Awards special! One Small Step on sale

September 27th, 2014 at 10:00 am (One Small Step)

OneSmallStepCoverdraftTo celebrate the WSFA Small Press Award shortlisting of D.K. Mok’s wonderful story “Morning Star”, we’ve got a special offer on the anthology it first appeared in, One Small Step! 

Save on the print anthology (included postage world-wide):

Awards Special “One Small Step” (inc. postage worldwide)

Save on the ebook anthology:

Purchase on Smashwords and use the coupon EL65E to save a whopping 50% on the RRP!

Offers end October 13, 2014.


Guardian has landed!

May 20th, 2014 at 7:26 pm (Guardian)

Guardian BoxThe advance copies of Jo Anderton’s new novel Guardian have landed! We’re super excited to see them, because they are GORGEOUS! You can pre-order print copies from all your favourite physical and online retailers, but we are still honouring our pre-order special price (with BONUS ebook content!) which is the absolute cheapest way to get the book! Special pre-order offer ends on June 6, as the book will be officially launched at Continuum in Melbourne that weekend. So get in quick, for the best price (and exclusive Veiled Worlds content delivered straight to your email!).

PRE-ORDER Guardian by Jo Anderton, with exclusive bonus ebook (ended 5/6/14)


More Ditmar shortlist special offers!

May 1st, 2014 at 8:03 pm (Ink Black Magic, The Bone Chime Song)

InkBlackMagicsmI think we’re having way too much fun with this. Not only have we offered a bunch of free fiction to celebrate our Ditmar shortlistings, but now we’re discounting books!

For the month of May, the ebooks of Ink Black Magic by Tansy Rayner Roberts and The Bone Chime Song and Other Stories by Joanne Anderton are HALF PRICE – that’s less than three dollars each! This special is currently live on Smashwords and Kobo, and Amazon will no doubt follow real soon.


Rounding up the reviews, interviews and interesting stuff…

December 10th, 2013 at 12:04 pm (Miscellaneous)

InkBlackMagicsmSuper quick holiday special offers on ALL FableCroft books available until Sunday!

Tsana reads and reviews Ink Black Magic, noting “In the case of Ink Black Magic, I can honestly say that only the start — the set up for the rest of the story — put me in mind of Pratchett. And not early Pratchett either, more like middle Pratchett, with Moving Pictures springing to mind as an obvious comparison (with bonus thematic parallels). But once the story in Ink Black Magic really gets going, it becomes very much Tansy-ish and not at all Pratchettesque.” 

Tansy has been pretty busy it seems. She guest blogged over at The Book Smugglers, chatting about great book ideas for Christmas. She also wrote a great post on diversity in YA for – highly recommended.

Sean the Bookonaut reviews Path of Night, calling it “a darkly humorous thriller with cracking one liners and plenty of action.”

Peacemaker-CR-329x500Our friend Marianne de Pierres has revealed the cover of her forthcoming novel Peacemaker (coming in 2014 from Angry Robot Books). FableCroft had the privilege of reprinting “Virgin Jackson”, the short story that holds the seeds of Peacemaker in Australis Imaginarium – can’t wait to read the novel!

Don’t forget we’re still open to pitches for Cranky Ladies of History and submissions for Insert Title Here – both anthologies are open internationally.

Keep an eye on the blog for a bonus content pre-order deal for Joanne Anderton’s new novel, Unbound – we can’t wait to share it with you :)

Welcome to the world, Ink Black Magic by Tansy Rayner Roberts!

October 31st, 2013 at 10:55 am (Ink Black Magic, Mocklore)


Gorgeous cover art and design by the amazing Tania Walker

After a lengthy gestation period (really, REALLY lengthy…), we are absolutely delighted to announce the arrival of Ink Black Magic by Tansy Rayner Roberts!

Special Offer…

To celebrate the publication of Ink Black Magic, we have a super special, limited time discount on the very FIRST Mocklore book, Splashdance Silver! For the rest of 2013, you can get the FableCroft edition ebook of Splashdance Silver from your favourite e-tailer for only $0.99USD! Now, you don’t have to have read Splashdance Silver or Liquid Gold to love Ink Black Magic, but if that appeals to the completist in you, there will never be a better time to buy!

About Ink Black Magic

Kassa Daggersharp has been a pirate, a witch, a menace to public safety, a villain, a hero and a legend. These days, she lectures first year students on the dangers of magic. The love of her life is missing, presumed dead. All the adventures are over.

But when an evil dark city full of villains and monsters appears from the pages of a student’s sketchbook, everyone starts to lose their grip on reality. Even the flying sheep.

No one is sure who are the heroes and who are the villains, but someone has to step up to save Mocklore, one last time.

True love isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Happy endings don’t come cheap.
All that magic is probably going to kill you.
You really can have too much black velvet.

The Mocklore Chronicles begin all over again with INK BLACK MAGIC…

The details…

Find all the books in-store at Amazon, Kobo, iTunes, Wizard’s Tower Books, Weightless Books and Smashwords.

Don’t pay more than 99 cents for Splashdance Silver (until December 31, 2013), $3.99USD for Liquid Gold and $5.99USD for the ebook of Ink Black Magic!

The print book is in the hands of the printer, if that’s your preference, and will be showing up in bookstores everywhere soon, or you can buy directly from us here! 

World Fantasy Awards shortlists and a SPECIAL OFFER!

August 17th, 2013 at 11:55 am (Awards, To Spin a Darker Stair)

TsaDScoverWe were very excited this week to see the World Fantasy Awards shortlists come out with SEVERAL Aussies featuring, including our own Kathleen Jennings for Best Artist! Congratulations to all the nominees, particularly Kaaron Warren, for her Twelfth Planet Press awards blitzer “Sky”, Anna Tambour for her novel Crandolin, editor Jonathan Strahan for Under My Hat, and of course Kathleen.

To celebrate, we’re running a special offer on To Spin a Darker Stair, which features Kathleen’s gorgeous artwork both as the cover and internally. Published in 2012, To Spin a Darker Stair contains two beautiful stories by Catherynne M Valente and Faith Mudge – it’s a lovely gift book and the art is a great example of Kathleen’s justifiably recognised talent!

Offer is limited to stock on hand, or until the awards are announced (OFFER ENDED 3 November 2013), whichever comes first! Postage worldwide included in the special price of AUD$5.00!

New books!

March 19th, 2013 at 2:41 pm (Books, One Small Step)

There’s nothing like having books printed a month in advance of release to make you feel like a good publisher! As it was a busy beginning to the year, and because we were trying out a new printing process, we made sure we got things ready well in advance of release, in case of problems. And then we didn’t have any problems! Which means we already have stock in hand for our two April releases, which is very exciting. The authors will be getting their copies early, and any pre-orders placed before March 31st will go out in the first week in April, as a special treat! (Pre-order special available here!)

The books will officially launch and go on sale on April 26 at Conflux!

Books Books


New Ceres Nights extract – “The Piece of Ice in Miss Windermere’s Heart” by Angela Slatter

December 24th, 2012 at 10:00 am (Books)


Extract from “The Piece of Ice in Miss Windermere’s Heart” by Angela Slatter

Violet liked a challenge, most of the time. But then again, most of the time she was not hanging upside down over the bed of one very fat, very drunk, impossibly rich noble. Breathing in the fumes that rose from him might very well finish her off before she got the job done. Then there was the dog; a very old, superannuated, sleeping kind of a dog to be sure, but large and, well, leaving a puddle of drool on the floor roughly the size of New Lake Lucerne. If nothing else, she might drown were she to fall into it.

The chandelier from which she hung was a sturdy thing (for this fact alone she was eternally grateful), almost two metres in diameter, firmly lodged in the plaster of the reinforced ceiling, its eight arms spread wide and covered in a dazzling variety of cut crystal prisms. She was small, a girl who brought to mind the word ‘wispy’ (Violet herself preferred ‘delicate’) and so her weight did not add much of a strain to the structure. She twisted and slithered her way towards the middle of the thing.

She could see her goal. In the central column, three of the dangling crystals looked quite different to the rest. By the moonlight streaming through the large French windows the fine tracery that wove inside was visible: one set was gold, one silver, one green. All very lovely and subtle, and pretty much undetectable unless you had managed to get inside the crawl space of the house, shuffle your way along the dusty tubes, then slip through the air vent, and hang your very small self off the very large light source and examine each of its component parts very carefully.

Violet shifted position, just a little but it was enough to make the chandelier dance ever so slightly. The pendants tinkled against each other, the gentlest of sounds, but sufficient to bring a snort and a sniff from master and hound respectively. Violet froze, willing the song to cease.

The man below, who happened to be Doctor Lord Shelley Fitzwilliam, Prefect of Prosperine’s Hospital District, snorted and rolled over like a behemoth, displacing sheets, blankets, and a large silver hip flask, which fell off the bed onto the back of the unconcerned dog, then slid with relative quiet to the rug. The Prefect next let out a deafening snore coupled with a phenomenal fart and settled back to sleep. The dog raised its head with an effort, sniffed (no doubt re-anaesthetizing itself), and then it too slipped back into dreams.

Violet breathed out, then in … and regretted it immediately. She estimated the good doctor could power Prosperine’s spaceport for a good few months all on his own.

As she removed each crystal, she replaced it with one of the same size and cut. The theft would not be discovered for a while, she hoped. Violet slotted the last facsimile into place, checked it was fast and began the complicated series of bodily twists and contortions to take her back to the mouth of the air vent.

It was all going so well when she slipped. There was no reason for it to happen, but it did indeed happen. One moment she was holding on tight with her hands while she unravelled her legs from the branches of the chandelier. The next, the air was rushing by, removing her small black cloth cap, and she hit the bed.

To be fair, she hadn’t made much of a noise or an impact. Nor had she landed on its occupant, but nevertheless Doctor Lord Shelley Fitzwilliam sat straight up as if the expanse of his considerable backside were on fire. He looked to his right, then to his left. What he saw was a pale and lovely face, with amethyst-coloured eyes, full Cupid’s bow lips and surrounded by luxuriant red hair.

Violet had just enough time to compose her features and get rid of any sign of guilt. She gave a bright, somewhat sleepy smile and nestled into the soft mattress beneath her.

Fitzwilliam stared.

“Are we? Did we? I don’t mean to seem ungentlemanly, but I don’t remember…”

“Oh, we didn’t, dear,” Violet replied in her sweetest tone.

“Ah. So I haven’t paid you, m’dear?” He looked increasingly confused. She could see that sleep and alcohol still had a good grip on him. Had he been less befuddled he might have noticed the dirty smudges on her face from the crawl through the walls and ceilings of his house. The dog, it should be noted, made no move to attack or, indeed, even to wake.

“Oh, heavens no! I’m not that sort.”

“Are you … you’re not an angel, are you?” His eyes widened hopefully, and she had to stop her own from rolling. She shook her head charmingly.

“No, no, sweetest, not one of them. I’m just a dream.” She opened her arms. “Now, back to sleep with you.”

He was already falling back into the grip of his chosen opiates, snuggling down against her. She had to be careful, she knew, to time it perfectly. If he fell asleep on her she would never get out from under his dead weight and would be stuck until morning — she didn’t trust Holly to come looking for her.

The doctor was quite good, only tried to rub her breasts once or twice, but she gently pulled his hand away and stroked his neck and back as if he were a very large, malodorous baby.

Within ten minutes she was able to extract herself. A small jump from the end of the high, springy bed got the edge of the air vent under her hands and she heaved herself upwards, then pulled the grill shut behind her.

I want to ADD New Ceres Nights to my order (may be added to any bundle or other individual book purchase, including other special offers. Not available as a single purchase):


New Ceres Nights extract – “Smuggler’s Moon” by Lee Battersby

December 21st, 2012 at 10:00 am (Books)


Extract from “Smuggler’s Moon” by Lee Battersby

One of the very great advantages of living in the Eighteenth Century is that it is considered somehow gauche to do anything in a hurry. It is important, if your status behoves it, to be gentlemanly. I was able to make Mister Collyer wait a full half hour before I was ready to sit with him in our drawing room and ask after the reason behind his brash declaration.

“You don’t seem worried.” He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. I smiled.

“An innocent man has only the Lord for his judge, Mister Collyer. I can think of no crime I have committed. Am I wrong?”

He studied me for several moments, then leaned back and blew his lips outwards in an exaggerated sigh.

“No, I rather doubt it, actually.”

“Then why the…” I waved my hand towards the front of the house. He made himself comfortable, considered me again.

“What do you know of your neighbours, Reverend?”

“They are my flock. I serve them as best I can.”

“They’re honest people?”

“As much as can be hoped.”

“No thieves? Adulterers? Smugglers?”

“Not particularly.”


“Well.” I smiled, somewhat ruefully. “They’re farmers, for the most part. Poor, for the most part. If they steal, or covet their neighbour’s wives, they don’t let word of it reach me.”

“And smuggling?”


“You know something?”

“No. But it was an odd choice to present me with, after adultery and theft.”

He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement. “You have me, sir.”

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t. You hunt smugglers, then?”

“Only the rumour, Reverend. It is my stock in trade, you might say.”

“Might I?”

“Well, perhaps I might. Rumours, information, connections. I follow them.”

“That must be fascinating for you.”

“Yes, it is.”

“And what do you do when you track down these rumours?”

He bit his lip, flexing the fingers of one hand against the other. “It all rather depends on how true they are. The Eighteenth Century is our domain, Reverend. We are tasked with ensuring it remains … constant. Her Ladyship insists upon it.”

“And someone in my village is smuggling? Something that is not, how could we say it? Appropriate?”

“There are rumours.”

“I see. Would you like wine?”

“What? I mean, I beg your pardon?”

I indicated the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s after eleven, Mister Collyer. We shall be having lunch soon, and of course, you will join us. Time, perhaps, for a small glass before we dine.”

“I … yes, thank you.”


My daughter appeared at the door behind me, just quickly enough that I knew she had been listening in the gap between the kitchen and the rear stairs.

“Imogene, may we have two glasses of the Chateaux Dubois before lunch, please?”

“Yes, Father.” She curtsied to Collyer, and disappeared into the kitchen. Neither of us spoke until she had returned and we had taken glasses from her tray.

“Thank you, Imogene. We shall have lunch in the garden, if that suits.”

“Certainly, Father.” Collyer watched her go.

“How old is your daughter?”


“No Mrs Clegg?”

I sipped my wine and stared hard at him. “Are you a religious man, Mister Collyer?”

“I was raised a Lennonist.”

“And now?”

He shrugged. “I still like some of the hymns.”

“I was born a Catholic.”


“Exactly.” I lowered my glass. “Not a well-liked sect on the outer planets. But here, well…”

“A somewhat different environment.”

“Yes. Somewhat different. It was one of the more conservative religions on Earth, in the past. When I heard about this planet and the … strictures it had voluntarily taken on, I insisted we come. Marie, my wife, had converted for my sake and, well, in some environments, in some time periods… ‘A man’s home is his castle’. Have you heard that saying?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

I snorted. “She did what I insisted, like a good Catholic wife.”


“So we came to this planet, where we could live as good Catholics, with good Catholic teachings, in an approximation of a time when it was good to be a Catholic. And when Marie fell pregnant, we celebrated as good Catholics do and awaited the birth of our first child.”

“What happened?”

I stared through my glass at the fire, distorted by the glass and the red liquid. “Modern surgical procedures, Mister Collyer.”

“I’m sorry?”

I lowered the glass and looked at him. “They don’t exist here.”

“Ah. I’m sorry.”

I drained my glass. “Imogene was saved.”

“A great comfort, I trust.”

“She is my entire life, Mister Collyer. I would do anything to ensure her happiness.” I stood. “Her station in life is entirely my fault and my responsibility. I will not have her suffer the same fate as her mother.”

“No, I expect not.”

“Our lunch will be ready. Perhaps you can tell me more of rumours and smuggling. Shall we?”

I indicated the door. We stood, and proceeded to our meal.

I want to ADD New Ceres Nights to my order (may be added to any bundle or other individual book purchase, including other special offers. Not available as a single purchase):


New Ceres Nights extract – “The Sharp Shooter” by Sylvia Kelso

December 20th, 2012 at 10:00 am (Books)


Extract from “The Sharp Shooter” by Sylvia Kelso

The track made a faint but distinguishable double ribbon up the valley’s curve, threading spare thickets of the persistent native conifers they called pine and spruce, and at this season passing great patches of native spring flowers. Rashpetal, gold as legendary daffodils, fingersting, delicately purple as mythic violets. The clear, vivid fuchsia of stranglebud, and the tall vermillion spires of touch-me-not. High on either side, native timber furred the valley sides, and behind the farm rose the Savoy peaks, crystal and azure and perilously close, their steep faces threatening imminent avalanche. Mont Isére, Mont Bourbon, and the faceted pyramid of Mont Nouveau Blanc.

Beneath that immensity the solitary rider looked insignificant as any other. But Jean had been right. He was quite alone.

Amadeus swore under his breath. An adventurer, a total stranger, a wandering idiot? Who else, up here, would ride alone?

Nevertheless, a guest was a guest. Suzanne looked out clean sheets, Modestine hurried for more salted meat. Amadeus put his tools away. Washed his face at the pump, safely inside the palisade, found a clean shirt and sat on the front bench to indulge his one luxury: New Ceres tobacco, the only native plant most ordinary folk could tolerate, in a long clay pipe brought all the way from Prosperine.

By the first pinch of the final climb, the mount was clearly a horse. A very good horse, Amadeus estimated, a dark liver-chestnut, at least half thoroughbred, with excellent shoulder and solid bone. Not a wandering idiot, then. An adventurer?

“Pierre,” he said quietly into the house-door. “Load my musket. And stand at the window-slit.”

Then the track turned to reveal the saddlecloth. The Millefleur blazon of the triple fleur-de-lys.

Suzanne was suddenly beside him, voicing his own thought. “Millefleur sent this?”

The horse pricked its ears and tossed its head as the cannies broke into voice. It almost shied, but then came on steadily toward the gate. As would an expected — an official — visitor.

Suzanne’s hand brushed Amadeus’ shoulder. She whistled sharply to the cannies and took them to be tied up.

Amadeus himself stood up, reluctantly, to unbar the gate. The horse halted just beyond. Amadeus looked up, the rider looked down. A young face, under a broad-brimmed hat that was new and well-shaped and maybe offworld felt, but not an aristo’s tricorne. Clear blue eyes, a smatter of freckles across the nose, hinting youth refuted by the crowsfeet at the eye-corners, the firm jaw. The clothes were plain too, far plainer than the horse. No waistcoat, no buckskin breeches, no calf-high boots. And no sword. Just an ordinary man’s homespun trousers and riding boots, a weather-coat strapped over a pair of saddlebags. And the gun scabbard by the rider’s right leg.

Amadeus stared. The lock above the horse’s wither was as ornately chased as one of St. Vierge’s own hunting pieces, but the barrel was twice the length of a New Ceres musket’s, let alone a rapid-blaster. It ended almost at the horse’s knee. No time to gape. The rider was already summing him up in turn. Certainly, with that blazon on his saddlecloth, expecting a salute.

Amadeus touched the quiff of curls that passed for his forelock and mumbled, “Amadeus Lebrun at your service, m’sieu.”

The rider bowed briefly over the saddle bow. “Anne-Hilarion,” he said. “At your service, m’sieu.”

Amadeus knew the aristo habit of giving men women’s names, not to mention two names rolled into one. He had offered to hold the stirrup, as a vassal should, before the omission sank in. But it would be as risky as discourteous to insist: Pardon me, sir, and your second name?

The rider had already given a quick headshake and swung off unassisted. On the offside of the horse, right hand reaching as by instinct for the stock of the gun.

He came round the horse’s head with the weapon at port, as easily as a great dame would wield her parasol, and Amadeus could not take his eyes off it. Not merely the unfamiliar length, but the crescent-shaped butt-plate, the hammer like a rearing dragon that grasped the flint in its jaws, the elegantly slender stock with its acanthus-leaf decoration, a glitter of polished metal and polished wood.

“The Comte de Beligny tells me,” Anne-Hilarion’s French was offworld, just a little too precise and slow, “that you have a small problem here?”

Among his peers Amadeus would have guffawed. Given his will he would have snorted, Small? But the habit of ridiculous understatement was also bone-deep aristo. He bowed briefly. Yes.

Anne-Hilarion’s eyes rose to his. Rose almost six inches, Amadeus judged, and though he looked light and whippy, it was hardly an imposing build. Then the eyes flicked and the gun barrel twitched and Amadeus forgot height and weight together. “M’sieu, that is only my wife! My wife Suzanne!”

She had come to the gate behind him, as the housewife should. He knew the faint scent of hops and yeast and the sound of her skirts. He forced himself not to leap between them with arms outheld.

But Anne-Hilarion had already lowered the gun, and despite plain boots and riding trousers, was making a creditable leg. He did not remove his hat, since his hands were already occupied. His voice was, again, quite courteous.


Suzanne curtsyed sweepingly. She had been a houseservant before they married, and knew court manners secondhand. “M’sieu.”

I want to ADD New Ceres Nights to my order (may be added to any bundle or other individual book purchase, including other special offers. Not available as a single purchase):


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