Preface
Up and Coming was a massive undertaking in a very short time, and we’d like to thank the following people for their help in making it happen:
Bill Katz and David Walton at Writertopia for their incredible support—without them this anthology never could have existed,
Holly Heisey, for the brilliant cover design,
Effie Seiberg, for the smashing title,
Wendy Nikel, Liz Colter, Laura Pearlman, Naru Sundar, Emma Osborne, Effie Seiberg, Sylvia Spruck Wrigley, Stewart C Baker, Nancy SM Waldman, and L.S. Johnson for their assistance, in-depth device compatibility checks, and proofing,
M. David Blake for being the one who originated the tradition of an anthology of Campbell-eligible authors in the first place,
and finally, all the people—far too many to list—who signal-boosted the project or gave us feedback, suggestions, and encouragement along the way.
This anthology was truly a community effort. Many of the above names are Campbell-eligible authors themselves who have work in this anthology—the 2016 group of eligible writers is filled with enthusiastic and generous people.
Lastly, because of the vastness of the project, we’d like to note that the anthology was formatted primarily through automated processes. We’ve made every effort to render every piece correctly and aesthetically, but if you see the odd formatting hiccup, please don’t hold it against the author or the original publisher.
We hope you enjoy wandering the pages of Up and Coming, and if you are so inclined, we encourage you to nominate and vote for the 2016 Campbell Award.
– SL Huang and Kurt Hunt, curators for Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors
Charlotte Ashley
La Héron
“La Héron” originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Mar/Apr 2015.
IN THE GRAYEST HOUR OF the evening of April 16th, 1699, when the sun had just vanished behind the great château that embraced the city of Caen but before her lantern-bearers had taken up the hooks of their trade, a gargantuan woman stooped to fit through the door of the Trois Tours Inn. Her inconvenience did not end at the door. Her steeple-crown hat, two centuries out of fashion, bumped the inn’s rafters and fell askew, causing her to swear and slouch as she made her way toward the crowd clustered at the foot of the stairs. Like the other travelers there, she was road-worn and unkempt, blond hair so filthy that it looked green in the moonlight, spilling like seaweed out of her pointed cap. But so great was the force of her presence that the lesser persons ahead of her moved aside at her approach, clearing the path to the front of the queue where a registrar sat at a table, poised over a long ledger. His pen shook as it hovered over the lists.
“Name?”
“La Héron.”
“Weapon?”
“Rapier.”
“Purse?”
La Héron stepped forward and placed a small stack of coins on the book, which the registrar smartly swept into the lockbox.
“And who will be acting as your second?”
“No one.” La Héron folded her long arms over her chest. “I will negotiate my own bouts.”
“Oh, no,” the registrar said, looking up. “Oh, no no no. You must have a second. The rules clearly stipulate that—”
A distant horn blast interrupted his complaint, a piercing wolf tone that set every brass bowl in the inn ringing. La Héron glanced at the window and frowned.
“A hunt? At this hour?” she asked. “It’s nearly midnight!”
The registrar did not reply. He was frozen in place, only the jelly of his yellowed eyes trembling.
“Monsieur?” La Héron asked him. “Are we finished?”
“Herlechin,” the man whispered. “Damn him.”
“I beg your pardon, monsieur, but if you are finished with me, I’d like my sash and token.”
“What?” The registrar’s wide eyes flickered back to her, focusing again. He turned red and looked at the tournament lists again. “Ah, your second?”
La Héron scowled. The registrar drooped and ran a hand over his now-damp face. After a moment’s thought, he withdrew a blank slip of paper from the ledger and started writing.
“Very well. Go and see Monsieur Chuinard at this address. He can escort you to the Abbaye aux Dames. The hour is late, but the gendarme will help you find an assistant.”
“At the convent?”
The registrar held up a tired hand. “Every man-at-arms in town is already enlisted, madame. You are in no position to be particular. I suggest you call on him immediately.”
La Héron snatched the note and left, ducking through the door. She had not passed ten paces when a galloping ruckus preceded a party of costumed riders bearing down the tight streets of Caen at full speed. She stepped into the shadows of a tannery to let them pass, eyeing them suspiciously. The lead rider was a man dressed head to toe in shiny red leather with a sword on either hip and a grotesque black mask like the face of the devil. He tipped his hat at her as he passed, his demon’s face curling into a smile, flashing sharp, dog-like teeth.
Herlechin. There could be no mistaking the creature. La Héron watched as the party pulled up in front of the inn, dismounted, and entered. When the last of the strange riders had crowded through the door, she continued toward her destination with little more than a shrug.
These were the Black Bouts of Caen, after all. Duelists and mercenaries had come from all over Christendom to compete for the glory and the purse that would be awarded to the winner. It did not matter to La Héron what creatures of the otherworld entered the lists as well. Come they from Hell, fairyland, or anywhere else, she planned to best them and to win as she had so many times before. She only needed a second.
The girl on the pallet appeared to be dead. Her face was purpled and bloody, her hair dark and wet, and her body absolutely still. This did not appear to concern old Monsieur Louis-Ange Chuinard, who plunked a lantern on the nightstand next to the girl’s head and gave the body a nudge with his toe.
“Get up!” he called impatiently. “You have a guest.”
La Héron raised her eyebrow at the sleepy canoness who had admitted them. “The nuns keep prisoners?” she asked.
The old gendarme shook his head. “She did this to herself, I assure you,” he replied. “She’s a scrapper, this one. She will serve your needs, though few would credit it.” He scowled. “Sister Louise-Alexandrine! You’ll get up, or else—”
A hand shot out, quick as a snake, and took the gendarme by the belt. With a quick jerk, the girl used the man’s heft to haul herself to a sit, pulling him halfway to his knees in the process. The gendarme yelped in surprise, but the girl grinned like a jackal. One of her front teeth was newly broken and her eyes could not quite open for all the swelling, but aside from a slight swaying, she looked sound of body.
“Sister Louise-Alexandrine,” Chuinard grumbled, pulling himself free of her grip. “We have need of your service. Tonight. Can you walk?”
“Is that you, Chuinard?” the nun said, furrowing her brow. “You just locked me up, and now you’re letting me out?”
“I did not lock you up, Sister. I merely brought you home. Something, I remind you, you were in no condition to do yourself.”