Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

He started at the bow, peering through the nets and checking the crates for stamps and seals. All were as they should be, and of course he knew that. He moved slowly back to a pile of barrels staked down, containing figs, tea, and spices. Past the mast and the bundles of sail lashed to the spar.

Father said, “I don’t wish to rush you, but we have five ships and tide to keep. We’ve always dealt in good faith.”

“I’ll just work my way back and be done, then,” the official said, with a false frown.

“Be quick about it. I feel sorry for the Amar, but I have my own dramas, and I don’t share mine with the help.”

Was Father trying to cause the man to search in detail? That comment flustered him, and he checked a barrel’s number very carefully.

“You might want to check under that tarp. It’s a prime place to stash an escaped servant girl. I don’t find my own daughter enough trouble, so I try to pick one up in every port.”

Clutching his tally board, the man strode forward again in a careful, dignified fashion, swung over into his boat, and indicated to the rowers to leave.

He turned back, looked at Father and said, “Thank you for your help.”

“You are most welcome. I hope the Amar finds this girl and that she hasn’t fallen among those who would shame her or him. I cherish his hospitality and trade.”

“I will tell him,” the official said, beckoning the guard to join him as he sat down on a thwart. “Good travels to you, and a blessing.”

“A blessing on you, and the Amar, and your king,” Father said.

As they rowed away, he turned and ordered, “Pick up the speed. We’re not earning money to row like a holiday ship.” He seemed quite relaxed and good natured.

Riga wanted to run back and check under the tarp. She knew Jesrin was alive, though, and silence was a good thing. It might be night before she could come out. It might even be five days and port before she admitted the girl’s presence. She had silly notions of sneaking her ashore with a few coins somewhere she could find good work, though she knew the girl, like any injured creature, would need support for a bit.

She stood her post, and helped tighten the sail as they gained room to maneuver, and the five ships spread into a longer line for travel.

They cleared the headland and entered open ocean, the deeper swells swaying Sea Fox, twisting and torquing her. She was designed for that, though, and surged across the waves.

Father came past, checking the rigging. “How’s the servant girl?” he asked quite casually.

Riga knew better than to lie. “Alive and quiet,” she said at once.

“This is the same servant girl we discussed, I assume.”

“Yes, she is. Jesrin. Badly bruised in body and spirit.”

“Damn it, Daughter, this is worse than an injured goose. You can’t save every helpless creature in the world! Especially at a risk of war.”

“Of course not,” she said.

Then she smiled at him, a challenging smile that would yield a flogging in Mirr, and perhaps start a duel in Kossaki lands. It was the smile of a merchant and warrior among her peers.

“But I can save this one.”

Defending the Heart

By Kate Paulk

Kate Paulk pretends to be a mild mannered software quality analyst by day and allows her true evil author nature through for the short time between finishing with the day job and falling over. She lives in semirural Pennsylvania with her husband, two bossy cats, and her imagination. The last is the hardest to live with. Her latest short story sale, “Night Shifted,” is in DAW’s anthology,

Better Off Undead

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“What are you doing to That Damn Kitten?” Jem asked from under the tree, his voice laced with laughter.

Ree lay stretched out on a tree branch almost too small to support his weight. With his toe claws dug in, he stretched his hand as far as he could toward a kitten maybe ten weeks old who, in the way of his kind, kept just out of reach and fluffed its white and gray fur into a big dandelion puff while emitting ceaseless, plangent meows.

Because Ree was a hobgoblin, changed in the magic storms into something with cat claws, cat eyes, and the brown fur and tail of a rat, he heard the kitten’s cries in a range humans couldn’t hear. Besides, the kitten’s mother, That Other Damn Cat, had been adding her own increased-range pleas to Ree to save her baby.

Damn kitten. Ree stretched his hand to the cowering furball, who, of course, retreated farther out of the way. There was only so far Ree could stretch and he’d be cursed if he was going any further on the frail end of the branch. He tried to make the peculiar chirping sound That Other Damn Cat used to call her kittens.

Beneath the tree, Jem laughed. He’d grown a lot over the last year—was now the height of a man and had blond fuzz on his upper lip. His voice was changing, too, to adult man ranges. Just thinking about it made Ree’s heart turn in him.