ON WINGS OF SONG - Book review

 

A strange book, this. Critically acclaimed yet a commercial failure, Thomas M Disch’s science fiction novel On Wings of Song won the 1980 John W Campbell memorial Award. It was published in 1979.

The first part relates Daniel Weinreb’s childhood in twenty-first century town of Amesville in Iowa, whose strict Christian Right regime of the Undergoders prohibits almost all music. ‘Why were people like that so bent on patrolling people’s most private thoughts?’ (p111).

With a friend he sneaked away and crossed the border to watch a musical movie. ‘This, then, was what it was all about. This, when it issued from within you, was the liberating power that all other powers feared and wished to extirpate: song. It seemed to Daniel that he could feel the music in the most secret recesses of his body, an ethereal surgeon that would rip his soul free from its crippling flesh’ (p31).

Daniel’s world changes when his minor rebellion – in the form of circulating a radical newspaper – condemns him to the local prison at Spirit Lake. He is fourteen. While here, he hears prisoners play music. ‘... there seemed to be this difference between the language of music and the language of words: it didn’t seem possible, in the language of music, to lie’ (p52). The prison is without bars – for each prisoner carries an electrically controlled explosive in his stomach (after a fashion, pre-empting the Rutger Hauer 1991 movie Wedlock).

Daniel, like many people, is aware that with the help of special apparatus providing some kind of feedback, the users can fly when they sing. In essence, the singer’s body stays fixed to the apparatus but the ‘soul’ – or referred to as the ‘fairy’ – floats away, something like remote viewing which was postulated and seemingly adopted by Ingo Swann in the early 1970s.  Daniel is captivated by this idea and is determined to learn to sing and then to fly...

Released from prison, he becomes friendly with Boadicea, the daughter of local tycoon Grandison Whiting, usually referred to as Boa. Inevitably, they fall in love. ‘... and felt himself to be, with her, ineffably, part of a single process that began in that faraway furnace that burned atoms into energy... the moment when he had felt needles of light piercing his and Boa’s separate flesh, knitting their bodies like two threads into the intricate skein of that summer’s profusions’ (p152).

National shortages – due to many factors including terrorism – affected the people in New York and elsewhere. Chris Moor's cover illustration depicts the decadent milieu Daniel is embroiled in. There’s a poignant episode where a body builder cannot obtain his proteins either legally or on the black market: as his muscles waste, he deteriorates and ‘he blew out his brains’ (p241).

A great deal of musical knowledge is displayed, notably operas. Eventually, Daniel does learn to sing. Bearing in mind that some aspects of the novel can be construed as a bitter satire, the ending is probably apt, though I didn’t like it.

As may be gleaned from the above quotations, Disch was also a poet. The writing is very good. Sadly, Disch suffered depression after the death of his life-partner Charles Naylor and about three years, in his New York apartment, later he shot himself. He was 68.

Editorial note:

‘The table was set and everyone was watching a panel discussion about the new fertilizers in the living room’ (p139). Presumably there were no fertilizers in the living room. This should read: ‘The table was set in the living room and everyone was watching a panel discussion about the new fertilizers’.

PIRANHA - Book review

 

PIRANHA is one of Clive Cussler’s novels from the Oregon Files, co-written with Boyd Morrison (2014).

I hadn’t read any Oregon Files books before, but reading this I was hooked by the fast pace and non-stop action. The impressive array of equipment and vehicles onboard the Oregon increase the enjoyment.

Juan Cabrillo and his crew are under attack by an unknown but very well informed adversary. In several different locales the crew members barely escape with their lives. How the would-be assassin anticipates their every move is definitely science fiction, but it still keeps the pages turning and the suspense never lets up until the dramatic end.

Piranha is a US government code-name for certain equipment.

Virtually every Cussler book has an exciting colourful cover.

 

THE LAST DAY - Book review

THE LAST DAY

Andrew Hunter Murray

 

Published in 2020, this is labelled as ‘fiction’ rather than ‘science fiction’.

It’s 2059 and the earth has stopped rotating. The Slow began some thirty years earlier. So a good half of the planet is in perpetual night, like the dark side of the moon, with all that that entails. One half an endless frozen night, the other unabated burning sun. Crop failures and mass emigration are just two issues. Britain was fortunate to be in the constant sunlight and was apparently undergoing the Great British Resurgence, according to the authorities. 

The heroine, Ellen Hopper is a scientist who is called back to London by a dying associate, Thorne. Here, she learns that everything is not what it seems; there are secrets that people are willing to kill over. She enlists the help of her ex, David, a journalist.

The story moves along at a fair pace as they track and trace clues to the Big Revelation.  I don’t know why the author persisted in referring to her as Hopper rather than Ellen when he refers to David by his name, but it grated for me.

The conclusion suggests the possibility of a sequel to further explore Murray’s changed world.

It was okay, but don’t believe the hype.

THE FAR ARENA - Book review

THE FAR ARENA

Richard ben Sapir

 

Published in 1979. An oil drill strikes into human flesh eight metres down in the Arctic ice. Against all the odds, a naked man  is dug out, completely preserved. The Texan Dr Lewellyn McCardle shipped the block of ice to Soviet Dr Semyon Fyodor Petrovitch, an expert in cryogenics. Petrovitch begins to thaw out the human specimen and discovers signs of EEG activity…

Interspersed with the medical aspects we delve into the mind of a renowned gladiator, Lucius Aurelius Eugenianus, who realises he has cheated death.

Eventually, the gladiator is brought to full recovery, but nobody can understand his ancient speech. They go to a convent and seek the help of Sister Olav, an expert.  They go to great lengths to ease the gladiator into the twentieth century and while they do so the relationship dynamic between this foursome is fraught, especially since the gladiator’s scruples are two thousand years old…

Without any friends or family, with the world so drastically changed, where can the Roman go? To Rome, perhaps, his old home. Where fresh torment awaits him.

Plenty of research is evident, plus a Roman glossary, and a lot of ethical questions are raised. Impressive.

FFB – Lord of Darkness

‘In the destructive element immerse’ – Lord Jim (J Conrad)

I have been in a time-machine and have savoured the richness of smells, tastes,sounds, prose and colours of 16^th century Africa. And what a journey. ‘There is a voyage outwad and there is a voyage inward, and my twenty years inward to the heart of African deviltry took me father indeed than Drake himself could have gone.’ This voyage inward gripped from beginning to end – even after the end. As a fictional travel autobiography, Lord of Darkness was most convincing, so true in fact that the author came across as one humorous, wise and compassionate Andrew Battell and not as Robert Silverberg, author of Lord Valentine’s Castle et al.

Battell and many of the other characters existed. According to Silverberg, all we know of Battell is that he went to sea in 1589 when Spain and Portugal were at war against England; that he was captured on the Isle of Sao Sebastian off Brazil, shipped to Angola, where he had twenty years of adventures before returning to England. He then dictated his memoires which were subsequently printed in a much-edited form in 1625 and again in 1901. Upon these bones has Silverberg fashioned flesh. The account of Andrew Battell of Leigh in Essex, born in 1558, is certain to be regarded as an outstanding work, comparable to Robinson Crusoe and King Solomon’s Mines.

Although best known for his varied and numerous Sci-fi novels, Silverberg has been prolific in producing non-fiction books, among them the mythical land of Eldorado, The Longest Voyage, an account of the first six circumnavigations of the world, and The Realm of Prester John (1972). After a journey to Africa, he wrote Downward to the Earth, a sci-fi novel in which were embedded some homages to Joseph Conrad (one of my many favourite authors). All this knowledge and research, the influence of Conrad and the Hakluyt Voyages and Discoveries, coupled with a masterful style that captures the feel of the 16^th century, has inevitably been distilled into this remarkable Lord of Darkness, within which one can embark on a mind-broadening, often gruesome odyssey of young yellow-haired Andrew. He was new to the world beyond Leigh and began by looking at everything with the blinkered eyes of ignorance. In truth, he found that travel broadens the mind; aye, wondrously so. Perhaps armchair travel does, too. For there is much cogent philosophy, wisdom and compassion within these pages, besides excellent description and humour.

Though a prisoner, Battell had been given a modicum of freedom to seve as a pilot; thereafter, he undertook two trading voyages, before falling in with man-eaters, the Jaqqa. He continually allied himself with the powerful to retain his modest freedom, as reflected in his simple philosophy:

‘No sailor ever reached home by sailing into the jaws of a storm. I try to keep my sheets aligned so that I will move ever forward, or at least not find myself capsized.’

His intention was to bend to adversity, but never to give up hope that one day he might return to England. He was not given to despair, which is remarkable considering the privations, betrayals and disappointments he endured: ‘wholly English within me, that does not like to rush forward and claim defeat as a bride.’

These quotations give a less than adequate indication of the style; it seems exactly right. His choice of words seem apt, too: ‘catercorner’ rather than ‘diagonally’ and ‘rampscallery roguey army of cutpurses and rackrents and dandiprat costermongers, the dregs of Lisbon… to defend Angola against the forces of darkness.’ The insult of today is so pauperised, as is the description of explicit sex. In both these areas Silverberg restores some long-abandoned words that that, unlike many books on the shelves today, Battell’s descriptions don’t seem coarse or clumsy or purely sensational, but almost poetic. And then there is the language – ‘fetish’ and ‘albino’ come from Spanish/Portuguese sources; and ‘Your accent is broad, though you have the words and the sense quite aptly. You speak our words in the flat English way, without music. Speak you more in the throat and in the nose… Put some savoury spice in them. I think it is your English food, that is so empty of taste, that causes you to speak your words in such a flavourless way.’

Battell was educated to be a clerk but followed his father and brothers to sea. He had read a lot, was familiar with Marlowe, the Book of Solomon, and Marcus Aurelius – all employed in their appropriate place – as well as two quotations familiar to sci-fi enthusiasts: ‘folly it is to bid time return’ (Matheson/Shakespeare); and ‘a stranger in a strange land (Heinlein/Moses). He befriended Portuguese and natives, man-eaters and a slave-girl, Matamba.

Slavery antedated the coming of the whites, but the Portuguese ‘refined it… into something most monstrous.’  This terrible trade in human beings was inaugurated by the Portuguese, but the Dutch, British, French and other European nations soon joined in, setting up trading factories along the African coast. Founded in 1576, Luanda became the principal centre for the export of slaves from Angola to Brazil. During the 400 years of trade – 1450-1870 – over ten million Africans were transported to the Americas. Here, as in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Flash for Freedom and Roots, we see the cruelty and indignity inflicted during this forced demographic change.

The title of the book refers to Calandola, a Jaqqa whose influence on Battell is both hypnotic and demonic. He and his people are invested with a strange grandeur and a fascinating frightfulness. The Jaqqa creation myth, history and philosphy are held up against the religion and philosophy of the time: Battell found little to choose between them. At least the ferocious Jaqqa made no pretense at piety. Henceforth, Battell’s soul was captive.

 
There are court-intrigues, trials by ordeal, strange beasts, bizarre illnesses, bravery, anthropological detail, and politics and power-hunger. The sex scenes – and the gruesome horrors – are described with an ease and openness. Double standards are questioned: the rite of circumcision is touched upon, also for females – as Battell says, ‘the life of a woman is sufficiently hard as it is, without her having to give up that thing, too.’
 
Many characters deserve mention, not least the tragic, long-suffering slave, Matamba. But Battell’s great passion was the beguiling Dona Teresa; she altered his life. She was shameless, their relationship vying between love and hate: ‘a superfluity of passion that does turn to rage and foul sour juices when it is thwarted’ was how she explained one betrayal. Yet towering above all is the overpowering Calandola, who was anointed daily with the fat of human victims to give his large physique a terrible burnished gloss. He is a memorable creation: an evil Umslopogaas. Whilst with the Jaqqa, Battell observed that his world was bounded by cauldrons and drums and ollicondi trees; so too was mine as I vicariously shared his sojourn. Ultimately, ‘Calandona was real to me and England only a phantasm, now, and much of the time my mind lay in a hazy borderland between the real and the unreal.’

If you like history with flesh on it, unrestrained and vivid through eye-witness accounts, then this book is for you.

I wrote this review for the BSFA in 1984; the book has lingered since.

FFB – Blind Justice at Wedlock

This was my fourth western novel, published under the penname Ross Morton in 2011. I’d toyed with the idea ever since seeing Rutger Hauer’s film Blind Fury; though it had probably been gestating as a concept even earlier, since about 1970 when I read Dan Galouye’s Dark Universe (1961).  Galouye was praised for creating ‘the country of the blind’ – two underground races have been marooned in darkness for generations; one sees by using sound and echoes while the other has learned to recognise outlines through infra-red sensitivity. To write a story without visual cues is no mean feat.

I was up for that challenge. I’d create a protagonist who was blinded but didn’t allow that to deter him on his quest to rescue his wife. The hard part was writing Clint’s POV with only reference to sounds and smells.

Here’s the prologue: Brutally disrupted life.

When Clint Brennan came to, he felt Mutt’s tongue licking his temple and cheek. Maybe the dog had brought him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes and realized that the world had changed. It was forbidding and dark. In more ways than one, light had gone out of his life. He raised his left arm and stroked the animal’s matted hair where the bullet had entered Mutt’s flank; it had bled some, but the fur was now just slightly tacky. He heard the dog’s steady panting and smelled his breath, but he couldn’t see him. The brutal truth was that he couldn’t see anything. He was blind.

            His memory was hazy at best, so he attempted to take stock. The sun was up and burning the left side of his face, its position and intensity telling him it was about noon. He guessed that he’d been out of it a good two hours or so. He was lying on his belly and something was digging into him. Ignoring the pounding in his head that wouldn’t go away, he rolled over and then felt the pain in his left leg. Scattered shards of memory started to pierce his thoughts, flickering like a lantern show, but they didn’t present a coherent picture.

            The sun – or perhaps fear – made him sweat. Fear for himself, thrust into this unwelcome darkness, an unknown territory. Fear for Belle, his wife. Where was she? Why wasn’t she here to help him now, when he needed her? As much as he wanted to worry about Belle, some hidden knowledge or instinct shied his thoughts away from his wife.

He felt his forehead crease with the confusion of his mind, and he raised a hand to the dried blood around his eyes and the bridge of his nose. God Almighty, but his head pounded.

            Heaving a great sigh, Clint pushed away the dark foreboding that threatened to envelop him and eased himself up onto his knees. That hurt some. His hand touched the wound: he’d been shot in the thigh. When or how, he wasn’t quite sure. Crippled and blind, with Belle unaccountably absent from his life, an all-consuming despair soaked into his bones and made his shoulders slump.

Slowly, methodically, he scrabbled in the dirt and found what he’d been lying on – his Winchester rifle. He gripped its stock. Perhaps it would be for the best. He didn’t believe he could exist in this condition and it wouldn’t be fair to abandon his wounded dog. With a heavy heart he levered a .44 rimfire cartridge into the barrel. ‘Well, Mutt, I guess this is the end of the road for both of us.’ His voice croaked and his mouth was terribly dry. ‘You first, old boy, then I’ll join you.’

            Mutt seemed to sense his fate and shuffled closer on his forelegs, rubbing his wet nose against his master’s knees. Trusting to the end.

            An almighty surge of humility and grief overwhelmed Clint Brennan. He closed tight his unseeing eyes and swore. He couldn’t do this: it was against everything he and Belle believed. In the three years they’d been married, they’d buried two babies out back. The heartbreak and the tears were testimony enough that they cherished life, and mourned its loss. Life was precious, to be savoured, despite the aches and pains. As his father used to say, ‘If we never had any storms, we’d never appreciate the sunshine.’

Lowering the weapon, he stroked his dog. ‘Let’s have a look at that wound, eh?’ Then he laughed bitterly at his choice of words.

Gently, he ran his hands over the faithful animal’s body; Mutt yelped just the once – only the single wound, then. He experienced another flashing image from his recent past. It was all coming back now.

Painful though it was, the returning memory helped to impart some kind of sense to his present predicament. The irony was not lost on him, that in his mind’s eye he could see what happened. Terrible though it was, it seemed that it was going to be the last thing he would see in this life. If he was destined to lose his sight, and it looked that way, then it would have been more bearable if his last view of the world had been a pleasant one.

***

I chose the name Clint as a nod to my childhood idol, Clint Walker. As he remembers what happened, Clint recalls his wife being kidnapped by three desperadoes. Despite his new blindness, he resolved to track them, using his dog. Astride his donkey Beatrice, he followed their scent…

On the way, Clint encounters two men who rob him, and also an ex-soldier who befriends him.  Belle believes Clint is dead – she saw him shot as her abductors dragged her off. When she is rescued by Gamlin, a rich gent, and taken to his opulent home in Wedlock, the man’s housekeeper and others are convinced she will make a good match for Mr Gamlin. The housekeeper, Mrs Kilbride, is a creepy creation; slowly, her motivation is revealed.

Ultimately, this is a psychological suspense quest novel with a smattering of the gothic. I enjoyed writing it.

 

This hardback book can still be purchased from the book depository post-free worldwide:

http://www.bookdepository.com/Blind-Justice-at-Wedlock-Morton-Ross/9780709091424

People who viewed this bought The $300 Man, Wyoming Strong, The Son, Blood Meridian, Lonesome Dove and Treasure Mountain, so it is in good company.

 

Writing – Market – Uncanny Magazine

Uncanny is a new science fiction and fantasy market, and is now open for short story submissions.

Uncanny is an online Science Fiction and Fantasy magazine featuring passionate SF/F fiction and poetry, gorgeous prose, provocative nonfiction, and a deep investment in the diverse SF/F culture.  Each issue contains intricate, experimental stories and poems with verve and imagination that elicit strong emotions and challenge beliefs from writers from every conceivable background. Uncanny believes there’s still plenty of room in the genre for tales that make you feel.

Co-edited by Hugo Award-winner Lynne M. Thomas and Hugo Award-nominee Michael Damian Thomas, each issue contains new and classic speculative fiction, fiction podcasts, poetry, essays, art, and interviews. Uncanny‘s contributors range from the award-winning leading voices of the field to exciting, emerging talents.

Uncanny is seeking passionate SF/F fiction from writers from every conceivable background.  “We want intricate, experimental stories and poems with gorgeous prose, verve, and imagination that elicit strong emotions and challenge beliefs. Uncanny believes there’s still plenty of room in the genre for tales that make you feel.”

Uncanny is looking for original, unpublished speculative fiction stories between 750-7500 words. Payment is $.08 per word (including audio rights). We will reject any story that doesn’t follow these guidelines and procedures. You may not resubmit a rejected story.

1- E-mail your submission to uncannymagazine [at] gmail [dot] com. Make sure to put Fiction Submission: Short Story Title in the subject line.

2- All stories should be in Standard Manuscript Format and attached in .RTF, .DOC, or .DOCX formats.

3- Your cover letter should contain the length of your story, your significant publishing history and awards, and information that might be relevant to that specific submission.

4- Please do not send multiple submissions at once, or submissions simultaneously submitted at another market or anthology.

5- They try to respond to all submissions in 15 days. Please feel free to query if they’ve had your submission for over 30 days.

Uncanny issues will be published as eBooks (mobi, pdf, epub) bimonthly on the first Tuesday of that month through all of the major online eBook stores. Each issue will contain 4-6 new short stories, 2 reprinted stories, 2 poems, 2 nonfiction essays, and 2 interviews, at minimum. They are currently working on providing additional exclusive content just for subscribers. [Poetry submissions – now closed].

Subscribers and those purchasing single issues get each issue (ex: Nov/Dec 2014 is their first planned issue) in its entirety up front, no waiting.

Those reading online for free will have to wait a week for the first half of the issue, and a month for the second half, to appear on the second Tuesday of each month (of November and December, respectively in their example) at http://uncannymag.com/.

My illo for a review of

Terry Brooks' The Black Unicorn, 1988

They also state that they will also be producing a monthly fiction podcast. The project is funded by a successful kickstarter campaign.

http://uncannymag.com/

 

 

Writing - Shadows over Lornwater - 03

SHADOWS OVER LORNWATER

 

Morton Faulkner

 

continued...

First Durinma of Juvous

At about the same time that Dep’s men returned to report that only one person on their list couldn’t be located, a man of letters called Pro-dem Hom, a message arrived from his chief, Prime Watchman Zen-il. A man identified as Pro-dem Hom had been found drowned in a vat of red ink in the dye processing factory in sector five in the Second City.

            Prime Watchman Zen-il met him at the factory. He was tall, thick-set with piercing slate-grey eyes and wrinkled features. His uniform was the usual plaid, tight-fitting; he wore knee-high black leather boots.

            The dead man was unclothed and had been deprived of one eye and his tongue; which were clutched in the right and left fists respectively. ‘S1’ had been burned into his forehead.

            Staff who found the wordsmith had recognised him as Pro-dem Hom immediately since he often visited for writing supplies.

            “Welde, I want this murderer caught soon,” said Zen-il, his voice grating. He gazed at the morticians who removed the corpse, splashing the floor in ink, making crazy patterns.

            “As do I, sir.” He bagged the eye and tongue in a separate leather pouch, tied it to his belt, alongside the other evidence bag. “It’s not going to be easy, though.”

            “Your cases are not meant to be easy, Welde. That’s why they’re special investigations.”

            “Indeed, sir.” Dep shook his head. “Nobody saw anything. The place was full of shadows, according to the night-watchman when he found the body floating face-down.”

            “Chasing shadows is not within our remit. Give me a flesh-and-blood killer. Soon. Before he strikes again!”

            “Or she, sir?”

            Zen-il growled, spun on his heel and stomped away, flinging over his shoulder, “Yes, ‘or she’!”

 

She didn’t appear too distressed at being made a new widow, Dep mused, sitting opposite Pro-dem Zimera. Maybe it was her upbringing, a reluctance to show emotion to strangers, especially if on official business? Good breeding, perhaps; she was the daughter of Xarop, one of the oldest nobles in the city. Her upturned nose twitched; maybe she’d caught a whiff of the contents of the evidence bags at his belt?

            Wealthy just didn’t describe Zimera and her family. They lived here in the Doltra Complex, which was perched upon huge stone-block pylons and, on his approach, he felt it looked obscenely bright and clean in comparison to the dark and sullied earth surrounds beneath it. Nobody walked near the foundations, where lay the caved-in remains of an older city, which had collapsed in 1823; city and King Kculicide had perished, falling into flooded mines and into the dread hands of the Underpeople.

            “I’m sorry to ask you at a time like this,” Dep said, his tone soft, caring, “but have you any idea where your husband might have been last night?”

            Her grey-green eyes flickered away from his face, but only for a moment and then she returned his gaze steadily. “He frequented the Red Tellar…” Her hands fidgeted in her lap. She was withholding some information, he felt sure.

            “Really?”

            Zimera nodded. “I know that was his favourite place. He was a close friend of the innman, Ulran, I believe.”

 

“I find it strange that Pro-dem Hom was a target for assassination,” Ulran said, running a hand over his short black hair. The innman was tall and commanding, even in the simple attire of a green silk shirt and loose-fitting cotton trousers. He stood at the window of his tenth storey office, gazing down at the inn’s roof-gardens.

            Established some 570 years ago on the occasion of the First Festival of Brilansor, the Red Tellar Inn was situated in Marron Square in the Three Cities that comprised Lornwater. The renowned Red Tellar was the only inn in all Floreskand equipped with duelling rooms. Its ten-storey height alone would draw attention, only overshadowed in Lornwater by the two minars and the Eyrie above the Old City’s palace. There were many specialised chambers, among them music and shrine rooms, hotel rooms, staff residences, private duelling rooms, the beer-hall and the Long Gymnasium.

            Ulran turned, faced Dep. “He was a man of words, and posed no threat to anybody.”

            “Pro-dem Hom was rich and had the ear of the king,” Dep replied from his chair. “A powerful man, by all accounts.”

            “True.” Ulran’s brown eyes narrowed. “And powerful men have enemies.”

            Dep nodded. “Just so. Why did he come to your inn?”

            “For the amenities it offers. He particularly liked visiting the storyteller rooms. He would write down their tales.”

            “I suspect he wrote down other things. Would he be privy to improprieties here?”

            “Hidden knowledge can be powerful, I admit. It’s possible he saw someone or something that might adversely affect a reputation, if you concern yourself with such matters.”

            “But you have a reputation that goes before you, Ulran,” Dep countered.

            “It is nothing that I foster or invite. It is the nature of a gossip-hungry public that they settle on certain individuals. I’m one of those individuals.” He shrugged. “It means nothing. Celebrity is base coin.”

            “Do you know if Pro-dem Hom was working on a speech for the king?”

            Ulran laughed. “He would need to write a fine speech for any of the king’s words to be praised, I assure you.” His face clouded, serious. “I do not talk sedition, it is just an observation. Our king is not widely liked by his subjects.”

            Dep sucked in through his teeth. “Have you any idea why Pro-dem Hom was in the House of Velvet?”

            Ulran arched an eyebrow. “It’s a pleasure house. I imagine he was seeking pleasure where he could find it, as it was no secret that his wife hadn’t provided him with any for several years…”

            That would explain her lack of bereavement. “It’s puzzling. He went missing from the House of Velvet and turned up dead at the dye factory,” Dep mused. “The room assigned to him was where we found the dead assassin. If Pro-dem Hom eluded his female assassin, why didn’t he call out the watchman?”

            “Yes, it is a mystery. Have you a name for the assassin yet?”

            Dep shook his head. “Their gildmaster is my next call.”

            “Strange, isn’t it?”

            “What?” Dep asked.

            “The assassin’s gild is illegal, yet it is allowed to flourish.”

            Dep shrugged. “I’ve had a similar discussion with the Prime Watchman more than once. We consider that they will exist whether we proscribe them or not. Perhaps having a gild permits some kind of oversight.”

            “Perhaps. The killer of the assassin might have taken Pro-dem Hom, kidnapped him?”

            “It’s a slim possibility, innman. Surely they would have been seen by somebody. Yet none of those interviewed so far know anything.”

            Ulran pursed his thick lips, frowned. “Drowning in ink suggests something premeditated and vicious. Despite the presence of the dead assassin, it seems that Pro-dem Hom was singled out for an unusual death. The colour of the ink might be significant too.”

            Dep jotted down a note about checking on the colour red in magical rituals.

            Ulran stroked his chin. “He was a good man with words, and I liked him. I’ll make my own enquiries, I think.”

            “Have a care, Ulran, don’t tread on my toes.”

            “I will tread so lightly you won’t know where I’ve been,” Ulran said.

 

 

III

Shifting ’tween supernal myth and every day,

They enjoy fearful images wondrously born.

And they thrive on these myriad feelings torn

By the dark deceit that suborns what is true.

 

Their world is unlike ours in every way.

It’s spectral in aspect, where dusk’s forever worn,

Always at the mercy of effulgent light shone,

Be they god-hewn or man-made in effulgent hue.

- A Life of Their Own, from The Collected Works of Nasalmn Feider (1216-1257)

 

***

First Sapin of Juvous

 

“Yes, this ring belonged to Aba-pet Fara,” explained Gildmaster Jentore, turning the pages of a thick tome. “Now, we have only six female assassins on our books.” His tone seemed to suggest that the woman’s death was an inconvenience to the gild bookkeeping, rather than a human tragedy. He stopped, pointed to an open page and an illustration. “See, these small chevrons intertwined with berries. The fruit stalks twine from the left, indicating the wearer is female.” He held the ring against the drawing; the images matched.

            “Good,” Dep said. “At least we now have a name for the victim. Was she on gild business?”

            “Yes.” Jentore indicated a column of dates and amounts of money below the illustration. “She registered two days ago, see... Of course, an assassin does not record who the target is, solely that there has been a commission, and the fee obtained, so that a percentage can be contributed to the gild’s coffers.”

            Dep nodded, quite aware of the process and not a little irritated by the gildmaster’s manner. It was not unusual, he knew. Most gildmasters felt they were above the king’s law. The best of them was old Fascar Dak, gildmaster of precious metals and the city’s Great Gildmaster; he was always gracious and honest in his dealings with the watchmen. More than could be said of Olelsang, the gildmaster of saddle-makers, who oozed corruption from every pore yet possessed an indefinable aura that drew allegiance to him like flies to manure. “Do you think Aba-pet was intent on a target when she went to the House of Velvet?”

            “I would hope so. I mean, it would be demeaning for her to be there, otherwise. You know, I’m quite shocked to hear she was found there. Naked, you say?”

            “Yes, Gildmaster. The mutilation goes beyond anything I’ve encountered.”

            Gildmaster Jentore shook his head, and his long white hair whispered over his narrow shoulders. “I wish I could help, Watchman. I agree with you, the signs are not good. It is of dark significance. You have little choice, I fear. You must consult Nostor Vata.” As he spoke the witch’s name his mouth twisted as if in distaste. Witches had no gild; they were above all that: the gods endowed them with their arcane powers. 

            “Thank you for your time, Gildmaster.”

            “I suppose you will have to report how Aba-pet Fara was found?”

            “Yes, of course, I must.”

            “I would hope you would have no need to besmirch the gild. Perhaps you could mention that she was fully clothed?”

            “I don’t think so, Gildmaster Jentore. The facts are the facts and we cannot condone tampering with them.”

            “No, of course not, I understand…”

            “Believe me, the manner of her death and the whereabouts will be old news and soon forgotten. Your gild’s reputation won’t be sullied.”

            “I trust not, Watchman Welde.”

 

Zen-il reported to the king about Pro-dem Hom’s assassination and stood patiently awaiting a response. Queen Jikkos sat on the adjacent throne, her gimlet sky-blue eyes glaring into his while she twirled a be-ringed finger round her long braids of blonde hair.

            A nevus on Saurosen‘s left cheek, in the vague shape of a spider, grew inflamed. His almond-shaped eyes grew moist. “A dear friend and a wonderful speechwriter. He often knew what I wanted to say before I did.” His voice was more rasping than usual. He was tall, thin, and wiry with narrow stooped shoulders. He gestured dismissal with manicured hands. “Excuse us, Prime Watchman, so that we may mourn his tragic loss.”

            “Sire, before I leave, I must point out that his killer is still at large.”

            The king fingered a small tuft of brown hair under his lower lip. “I understand that. So what are you not telling me?”

            “It is believed that your speechwriter’s death was invoked by magic. The assassin has killed twice already…”

            King Saurosen’s reddish-brown complexion paled as he croaked, “Twice? I thought…”

            “The other death need not concern you, sire. Save that it was caused by the same baleful hand.”

            Saurosen turned to his queen.

            Her alabaster features betrayed no emotion.

            “Dearest,” he said, “I fear… I fear we need to take action, don’t you?”

            She leaned toward him, the low neckline of her silver dress displaying a snow-white bosom separated by a gold necklace. “I agree, my dear.” Her voice was sensuous; her rosebud mouth curved. “Whatever keeps you safe.”

            “Yes. Safe.” Saurosen stepped down and paced in front of the thrones, his gold sandals slapping. Then, abruptly he glanced at Zen-il. “I have it!”

            “Sire?”

            “I will issue an edict. We must cancel the Kcarran carnival…”

            “Excellent, my dear!” exclaimed his queen, clapping her hands, the rings on every finger clinking loudly.

            He continued to tread to and fro, excited by his idea. “Yes, you must curtail free passage of strangers into the Three Cities – at least until the assassin is found…”

            “But, sire, the carnival celebrates the crowning of Lornwater’s first king, Kcarran.  

The people have enjoyed their carnival for 1062 years…”

            “You are so precise that it is tedious, Prime Watchman Zen-il!” Saurosen railed. “It is precisely because they love their carnival that I will outlaw it! If they wish to harbour an assassin, then they will suffer!”

to be continued...

Prequel to Wings of the Overlord, now available from Knox Robinson and Amazon and other outlets.