I'm not telling them the truth, Dad. God. I'm not stupid." She sounded sullen and bitter, but she didn't feel that way. It was just a cover, because Sammy Cole was scared. Scared to the point that her fingertips were cold and clumsy when she tried to type out messages, and she finally gave it up and clicked off.
Being offline felt like being naked. Alone. She turned her head out toward the world, away from her father, because she knew he might figure out how she felt. "Where are we?"
He glanced over at her. Her father was a large man, imposing even in regular clothes, but today he wore a full dark-blue chola instead of his usual casual clothes, and a dastar turban to match, which was really not his usual style. The chola was reserved for special occasions. His long beard reached to the lower part of the steering wheel, and it was still mostly dark, with a few gray streaks in it. As always, Samarjit felt a conflicted surge inside when she looked at him; she loved her father, knew him for a good and kind and upright man, but she also wished . . . wished he wasn't so practicing. Her mother, Marta, was German and hardly ever thought about her Protestant church upbringing. It was her dad's calm, quiet, everyday faith that had driven them apart, or at least that was how Marta told it.
Sammy's father didn't say much about it at all. He said nothing but kind words about her mom, and although she knew he wished his daughter would embrace the Sikh faith and wear the bana, she couldn't see herself doing it. She respected him for following his own principles, though. In these times, when it seemed like having skin anything but the color of bleached porcelain prequalified you as terrorist, being a practicing Sikh was even harder than before.
"We're almost there," he told her. She turned the radio on but it hissed static all the way through the signal search, and she switched it off in frustration. Her dad had made her leave her headphones, which sucked, but he said it was important to listen. What she was listening to, other than him, she had no idea. "You'll leave your tablet in the car, along with your phone. No electronics of any kind inside the Citadel. Don't forget that."
"You've told me a million times. I know."
He reached out a hand and put it palm up on the velour seat between them. "I'm proud of you, Sammy. You know that, don't you?"
"I know," she said, and as the car rounded a vast, tight corner of the road, the trees broke apart on the stone of the mountain, and she found herself gripping his hand in sudden, electric fear.
The Citadel.
Surrounded by a no-man's-land of three separate fences, with nothing growing between them, the building was an enormous, lightless block rising far higher than she'd ever expected. It was real. Real. And suddenly, the weight of what she was expected to do hit her in ways that she had never understood. She clutched her tablet in her right hand, still holding onto her dad with the other, and had a wild impulse to take a photo of this place and send it to her friends. She knew she couldn't do that. Couldn't tell them where she was going, or why.
Because the world out there, down the mountain . . . the world couldn't know.
Chatar Singh stopped at the first of the gates and typed in a long string of code numbers at a keypad. The process repeated, with different numbers, at the next gate. The third required a retinal scan as well as a new code. "Once you begin, you'll receive your personal entrance codes when your duty period begins," he told Sammy. "You'll be expected to memorize them. They change every month, and you can't cheat and put them in your phone."
"Okay." Her voice was small now as the last gate cranked open. There were armed guards patrolling this last fence, in plain black uniforms with no insignia on them. No flag emblems. Her dad parked the Nissan in the lot off to the left; there were about thirty cars and trucks, all civilian models. "How long has this place been here?"
"Not long. Less than fifty years. But the Citadel . . ." He hesitated for a few seconds, then shrugged. "It isn't a place, exactly. More of an entrance to the place. You'll see."
She didn't want to let go of her dad's hand, but she knew she had to. He'd expect her to be courageous. He always had. "Before we go in there, I have to ask you something," she said. "You're not going to like it. But I—need to know."
"All right."
"Did you and Mom ever really love each other?"
It surprised him, and he stopped unbuckling his seatbelt to turn to stare at her. "Of course! Your mother and I were very much in love. Our marriage was as it should have been: one spirit, two bodies. Why would you think . . . ?" He caught himself and shook his head. "Because of our divorce. Why wouldn't you?"
"Well, it is kind of a clue something went wrong. What? Because she won't tell me. Was it me?" She'd always believed that, in some vague, undefined way.
"No. Of course not." He was silent for a few seconds, and she saw the discomfort in the set of his mouth, the way he focused away from her. "She saw something that shook her faith. Made her doubt—everything. And she retreated. I couldn't hold her. I still love your mother, but we have to be separate now. It's better for her that way."
"Was it because of this place? Did she come here with you?"
"Once." He cleared his throat, as if it had suddenly started to pain him. "Did she tell you that?"
"No, I just sort of figured it out. It's why you told me not to tell her. Right? She wouldn't want me to come here. She wouldn't let you bring me if she knew."
"Yes. That's true. Your mother wants to protect you."
"And what do you want?"
He didn't answer. He let go of her and unfastened his restraint and was out of the car before she could draw breath to ask anything else.
There wasn't much choice. She couldn't cower in here like a child. Sammy popped the door and got out, remembering to lay her phone and tablet on the car seat at the last minute. No electronics. It felt weird.
Her father, standing, topped her by almost a foot, and she was not a small young woman; she liked sports, and exercise, and she had long legs built for running. Today, she wore jeans and a simple bright-blue top; she hadn't intended the color to match her dad's chola, but it almost did. She didn't wear the scarf anymore, though she had for a while. She'd gotten too much hassle for it in school, and since she wasn't a fully practicing Sikh anymore, it didn't seem worth it.
She knew he was disappointed by that and didn't know quite how to explain to him how sorry she was. But at the same time, not soked. It seemed impossible. Terrifying, in a way. "He did all of this? How long has he been here?"
"In the Citadel?" Her father shrugged. "For as long as I can remember. But the Citadel is not always where we entered. He's here. Just not always there."
That didn't make sense. None of this made sense.
The hissing of chalk was louder here, and her father slowed and pulled her closer. "Sammy. I talk, you don't. If he tries to speak to you, don't answer. Understand?"
"I understand." She didn't, but she would try.
He kissed her on the forehead and embraced her, and she realized that he was scared . . . not for himself. For her. "I love you," he said. "And I know you are brave. Now come."
It hit her how much she'd missed him, suddenly, and it was because of the scent of clean sandalwood and lemon and faint, masculine sweat. It unlocked so many memories of being a little girl, carried in strong arms, of playing in the sun, of love and joy. She melted into his arms and found herself on the verge of tears, suddenly, but then she remembered that she wasn't a little girl, and this wasn't a reunion.
She pulled back and made herself strong again.
"Remember," he said, "he isn't what he seems to be. E
ver. You can't trust what you see."
She'd asked her father many times about the captive, but he had never answered her. The book he'd had her read hadn't cast much light on the mystery, either, and as they turned the corner, she knew why. After one long, unblinking stare, Sammy averted her gaze from the man kneeling in front of the wall. Her heart lurched, then pounded in a frenzied rhythm, and she felt hot, as if she'd stood in the full glare of the sun for too long. It wasn't that he glowed; he was just a man, on his knees in the corner, painstakingly chalking tiny words on a wall. A young man, beautiful, with skin the color of old bronze, and hair of silky black, cut loose around his face. He hadn't turned to face her.
She wasn't sure she could bear it if he did.
Her father had stopped with one hand on his kirpan. When she looked at him, she saw that he was staring at a spot in the middle distance, not focusing on the captive at all. It helped, when she tried it. She could see the outlines of the man, but not the detail. He could have been anyone.
That didn't slow her heartbeat, or calm her irrational terror.
"Salve, honored sir," her father said, in a quiet, calm voice. "How are you today?"
"I am well, Chatar," the man said. "And who is this lovely creature you bring today?" He had not turned, nor stopped his delicate, constant writing, even though the chalk was worn down to a thin sliver held tight in his fingers. He wore a loose white robe and his feet were bare.
He had called her lovely.
"I present my daughter Samarjit. We call her Sammy, for short."
"Samarjit," the man repeated, and in his mouth, it was glorious music. "It means one who wins the war. Did you know that, Sammy?" Except for how he said her name, he had no accent at all, to her ears, which meant he had an American accent like a newscaster's, from somewhere in the Midwest like Kansas or Iowa or Indiana. "When I was last in the world, it was still a name only for boys. I see that situation has improved."
She started to answer, because he was speaking to her, to her, but her father's touch on her arm reminded her better. She kept silent, and her dad said, "My daughter is true to her name. You may count on that."