Tales of the Nameless World Sample

(Schooled in Magic Novellas)

Volume I

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall
https://mewe.com/page/5cd32005dc9f631c9973f058

Cover by Brad Fraunfelter

www.BFillustration.com

All Comments and Reviews Welcome!

Contents
Cover Blurb
A Note on Prior Publication
Introduction, By L. Jagi Lamplighter
Introduction, By Christopher G. Nuttall
Marah’s Tale

Cover Blurb

Five Schooled in Magic novellas, published together for the first time ..

The Nameless World is a place of magic and mystery, of kings and princes and magicians and merchants and rebels, fighting for supremacy or power or even just to carve out a place for themselves in a world of wonders and terrors, a world forever changed by a traveller from our world …

Meet a lonely young man desperate for power, unaware of its price and the shadow looming over him; a princess forced to choose between her father and her friends, a sorceress forced to infiltrate a school, a sorcerer forced to confront a threat to the entire world … and a young woman fleeing her family, who may have jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

(NOTE: Alassa’s Tale, Nanette’s Tale, Gennady’s Tale and Void’s Tale have all been previously published; Marah’s Tale is exclusive to this volume.)

A Note on Prior Publication

Alassa’s Tale – first published as a stand-alone novella by Twilight Times Books, 2018

Gennady’s Tale – first published in Fantastic Schools Volume I by Wisecraft Publishing, 2020

Nanette’s Tale - first published in Fantastic Schools Volume II by Wisecraft Publishing, 2020

Void’s Tale - first self-published as a stand-alone novella, 2021

Introduction, By L. Jagi Lamplighter 

The first time I ever heard of Christopher Nuttall, I was visiting a friend, and he began telling me about this fantasy series where the girl from earth took advantage of what she knew about our world to start introducing changes into the medieval style world in which she found herself. With a grin, he told me, “one of the first things she did was invent the bra.”

In retrospect, this was both a horrible and a wonderful introduction to the Nameless World. 
It was horribly inaccurate in that I came away with the impression of something far more feministic and risqué than the real Schooled In Magic, but it was wonderful because if you think of just how much more comfortable a whole half of humanity would be with that invention—that is exactly the kind of practical, thoughtful things make Emily’s adventures in the Nameless World so delightful.

Christopher Nuttall is a charming Scotsman who has also lived in Malaysia. He is an amazing writer who writes more quickly than any other author I know of, finishing entire novels in the time it takes other people to get started. And he does it in a number of genres at once. The Schooled In Magic series, taking place in the Nameless World is prolific, and yet it is only one of half a dozen series--some fantasy, some science fiction--that he amazingly keeps up with all at once.  

Goodreads reports that they have 206 of his books listed!

Yet despite all this output and success, he remains sincere and unassuming with a sincerity that shines through his work. He says that he got his start writing on Baen’s Bar, and he has not lost his respect for the fans who love the works they read so much they want to share in the creation of these universes, however humbly.

For those of you who have visited the Nameless World before, this volume holds delightful glimpses into the lives of some of the characters you have come to know and love—or hate--plus a few new ones. 

For those of you visiting for the first time, you are in for a treat! 

The Nameless World is part Harry Potter, part high fantasy, and part Westmark by Lloyd Alexander. Whitehall, the main school of magic we get to visit, is part Hogwarts and part nightmare—the kind of nightmare Nuttall knows first-hand really happens to children condemned to be locked away at boarding school. There’s magic, but there are also pecking orders set up by students with the aristocrats ordering around those of lesser status or lesser talent, with the faculty turning a blind eye to all but the most egregious violates. There’s sports, even magic sports, but also rigged games and cheating. And then there’s martial magic—which gives otherwise less advantaged students a fighting chance.

But not all of the stories take place at magic school. Some take place in the greater Nameless World, with its kingdoms and free cities. Some of it is courtiers and kings and intrigue so familiar from high fantasy, but, thanks to Emily’s innovations, there are also trains and guns and printed pamphlets and other elements that lead to rebel cells and revolution. In Alyssa’s Tale, we see some of both the high fantasy and the brewing revolutionists.

Then there are the necromancers, all of whom are mad, since that kind of magic breeds madness. But some of these terrible villains were not always madmen. In these tales, we see a glimpse of how one of them came to such a dreadful end.

And finally, there is Void, Emily’s enigmatic guardian whose true motives are often unclear. He, too, has a tale in this volume.

( I love Void. Not sure why. Partially, I think, because poor Emily had it so hard at first, it was such a pleasure to see someone show up who was on her side. And partially because, well, he’s cool. )

Christopher Nuttall is the co-editor, with myself, of the Fantastic Schools anthology series—collections of stories of wonder and magic, exploring the various aspects of enchanted education from magical middle school to sorcerous sports. He is the only author with a story in each anthology, exploring different aspects of magic school in the Nameless World and how the addition of magic gives a new spin to the pressures and traumas of everyday life. 
The Nameless World is full of wonder, adventure, loves won, and loves lost, monsters, demons, invisible “what were they anyway,” heroes, villains, cruel masters, and noble, caring instructors willing to give their lives for their charges. The stakes are often grim; the outcomes not always happy. 

And yet, there are folks like Emily, Alyssa, and their friends who don’t give up, don’t give in, and when they get knocked down, they climb back up.

In these modern times, we can use a little more realism in our fantasy—heroines who bring trains and printing presses and even bras, but even more, we can use the reminder that even when life is grim, there is reason to keep going.

Welcome to the Nameless World.

L. Jagi Lamplighter 

Introduction, By Christopher G. Nuttall

In this day and age, the challenge for any wizarding schools’ series is to set itself apart from Harry Potter. J.K. Rowling’s seven books have acquired such a dominance over the genre, and public perceptions, that books that date back well before Harry Potter (such as The Worst Witch, first published in 1974) are often accused of cashing in on the Harry Potter bandwagon. This is made worse by a number of novels that attempt to answer points raised by Rowling or to look at some of the aspects and implications of her universe that she chose to ignore. It is not easy for any book to follow the standard boarding school tropes without tripping over Harry Potter, particularly when their writers intend to craft their own universe instead of duplicating or answering Rowling’s work.

My solution to this challenge, when I first conceived the idea of Schooled in Magic, was twofold. First, a number of books would be set away from Whitehall School and force Emily to grapple with problems that had little or nothing to do with her education. Second, while Emily herself would always be the main character, the secondary characters would rotate in and out of the plot as the story - and their lives – demanded. Rowling had created a golden trio that remained strong, despite their ups and downs, throughout seven books. Emily would find her friends coming and going, forcing her to meet - and bond with - a succession of different people, with different motives and characterisations. This was, I felt, something largely lacking in Harry Potter: Harry doesn’t have many friends outside the core trio and isn’t typically particularly close to any of them, something that makes his life difficult as the story develops.

This had a downside, and that was that the secondary characters could go through a great many changes between leaving Emily’s life and returning. I had been able to keep a lid on this until The Princess in the Tower, in which there would be a jump between the status quo of Wedding Hells and the sudden awareness that Alassa was now imprisoned by her own father. It was too far a jump for me, and so I made the decision to write Alassa’s Tale, a novella that would recount what happened to Alassa in Zangaria while Emily was back at Whitehall. It was a surprising success, and it whetted my appetite for more.

It also made it easier to start thinking about other characters. Emily is a great character – in my not-so-humble opinion - but she does have her limitations. There are things she would not do - or could not. When the time came to write my first contribution for the first Fantastic Schools anthology - an ongoing series of various short stories set in different magic schools - I wrote Gennady’s Tale, both as backstory and also to explore something that could not be done with Emily (at least not without destroying the universe). This was followed rapidly by Nanette’s Tale, which laid down the background for Little Witches, and The Cunning Man’s Tale. The latter gave birth to an entire trilogy.

At that point, I had the bug. Frieda’s Tale took her back to her homeland, not something Emily could explore. Emily had no intention of starting a school newspaper, but the heroine of The Muckraker’s Tale did – and uncovered a cheating ring. Nor did she enjoy playing sports; the hero of The Sports Captain’s Tale, by contrast, enjoyed playing sports to the exclusion of all else. I also found myself writing a couple of short stories, filling in backstories I wish I had been able to touch upon in the mainstream novels. And two particularly important pieces of backstory were outlined, when the time was right, in Void’s Tale and Hasdrubal’s Tale.

This led to an interesting problem. The novellas were scattered. Alassa’s Tale and Void’s Tale were published individually; most of the remaining novellas were published in individual Fantastic Schools collections or my Chrishangers collection. My readers were asking me for collected editions, particularly printed editions, but that was difficult as long as they remained exclusive to various collections. It was not until recently that was able to gather together the first four novellas, pair them up with a fifth and exclusive novella, and publish them as a set. This is the collection in front of you.

I went back and forth deciding what else to include. I wanted it to be more than just a collection of previously published material (and one new novella). I decided, eventually, that I would include a little author’s commentary on the individual novellas, particularly the ones that were published without afterwords or anything else that might give you an idea of what I was thinking at the time. I hope you find them interesting. If not, feel free to skip <grin>.

There was some dispute, also, over the precise order of the novellas. Some people wanted them organised in chronological order, while others were not so concerned. I chose to put Marah’s Tale first, as it is the first new story, even though it takes place at roughly the same time as The Demon’s Design. The remaining stories have been laid down in chronological order. I hope this makes sense. If it doesn’t, well … sorry.

The Schooled in Magic series was born in 2012. It is now over a decade old, with twenty-five mainstream novels, six spin-off novels, and a number of novellas and short stories. I have many more stories to tell over the coming years, as Emily’s impact on the world sends events spinning out of control, each change leading to more and more as the world shifts again. I hope you will stick with me as I explore this world, and the people living within it.

If you enjoy this collection, please feel free to leave a review. If you like writing magic school stories yourself, please check out Fantastic Schools. We are always looking for new writers and we don’t mind if they have been writing for years or happen to be newcomers to the field.

Christopher G. Nuttall
Edinburgh, 2023

Marah’s Tale

Prologue

The man who called himself the Wild Fox and had crafted a legend of heroic deeds and derring-do, of brilliant raids on the aristocracy and taxmen that always ended with the noblemen and their mercenaries looking like fools while their ill-gotten gains were returned to their rightful owners, always wore his costume, even when every hand was turned against him and it would be prudent to blend in.  It was part of the legend, of a hero who stood tall and proud, daring the enemies of the common man to strike him down – and, in doing so, turn him into a martyr. The price on his head was unimaginably high, and the slightest mistake could bring him down, but the Wild Fox went on.  He could do no else.

It always amused Virgil Quintus Fabius that far too many people, including people old enough to know better, believed the myth. It would be folly, in the extreme, to show himself so openly. The aristocrats would not hesitate to do whatever it took to bring him down, from planting spies in the various revolutionary organisations to storming the entire district and arresting everyone they saw, even the ones who had nothing to do with the Levellers or him. He wore a simple suit and hat when he walked the streets, the kind of garb that might be worn by a lower-class commoner. It was not the sort of outfit that would draw attention. There were thousands of such people in Valetta, men with no money to pay for prostitutes or anything else they might find in the Coalsack, the seamy underbelly of Valetta. He kept his eyes open anyway as he walked. Valetta was a violent town and recent events had only made it worse. It was quite possible he would run into someone who wanted to put a knife between his ribs for fun.

Virgil smiled as he passed a pair of young aristocrats slumming it on the streets. The Coalsack had a bad reputation for shady doings and outright criminality, but that didn’t deter aristocrats from visiting. The Coalsack was a place where you could find anything, including potions and other pleasures forbidden even to the aristocracy. There were buildings that catered to the very darkest of tastes, isolated bedrooms offering pleasures so twisted and perverse that anyone who tasted them could never be trusted again. It wasn’t just pleasure, either. The Coalsack was a haven for everyone who opposed the monarchy, a hiding place kept secure by the king’s unwillingness to risk alienating his aristocrats. It was rare for the Royal Guard to enter the district. But the chance to catch the Wild Fox would be enough to bring them in.

His smile grew wider, and nastier, as he spotted the private guards following the aristocrats. It could not be an easy job, even without the pressure of visiting the Coalsack. They might be dressed as servants, rather than guards, but it was obvious they were nothing of the sort. The crowd gave them a wide berth, careful not to draw their attention. It was possible they might draw their swords first and ask questions later if they felt threatened. Getting out of the Coalsack afterwards would be difficult, if they drew blood, but they might think too clearly. They were clearly not paying enough attention to their surroundings. Virgil had no trouble spotting a little girl in boy’s clothing walk past the guards, picking their pockets as she moved. She was very good at her job. The guards didn’t notice anything - and wouldn’t, until it was too late. He made a mental note of her face, as a prospective recruit, then walked into the alleyway. The stench of too many humans in too close of a proximity was all around him, a smell that would deter the perfumed aristocrats. He did his best to ignore the people lying on the paving stones, drunk or drugged out of their minds or simply overwhelmed by despair. There was little hope for anyone who fell into the Coalsack. The pleasures came at a cost, one paid by the locals. The people in the alleyway would be dead soon. The Coalsack wouldn’t notice.

The door was unmarked, like most of the others. If you didn’t know what it was, you had no business there. Virgil knocked on the door, beating out a pattern, then turned the knob. Magic - a very low-power charm connected to something nastier - flickered around his fingertips as the door opened. The interior was a workshop, dominated by a handful of portable printing presses turning out the latest in revolutionary broadsheets. The apprentices – all female - barely looked up. Virgil nodded in approval. The printing shop was buried within the Coalsack, protected by street thugs and gangsters who could be relied upon to challenge anyone who entered their territory in force. The printers would have plenty of time to pack up and vanish if the Royal Guards came calling.

“Welcome,” a tart voice said. “This way.”

Virgil nodded and followed the older woman into the office. It had been difficult, once upon a time, to wrap his head around such a woman being part of the growing network of revolutionary organisations. She looked like a fishwife, or one of the merchant women who ran the store while her husband bargained for goods with his suppliers. Her face was scarred and pitted, her dress loose and anonymous - in its own way, as anonymous as his own outfit. She could let her dark hair down, change her outfit, and effectively vanish. By the time the Guardsman realised who and what she was, she’d be gone. Virgil had no idea why she had taken up the revolutionary trade, or what she had been called before she had abandoned her family name, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she had.

He felt a handful of protective wards snap into place as the older woman closed the door. “I take it your master’s last mission was successful?”

“Yes.” Virgil opened his bag to reveal four golden candlesticks. “You’ll have to melt them down, of course, but they are real gold.”

The women inspected the candlesticks as if she expected she’d be cheated. Trust was in short supply in the Coalsack. There was no such thing as honour amongst thieves. The Levellers claimed to be honest even when it worked against them, but very few people believed they truly were. The line between revolutionary and criminal activity was incredibly blurred. Virgil might tell the world that his theft had undermined the aristocracy, and funded the revolution, but not everyone would agree. He had seen quite a few revolutionary organisations fall all the way into outright criminality, preying on the people they claimed to fight for.

“They are real gold,” the woman said. Her tone didn’t change, though she was holding the money to feed an entire apartment block for weeks. “Your master did well.”

Virgil nodded, playing the servant. The woman was not supposed to know that he and the Wild Fox were one and the same. He had wondered, occasionally, if she had guessed the truth, but he had never bothered to ask. The servant was as much a facade as the masked avenger of the night, the righter of wrongs and fighter of evil. If he had to discard the persona, he would do so without a second thought. His business in the city could be carried on under another name.

The woman stared down at the candlesticks for long moment. “It seems almost a shame to melt them.”

“Do as you see fit,” Virgil advised. The candlesticks were quite recognisable. There was no way to hide the coat of arms, not without making it obvious what they were. If there wasn’t a description circulating already, with the promise of vast rewards for the man who found and returned them, he’d eat his hat. “My master just wants the funds to be used properly.”

“Indeed.” The woman sounded suspicious. Charity was rare in the Coalsack, even amongst the revolutionaries. But Virgil didn’t need money. He could get pretty much anything he wanted, through magic or mundane skills. “What else does he want?”

“An assistant,” Virgil said. He thought briefly of the young pickpocket, before dismissing the thought. She was skilled, but a life on streets would have given her a cynical attitude towards anyone who tried to reach out to her. She would always be looking for the ulterior motive and in this case she would be right. He needed someone a little less suspicious. “Someone young, with magic and without any local connections.”

The woman said nothing for a long moment. Virgil waited impatiently. The women straddled a number of revolutionary groups, from organisations quietly pressuring the monarchy to make a handful of limited reforms to groups planning outright violence, but most of the people she knew wouldn’t qualify. It was difficult for anyone to enter a group without someone vouching for them, if only to keep the secret police from infiltrating them. There were very few people isolated from the rest of the city. A recent immigrant would be ideal, if there was one. But they tended to come in groups.

“I may have a lead for you,” the women said, finally. “Someone with magic. But you will have to act fast.”

Virgil nodded. Patience had never come easily to him. It was always better to be doing something, anything, rather than sitting around and waiting to be attacked. He could wait for his plans to mature, if he had no other choice, but … he didn’t like it. If time wasn’t on his side … it was all the excuse he needed to act.

He smiled. “Tell me.”

Chapter One

Marah muttered a very unladylike word under her breath as she dug the shovel into the pile of coal, picked up a scoopful, and dumped it into the makeshift wagon. The air was cold but sweat soaked her clothes as she picked up a second scoopful and tossed it after the first. Her hands felt grimy and unpleasant, her outfit so badly stained with coal dust that she felt she would never be clean again. Every breath she took brought in a mouthful of dust, forcing her to cough and spit in a manner her mother would hate. She took a swig of water from her canteen, then forced herself to carry on. Her shift wasn’t over yet.

She kept her face a mask as a supervisor walked past. He was a middle-aged man, wearing clothes that made him look as if he were putting on airs, but he had the power of life and death over the young men and women working in the yard. A word from him could see her, or one of the others, tossed out with no hope of return. Her stepfather would be furious if she got fired and her mother … Marah sighed inwardly. It wasn’t as if their supervisor owned the yard, or the railway, or the coal pits on the far side of town. He was just lucky enough to have a job that let him boss people around. She let her gaze linger on the handful of girls who were eyeing him as a prospective husband, then rolled her eyes. The supervisor might take them away from the yard, but Marah doubted married life with him would be pleasant. And yet, the saddest thing about it was that the supervisor was probably the best catch in town.

The wagon filled slowly, right to the rim. Marah wiped sweat from her forehead as the locomotive - a wooden steam kettle that somehow moved along the tracks without being pulled or pushed by humans or horses - was connected to the wagon train, then sent down the railway to the distant city. She had thought it fascinating, the first time she’d seen it, but it had grown commonplace in the last few weeks. It was hard to keep her spirits up when she felt trapped in the town, rotating between the yard and her father’s house. There was nowhere else for a young woman. They had been promised a proper school, with a curriculum that covered everything from the basics to preparing students for apprenticeships, but it hadn’t materialised. Marah wasn’t surprised. The town council thought young men and women would be better served in going straight to work, rather than bettering themselves. If she had been a boy, she’d be in the coalpits right now.

She straightened as the supervisor blew his whistle, put down her shovel and made her way to the gates. It was the end of her shift. She couldn’t help dawdling, no matter how much she loathed the yard and the work she did there. Going back home meant encountering her beaten-down shell of a mother and her stepfather. She couldn’t decide if it was worse to find him at home, after his shift in the pits, or for him to come staggering home later, after drinking away most of his pay in the bar. He would be in a foul mood either way, but if he was drunk he might collapse before he had a chance to start shouting at or beating his children and stepchildren. Or his wife. Marah knew it wasn’t easy for a young, widowed mother even if there was no question over the legitimacy of her children, but she would never forgive her mother for marrying Garang. To call the man a brute was an insult to brutes.

The gates closed behind her. She forced herself to keep walking towards town, taking off her hat and allowing the wind to blow through her red hair. It felt dank, almost powdery, as if there was so much dust trapped within her hair that there was no way to wash it out, no matter how much time she spent in the communal baths. The rest of her leathery outfit, passed down through more wearers than she could count, was dirty and smelly, a grim reminder that she would probably never get out of this town. And yet …

She gritted her teeth until it hurt. She could feel the power and potential within her, something that had been part of her since her feminine cycles had begun. She had been tested for magic, and she had it, but her stepfather had refused to even consider allowing her to apply for a scholarship. He’d pointed out that Marah was nothing more than an uneducated common-born girl from a mining town, hardly the sort of person who would be granted money for nothing and refused to allow her to take the chance. Marah suspected he was afraid of what she would do with her magic if she learned more about it, but there was no way to prove it. Or to escape. He was her father, legally speaking, and if she ran away she’d be brought straight back to him.

Two more years, she told herself. She was sixteen. When she turned eighteen, she intended to follow the railway tracks to the city and vanish. Her stepfather might have a contract with the company, but she didn’t. She would have nothing keeping her here once she turned eighteen. Everyone knew the big city was full of pitfalls for a young woman, and the slightest mistake could get her killed, but it had to be better than staying here the rest of her life. Two more years and then I can get out of here.

The thought cheered her as she walked slowly into town. It was hard to believe that Lubbock was only five years old, founded when the demand for coal grew and grew to the point that anyone who owned a coalmine could be sure of making a vast profit. The town was a cluster of stone and wooden buildings arranged around a handful of administrative buildings, all so dirty they looked older than she was. She pretended not to see the line of young men waiting outside the knocking shop - she wasn’t supposed to know it existed - and turned away from the older men flowing into the nearest pub. They would be drunk off their asses soon enough, unless they ran out of money. It was unlikely. Alcohol was cheap, to keep the miners from thinking about how badly the company screwed them, and the innkeepers would often keep the booze flowing and put it on the drinker’s tab. Marah was no mathematician - she didn’t know her numbers and letters - but she didn’t have to be a genius to know the tab, and the debt, would keep rising until it was impossible to pay. It was just another trick to make sure the miners stayed put, working until they dropped.

A shiver ran down her spine as the wind shifted, blowing a cold gust of wind into her face. She tasted coal, a grim reminder that her brothers and stepbrothers were down in the pit, breathing that muck from the moment they walked into the tunnels until they returned to the surface. Mining wasn’t safe. A tunnel could collapse, or be filled with poisonous or explosive gas, or … she’d heard her stepfather coughing, most nights, as he expelled gunk from his lungs. The supervisors said it was perfectly safe, but Marah didn’t believe them. It was impossible to believe it was harmless.

“So,” a voice called. “What have we here?”

Marah glanced back, then swore under her breath. Jock and Geordie were thugs, the children of miners who had moved to the town in hope of a better life and discovered, like Marah’s stepfather, that the pit was a trap. They were already working in the mines … she realised, dully, that it must be their day off. The company gave its workers one day off a week, more out of practicality than compassion. She saw the bottle in Jock’s hand and scowled. Normally, they’ll be smart enough to leave her and other girls alone. But if they were drunk …

Jock held up the bottle. “Give us a kiss and we’ll give you a drink?”

Marah felt a hot flash of pure anger. She was many things, but she was no whore. She wasn’t one of the girls who went to work at the knocking shop, deluding themselves that they could leave one day and have a normal life. It was hard not to look down on a girl who sold her body to survive. Her mother, for all her flaws, had married again. She hadn’t sold herself to uncounted men.

She clenched her fists. She knew the type all too well. Showing weakness would invite attack. She could not turn away or run without being jumped. She was tired and worn, her body aching after hours in the yard. And even if she managed to outrun them, they would catch up with her later.

“No,” she said, bracing herself. They were too drunk to realise what they were doing. “Get lost.”

Jock pasted a smile on his face. “A kiss? Your mother gave me so much more.”

Marah blinked. “What?”

“Your mother opens her legs for everyone,” Jock said. Beside him, his friend nodded in agreement, even as he shifted into position to grab her if she tried to run. “Why doesn’t her daughter …?”

Marah charged at him and jabbed her fist into his chest. Jock staggered under the blow, giving her a moment to aim for his eyes before Geordie could try to intervene. He tumbled back, trying to bat her away with one hand; she landed on top of him, hands smashing into his face. Geordie grabbed her a second later, pulling her back; she slammed the back of her head into his nose and had the satisfaction of feeling it break an instant before he tightened his grip. Marah kept struggling, lifting her leg and bringing her boot down on his foot as hard as possible. Geordie yelped and almost let go of her. Marah pulled free and ran straight into Jock. He punched her in the chest, barely pulling his punch. Marah choked and bent over, gasping in pain. The two bastards were strong, whatever else they were. Marah was used to pain – she had felt her stepfather’s fists too many times to count - but this was different. Geordie gave her a shove and sent her sprawling to the ground. She kept struggling …

Jock hit the ground beside her, choking and vomiting. Marah blinked in surprise, then looked up to see her stepbrother confronting Geordie. The drunkard was sobering up rapidly. He had enough sense to turn and run, rather than try to fight. They had had enough trouble with Marah and Roth, her stepbrother, was stronger. And the rest of the family might be on their way.

Roth kicked Jock somewhere painful, then helped Marah to her feet. “You have to stop getting into fights,” he said. “Dad isn’t pleased.”

Marah scowled at him. Roth wasn’t bad, for a stepbrother. He at least tried to be friendly to his stepsiblings. It was hard to believe he’d been fathered by Garang, a man who resorted to violence at the slightest provocation. And yet … she brushed down her shirt, her chest aching. That had been too close. Her temper had gotten her in trouble again.

“He was raging about it earlier,” Roth added, as they made their way back home. “You’re in trouble.”

Marah gritted her teeth. Roth didn’t sound pleased …

“As long as he lets me recover first,” she said. She had never let her stepfather beat her into submission. Two years, she reminded herself. Two years … and then she could leave and never look back. “What was he saying?”

Roth didn’t answer as they entered their home. It was surprisingly large, compared to her old house, but hardly big enough for the combined family to have enough space. She caught sight of her mother, bent over the stove, working under the eagle eye of her mother-in-law. The older woman glanced at Marah and scowled, her eyes cold and hard. She had never liked Marah and the feeling was mutual. Marah glanced at her mother with a strange mixture of feelings. She loved her mother, and she wanted to help her, but the same time she could never forgive her mother for remarrying.

“Behave,” Roth told her. “You’re already in enough trouble.”

Marah sighed, washed her hands in the bucket, and started to help her mother clear the table for dinner. The mother-in-law watched her coldly, pointing out every last speck of dust in a manner that grated on Marah’s nerves. Marah wanted to tell her where to go, but she knew it would just get her in worse trouble. The hell of it was that the mother-in-law was hardly the worst mother-in-law in town. The women in Lubbock had spent so long being oppressed by their own mothers-in-law that they had no qualms about doing the same to their new daughters-in-law. Marah promised herself that she would never do that, if she became a mother and then a mother-in-law, but she couldn’t help wondering how many others had made the same promise. It wasn’t an easy one to keep.

The door opened. Garang stepped into the room, eyes flickering across the chamber until he saw Marah. He would have heard about the fight already, if she was any judge. No one had bothered to help, apart from Roth, but everyone would have spread the story and far and wide as they could. No doubt the story would have grown in the telling, with different versions spread by friends and enemies alike. Marah forced herself to straighten as he marched towards her. She couldn’t force herself to submit.

“I have had quite enough of you,” Garang said. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. She tried not to look at his fists. They were already clenched, ready for a beating. “You are the most rebellious little brat in town.”

“They wanted to rape me,” Marah snapped. She wasn’t sure if the two boys had wanted to go that far, but she wouldn’t have cared to bet against it. “I had to fight them!”

“She did,” Roth said. “Dad …”

Garang silenced him with a glare. Marah winced as Roth looked down. He was no coward, but he wasn’t going to fight his father. Marah didn’t blame him. If her father were still alive, she wouldn’t have wanted to fight him either.

“You led them on,” Garang accused. “And then you had the nerve to complain.”

“Of course she did,” Marah’s mother-in-law said. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Marah bit her lip to keep from screaming at the older woman. Garang was too close for comfort. He could crack her skull like an eggshell if he hit her in a drunken rage. Or worse. There was no law and order in Lubbock, save for the company’s guards, and they wouldn’t intervene in a domestic dispute. They wouldn’t care if Garang beat her and his entire family to death. She reached for the power inside her, hoping she could use it, but nothing happened.

“You think you are so much better than us,” Garang said. “You think you can look down your nose at us? You are an ungrateful little brat, and I have had enough of you.”

Marah’s mother whimpered. Ice ran down Marah’s spine. Her stepfather had made hundreds of bloodcurdling threats over the last two years, from marrying her off to a miner searching for a young wife to selling her to a knocking shop, but he had never carried the threats out. Now … she wondered, suddenly, if he had really had enough. She was not the ideal stepdaughter. And yet …

“I got you a good job,” Garang hissed. “But you threw it back in my face!”

“You took my wages,” Marah snapped back, her anger at losing the money she had rightfully earned overriding her common sense. Her supervisor had been told to give her pay packet to a stepfather and the bastard had agreed, without even consulting her. She had asked him to give her some of the wages separately, but apparently it was illegal. Or something. “They were mine to save, not for you to use to drink yourself to death!”

Garang turned purple. Marah braced herself for the blow. But instead, her stepfather calmed himself. It was so out of character that she half-expected it to lead to something worse. His lips twisted into an evil smile.

“I have had enough of dealing with you,” he said. “I decided to let someone else have a chance. I’ve sold you to the Traveller’s Inn as a servant. They need a new worker and I need to be rid of you. I’m sure you’ll do well there.”

Marah stared at him. “You did what?”

“I sold you,” Garang repeated. He clinked the money in his pocket. Marah had a feeling he had already spent half his gains on alcohol before staggering home. “Count your blessings. It could have been the knocking shop. It will be, if they send you back here. I’ve already had to pay off your supervisor.”

It was hard to remain upright. Marah had heard of children being sold into service, effectively being sent away for good, but she had never seen it done. Not until now. If Garang had spent the money, and negotiated with Marah’s supervisor, there been no way to undo the agreement. A shiver ran down her spine. She had always wondered if she would be discarded, but until now …

Garang leaned closer, breathing into her face. “This is your last night here,” he said. The stench was overpowering. “Go pack. We leave tomorrow at dawn.”

Marah nodded and hurried upstairs.  She had nothing, save for a handful of clothes passed down through the generations. There were few private possessions in the house and none of them were hers. She thought about asking for one, perhaps a memento of her late father, but she knew it wouldn’t be granted. Her stepfather had effectively disowned her. She was no longer one of the family.

Perhaps it is for the best, she thought. The Traveller’s Inn was quite some distance from Lubbock. She would have a chance to make a new life for herself. Perhaps …

But she feared, as she wrapped up what little she had, that it would be nothing of the sort.

Chapter Two

“This is where you’ll sleep,” Madame Rosemont said. She was incredibly fat, face bloated with ill living and stomach quivering like jelly as she spoke. The ice in her eyes, visible from the moment she’d first laid eyes on her new servant, boded poorly for the future. “There’s nowhere else.”

Marah sighed. Besides the dogs. How … classy. There was barely any room for one young girl and three large dogs. She put her tiny knapsack beside the blanket and pillow, then did her best to look attentive. Her stepfather had made it clear that she belonged to Madame Rosemont and if the older woman sent Marah back, Marah would regret it. The beating he’d given her in the morning had driven the point home. Madame Rosemont didn’t give her any time to get used to her new home. She led Marah on a tour of the Traveller’s Inn, pointing out the rooms, the kitchen, the toilets and everything else, then explained exactly what she wanted Marah to do. It seemed she had to do the work of four girls. Apparently, from the older woman’s grumbling, her servants kept leaving. Marah was sure she knew why and she had barely just begun.

“How nice to meet you,” Master Rosemount said, when they caught up with him. Marah would not have believed that he and Madame Rosemont were husband and wife if she hadn’t been told. He was a weaselly little man whose eyes rested on her chest too long for comfort, a man who gave the impression he would take you for everything you could get. If he had bothered to shake hands with her, Marah would have counted her fingers after he let go. “I hope you will be happy here.”

Marah tried not to shudder as Madame Rosemont gave her a broom, mop and bucket, and orders to have the entire floor swept and washed before she got anything to eat. She had had men staring her from the moment she hit puberty and she had never liked it, but Master Rosemount felt particularly unpleasant. She could hear him walk past the door as she worked on the floor, and felt his eyes passing over her rear before he hurried onwards. If his wife noticed, she didn’t care. Marah was a servant, nothing more. She was fed bread, cheese, and water, then taught how to change the beds and wash out the chamberpots. By the time the day came to an end, she was tired and aching and just wanted sleep. It wasn’t easy. The floor was uncomfortable, and the dogs kept waking her up.

The hell of it, she decided as the days went on, was that she would have enjoyed the job if it wasn’t for her mistress. The Traveller’s Inn was constantly busy, with guests checking in to spend the night in a comfortable bed, and she enjoyed listening to their stories of travels from one end of the kingdom to the other. She had never known much about the surrounding world, but she picked up enough to figure out where Lubbock was in relationship to Valetta – the capital - and the rest of the Allied Lands. The guests were rarely a problem, save for the ones who thought Marah was on the menu as well as everything else. She had to point those travellers to the nearest knocking shop and hope for the best. It didn’t help that Madame Rosemont lectured her for being unfriendly.

“I’m no slattern,” Marah protested. She didn’t have much dignity after spending three weeks working at the Traveller’s Inn - her mistress had told her she had to work off her stepfather’s debt before she got any wages - but she was determined not to surrender her maidenhead to any passing travellers, no matter how handsome or willing to pay. “I am not going to have sex with them!”

It was hard not to hate her mistress. Madame Rosemont expected her to work from dawn till dusk and beat her whenever she took a desperately needed break. She also took every tip Marah was given by the guests, telling her servant that the money was being put towards the debt. Marah rapidly learned to try to hide what money she could, although her mistress was very good at spotting tips and demanding the money. There was no chance to leave the Traveller’s Inn for a few hours, let alone go home for a day. The very idea was laughable. Madame Rosemont flatly refused to give her even a single hour to herself.

But if Madame Rosemont was bad, Master Rosemount was worse.

He did nothing to help his wife in the kitchen or behind the counter. Instead, he chatted with the guests, trying to convince them he was their friend even as he skinned them out of every last coin. Marah couldn’t believe his patter worked, but apparently Master Rosemount was successful. He had little trouble convincing guests to pay more for less, or to consider investing in one crackpot scheme or another, all while smiling so broadly any halfway sensible person would be suspicious. And he kept eyeing Marah. There were days, as she did her duties, that she felt his eyes leaving trails of slime all over her body, his smile grew wider as his gaze continuing to linger on her rear end. There was no point in complaining. Madame Rosemont didn’t give a damn. Hell, she might even be relieved her husband was eyeing the servant. It was better than having him eyeing her.

It didn’t get any better, even as Madame Rosemont let her work in the kitchen as well as everything else. Marah was no cook, and what little she knew was useless at the Traveller’s Inn. It was just another excuse for her mistress to berate her, all the while giving her the unpleasant or dirty jobs to do while she did the fun part. Marah peeled potatoes and chopped vegetables and everything else, without even the satisfaction of sharing the meal afterwards. Madame Rosemont had made it clear, more than once, that Marah would not be given anything until the debt was paid. And she had beaten Marah for daring to ask when the debt would finally be paid.

Her resentment grew, as the weather grew warmer. The guests spoke of revolutionary movements in the city, of serfs demanding freedom and land and factory workers insisting they should get a share of the profits, but Marah only wanted to be free. She had no idea how much Madame Rosemont had paid for her, or how much the woman had been paid in alcohol rather than money, and she was starting to suspect the debt would never be repaid. The company screwed its workers by charging interest on their debts, and insisting they did their shopping in company towns, and she feared Madame Rosemont was doing the same thing to her. Marah might be unable to pay the interest on the debt, let alone the debt itself. Was she going to remain a slave, de facto if not de jure, the rest of her life? Or was she going to be discarded the moment she could no longer work? She’d seen the beggars in the streets of Lubbock, men who had been wounded in mining accidents and kicked out of their homes … would that happen to her? She feared the worst.

The thought tormented her as she stood in front of the stove and stirred a cauldron of boiling oil. The fried chicken and potato chips were astonishingly popular, particularly when served straight from the stove, and Madame Rosemont was determined to impress the latest set of guests. Marah barely paid any attention to the bubbling mixture, or to the heat, as she tried to calculate just how long she had to serve her mistress before she could leave. It was impossible to figure out a definite answer. The wretched woman hadn’t told her anything useful. The only thing she had said was that a runaway debtor would be caught, beaten, and sold to the knocking shops. Marah hoped that wasn’t true, but she suspected otherwise. For she knew, her stepfather had sold her into permanent slavery.

She wiped the sweat from her brow as the kitchen grew hotter, then hastily picked up the wooden stirrer as she heard someone behind her. Madame Rosemont, probably. Her husband was still trying to charm the guests, convincing them to buy land he didn’t own or shares in an enterprise he didn’t run. Or something. Marah had no idea how he kept getting away with it. In her experience, a shopkeeper who conned his customers wouldn’t remain in business for very long. Their victims normally wanted revenge. If the law wouldn’t deal with the shopkeeper, they would take the law into their own hands.

“Well,” a voice said. A male voice. “There’s no one around but us.”

Marah tried not to flinch. Master Rosemount sounded happy, too happy. No doubt he had conned the guests out of a great deal of money, either by convincing them to take the upgraded rooms – they didn’t exist - or talking them into investing in one of his projects. She risked a glance behind her and saw his leer … and no sign of his wife. Her blood ran cold. She had done everything she could never be alone with the older man. It was a relief, almost, that Madame Rosemont locked her and the dogs in the basement after dark. And now he was right behind her …

“I have to finish the cooking before Madame Rosemont comes back,” Marah said. She doubted it would dissuade him. Master Rosemount and his wife did not have a very happy marriage, to the point they sometimes had shouting matches that lasted hours. She had no idea why Madame Rosemont hadn’t kicked the bum out long ago. “Please …”

She felt a hand on her bottom. Master Rosemount was touching her … he was going to force her to give him her body, her maidenhead, and no one would believe her if she told the world what he’d done. She knew how it worked. Master Rosemount was a pillar of the local community, while she was a servant, no better than she should be. Everyone would say she had led him on, willingly lifted her skirt and bent over for him … and then, afterwards, cried rape. Madame Rosemont wouldn’t take her side …  who would? She’d be lucky if she was only put in the pillory for a day or two. It was far more likely she’d be sold to the knocking shop.

His touch grew worse, crawling over her skirt and reaching between her legs. Her anger exploded. She grabbed the cauldron of oil, before she could think better of it, and tossed the boiling liquid into his face. Master Rosemount screamed and stumbled back, his face reddening and bruising as he hit the floor. Marah felt a surge of exultation as he twitched violently and lay still. She had been splashed with boiling oil more than once and she had had to pick herself up and keep going. Madame Rosemont hadn’t even bothered to give her any help. Master Rosemount clearly wasn’t as tough as his wife.

The door swung open. Madame Rosemont burst into the room and skidded to a halt as she saw the scene in front of her. Marah thought - insanely - that she was going to get the beating of a lifetime for injuring, perhaps killing, Madame Rosemont’s husband, then she lifted the cauldron and threw it straight at her mistress. Madame Rosemont opened her mouth, too late. The cauldron struck her with immense force. She toppled back and banged her head against the stone floor. She had no time to cry out before she was unconscious.

Marah stumbled away from the stove, picking her path carefully. The oil was still steaming - and it was getting everywhere. Her mind spun. Her mistress was a pillar of the community. Attacking her was a serious crime … particularly if Marah had yet to repay her stepfather’s debt. It was possible she had killed them both. She took a breath and tasted the stench of burnt flesh, the stench clogging her nostrils. If Master Rosemount wasn’t dead – she couldn’t bring herself to check - he might live to regret it. His face was badly burned and she didn’t want to know what the oil had done to his lower body. She had seen some horrific sights, after accidents in the pits, but this …

Panic shot through her. There were guests on the far side of the counter. They weren’t supposed to come into the kitchen, but if they’d heard the screams … she darted forward and grabbed Madame Rosemont’s pouch and keys, then hurried out of the room and locked the door behind her. It wouldn’t slow anyone down long, if they knocked down the door, but it might buy her a few extra minutes. She hurried into their bedroom - it was the height of luxury, compared to the basement - and stole the cash box, emptying the handful of coins into the pouch before changing clothes and heading to the rear door. She had no idea if the guests had noticed anything - personally, she rather thought they’d be glad to be left alone - but there was no more time. She bound her hair under a scarf, then hurried into the bright sunlight. She didn’t look back as she made her way down the road towards the city, forcing herself to walk normally.

At least I look like a young boy, Marah told herself. Master Rosemount’s clothes were ill-fitting, to say the least, but it wasn’t uncommon for young men to wear outfits passed down from their fathers and grandfathers. The baggy shirt was loose enough to conceal her breasts, without making it obvious. They’ll be looking for a girl.

The thought tormented her as she made her way towards the city. The guests had told her the city was big enough to hide anyone, including runaway serfs and miners. Marah hadn’t gone anywhere near the city, when her stepfather had signed up with the company and migrated to Lubbock, but there was nowhere else. At least, nowhere she knew about … she let herself hope, just for moment, that she could find a magician willing to take on as an apprentice. It was a pleasant thought, but nothing more than wishful thinking. Her stepfather had pointed out, brutally, that a young girl who had nothing to offer, apart from her body, was not going to get into a magic school. Or an apprenticeship. Or anything … her lips twisted in dark amusement. There was no way home. It would be the first place searchers would look … and there would be searchers. Madame Rosemont could bear a grudge.

She kept walking, trying to look like just another young man in search of fortune. The road was surprisingly busy. There were dozens, hundreds, of young men making their way to the city, constantly passed by farming wagons and coaches belonging to the local aristocracy. Marah caught a glimpse of a young woman riding on horseback, her long blonde hair flowing free as she galloped past and into the distance. It was hard not to feel envy for the aristocratic woman. She had a degree of freedom that Marah, and her peers, couldn’t hope to match. It was unfair. That woman had been born into a family of wealth and power. She didn’t have to do a day’s work, let alone struggle desperately every single day to keep herself above water. No doubt she didn’t have to fear her stepfather’s fists, nor that he would sell her into slavery. And Marah had worked for weeks without making any money for herself.

Her lips twitched as a golden carriage rumbled by. She had no idea if it was made of real gold, or if it had merely been painted that colour, but it showed more wealth than she’d ever seen before. The crest of arms on the side passed too quickly for her to make out the details, yet it was still proof the carriage belonged to the aristocracy. The injustice burnt at her as she was forced to jump into the ditch to avoid a second carriage, followed by a number of men on horseback. They were brushing the commoners aside as if they didn’t matter. But then, the commoners probably didn’t matter. Marah had no illusions. If her stepfather had been injured in the pits and left a cripple, the company would have a replacement in the mines before the news even reached his family.

And if he had been left a cripple, she thought darkly, what would we have done with him?

Marah smiled, coldly. The man had kept his family in line with his fists. If he could no longer beat his wife, children, and stepchildren at will, what would he do? She suspected her mother might try to take care of him - she was too beaten down to do otherwise - but everyone else would likely abandon him. Even his real children feared him. And if that fear was suddenly gone …

She risked a look behind. There was no sign of pursuit. She found it hard to believe the guests hadn’t discovered the bodies by now. There had been some guests who’d had no qualms about knocking on doors, when service wasn’t instantaneous; they had even gone into the kitchen to demand service. If her former mistress was dead, the bodies would be found sooner or later. Her lips quirked. Perhaps Master and Madame Rosemont had never been as popular as they claimed. Or perhaps the searchers had just gone in the wrong direction. Who knew?

Shaking her head, she forced herself to keep walking towards the city.