Robert Scott - The Hickory Staff (Eldarn Sequence, Book 1)

A Gollancz eBook

Copyright Robert Scott 2005 All rights reserved.

The right of Robert Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2005 by

Gollancz

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

Orion House

5 Upper Saint Martins Lane

London, WC2H 9EA

An Hachette UK Company

This eBook first published in 2010 by Gollancz.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 575 10507 2

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

www.orionbooks.co.uk

Lesseks Key The Eldarn Sequence Book 2

The Hickory Staff came into focus over such a long period of time, nearly seven years, we are indebted to many who along the way read chapters, made suggestions, praised bits that went well and periodically burned, bagged and carted out chapters that didnt. We are especially grateful to Charlie Nurnberg, to whom we owe everything, and to Jo Fletcher, to whom we owe even more. Thanks to the Idaho Springs Chamber of Commerce and the staff at the Heritage Museum on Miner Street. We have changed a few things about the town, and hope that the good people of Idaho Springs will forgive us a few transgressions. When this process began, we knew nothing at all about mining; any liberties we took that resulted in misrepresentations of the Colorado boom are entirely our fault. Thanks also to the reference staff at the Koelbel Library in Denver for unearthing all manner of resources on ships and shipping, primitive weaponry and Egyptian architecture.

Robert Scott. I would like to thank Burm, Paul, Mom and Dad and everyone in Cherry Creek and Prince William County who encouraged me throughout this endeavour. Thanks to Dan, Christine, Kat Meints and Steve TeSelle for their input, and sincere thanks to Pam Widmann for reading, reading over and reading again. Five years ago, I was sometimes able, with teeth clenched and a borrowed pen, to calculate the gratuity on a dinner check; I owe a debt of gratitude to Uncle G for checking my math and ensuring that one can chart time with a pair of orbiting moons. Finally, to Kage and the kids, who were patient with me, I couldnt possibly love you more than I do.

Jay Gordon. Thank you Stacy, Patrick and Karen for taking on so much and for supporting me these past several years. I especially thank Charlie for his friendship and willingness to champion the publication of The Hickory Staff. Ultimately, I would like to acknowledge my wife, Susan, who has given more than I can ask for in one lifetime.

For Dan, Chris, and Burma,
who wouldnt have wanted the china cabinet anyway.
R.S.

For Susan.
For ever and ever and ever.
J.G.

Next winter

The bay waters rolled in gentle swells, almost silent, deep blue colour fading to black. Norman Felson looped a bowline hitch around a small stanchion near the helm of his thirty-six-foot sloop, the Offshore Maid, and attached the opposite end to the tiller, fixing the helm to free his hands because a spanker line had come loose aft. He hauled it in, then hustled back to the bridge as soon as he had the errant sheet reset. He was still uncomfortable sailing the sloop on his own, and didnt like to be away from the helm for more than a few seconds. He looked forward to sunrise; he worried less in daylight.

Kay, his wife, was working in their small cabin; he smelled the aroma of fresh coffee mixing with the cool breeze drifting down from the Chesapeake. Save for the distant glow of channel markers and moonlight glimmering in a kaleidoscope of geometric glints flashing from wave to wave, the bay was dark. Felson navigated north and east using his GPS satellite computer, heading towards the Charleston Harbour lighthouse before turning into the Atlantic and setting course for Nags Head. He liked to imagine himself a sailor from a previous age; hed often try to stay his course using compass and the stars alone though he was rarely successful. He silently cursed his Coast Guard navigation instructor for encouraging him to rely so heavily on satellite technology.

He checked again to be sure he had programmed the correct coordinates into his navigation computer before calling to Kay, Is the coffee ready?

Just about, she replied, Ill be up in a minute.

Felson took a bite from a blueberry jelly doughnut coated with uncooperative powdered sugar and realised he was actually quite happy to live in this age. Certain the doughnut was the finest invention of the last millennium, he found himself imagining with a shudder what Francis Drake might have eaten for breakfast as he prepared to battle the Spanish Armada in 1588: drytack biscuits infested with weevils. Drawing out a dollop of jelly with his finger, he grimaced; the old captains fare could never have been as exquisitely simple and delicious as the doughnuts Felson bought, still warm, for $2.99 a dozen.

Kay appeared from below. She smiled as she handed him a steaming mug bearing an embossed logo from the Fairfield Gazette, the paper that had carried his first story more than forty years earlier. Now he was the editor, and proud of it.

Thank you, he said, taking a sip. Kay didnt answer; she stared out into the inky darkness as the undulating waves, unbroken by even the smallest of whitecaps, rocked the Offshore Maid in gentle rhythm. Her hair was pulled back with a length of black velvet ribbon; her cardigan was unbuttoned despite the chilly pre-dawn wind.

Honey? Felson bent over to recheck their heading on the compass mounted above the helm. Kay, are you?

He turned to find his wife standing directly behind him and jumped. Jesus, you scared me what? His words were choked off as Kay took him firmly by the throat. With almost inconceivable strength she began to squeeze the life from him. Felson tried to prise her fingers from his neck. He felt his hand, coated with bloody pus, come away from her wrist, and, for a second, he was concerned for her. Why was she bleeding? But confusion was soon supplanted by terror: Kay was not relaxing her grip.

Panic struck. Norman Felson began to struggle furiously, kicking and writhing in his wifes unfeasibly forceful grasp. He felt his nose begin to bleed as capillaries burst and heard himself gagging phlegm against the collapsed walls of his windpipe. As consciousness closed in, Felson watched his wife draw back her free hand. A tiny fist illuminated only by light from the sloops galley came forward with lightning speed to slam into his chest, tearing sinews and shattering bones.