Click Here for Chapter One Click here for Chapter Two
Links to buy the book are on this page. I sure would appreciate it if you'd order your copy...
Showing posts with label Sexton Chronicles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sexton Chronicles. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Chapter three of Sexton (Sexton Chronicles I) audio
Here's the third chapter of the first book in Sexton Chronicles.
Click Here for Chapter One Click here for Chapter Two
Click Here for Chapter One Click here for Chapter Two
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Monday, July 11, 2011
No matter where in the world you are, you can get my books.
I have visitors to this blog from all over the world, and I'm happy for it. I love to look at the map blogger provides that shows me how many hits and from which country it has been visited.
Pardon me for this brief advertisement... If you can read this blog, you can order my books:
Order the books in paperback, or hardcover, or pdf, or epub format from
www.lulu.com/spotlight/Misticuf
Pardon me for this brief advertisement... If you can read this blog, you can order my books:
Sexton (Sexton Chronicles I)
Sexton Spice (Sexton Chronicles II)
Storm Clouds Over Sexton (Sexton Chronicles III)
Green Goblin (the story of my survival of Wernicke's Encephalopathy)
Just for Fun: A Little Sexton and Some Other Stuff
Order the books in paperback, or hardcover, or pdf, or epub format from
www.lulu.com/spotlight/Misticuf
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Sexton Sand--the first three chapters. You saw them here first!
1
Tom had no idea how it was supposed to work. Fighting enemies, whether they were members of Sexton's Protectors Guild, shape-changing druids, or hordes of Crescen soldiers was easy compared to what he was about to do. If he screwed up fighting, the only penalty was death. This time the odds were different, the stakes higher. He was more nervous than he would have been if he was about to go into battle.
He was on a beach outside the living quarters of Benecala, the Mage of Sexton. If he was in America, he might have a better idea of how to proceed. He would walk in, disregarding the man's position—or the deadly destructive power of his magic, of which there would be none—and talk to him man to man. He would tell him of his love for his daughter and announce they were going to get married. Quaiva was no help, but that was probably his fault. He hadn't asked her how to proceed, and she couldn't or wouldn't read his mind.
How long had she been in there? He wished he still had his watch. At least then he would know how long he'd been waiting. He was trying not to think about Andy—in captivity somewhere in Crescens. On the other hand, thinking about Andy's troubles made his nervousness seem trivial. Benecala probably wouldn't turn him into anything that slithered or oozed. On the other hand... He cut the thought short. The other hand was that he had no idea what was going to happen when the door behind him finally opened. It had been nine days since Andy was captured. Nine long days and he was no closer to rescuing his friend, and no closer to marrying the woman he loved.
The door opened and he all but jumped to his feet. Quaiva smiled at him without saying a word, turned her back, and walked back into the room. He walked in and closed the door behind. Benecala was sitting in a chair with a high, padded back. His black and gray beard appeared to have been combed recently, and his long black hair wasn't as greasy as usual. Must've been time for his annual bath, Tom thought. Quaiva was on a padded bench on his right. He couldn't help but smile when he looked at her. This was a rare occasion—seeing her as a daughter—and she looked much younger than she was. Her brown hair was tied back in a long braid with a red ribbon on the end that matched the color of her dress. Her ankles were together on the floor and her back was straight. She smiled back at him, but only with her eyes.
“Sit next to my daughter,” Benecala said. He steepled his fingers. “I want to see how the two of you look together.”
Tom's nerves got the best of him. He blurted, “Sir, there's something I have to discuss...”
“Sit.”
Tom did. It didn't lessen his nervousness when he realized he followed the order without thinking about it. To sit, he had to take three steps and turn. The old fart must've used magic, he realized, or I would still be on my feet. His fingers wanted to twitch. To hide the nervousness that would show, he crossed his legs and clasped his hands over his knees. He wanted to speak but knew better. Benecala's tone made it clear who would speak next, and he wasn't going to do that until he was good and ready.
“My daughter has asked for permission to wed you.”
Tom's eyebrows went up. He glanced at Quaiva and saw her blush. “Excuse me?”
Benecala chuckled. “She did not discuss this with you?”
“Of course! Sir, I'm just...surprised...she asked your permission.”
“A father has some say in these matters. It is a tradition I do not wish to see broken. Is that not how it is done in your world?”
Tom laughed. “Where I come from, the man asks permission from the father of the woman he wants to marry. ...Sometimes.”
“Silliness. The man needs no one's permission save that of the woman.”
“That was my thought, but I'm willing to bow to tradition.” he wanted to look away from the wizard and look at her, but didn't quite dare. He had the sense she was wildly amused by the whole thing.
“She,” Benecala continued as if Tom hadn't said a word, “belongs to the father until he decides otherwise.”
He met Benecala's gaze; he wanted to see every nuance. There was something there, and although he'd known him a long time, he couldn't tell what it was. “What have you decided?”
It seemed like a long time before the reply came. The wizard stood. He turned his back on the couple on the bench and looked at the sun and clear sky through the open window behind him. Somewhere nearby, a bird sang. When he turned to face them again, he was smiling. “I have decided to welcome you as my son-in-law, Thomas. Quaiva, dearest girl, he is an excellent choice.”
She clasped Tom's hand and squeezed. He didn't look at her. He was afraid he'd join her if she was crying.
“If you wouldn't mind waiting in the hall again, Thomas, I would like a few words with her.”
Tom didn't try to hide his surprise. He looked at Quaiva and nodded when she smiled at him and glanced at the door. She wasn't crying. That helped. “Okay. I'll wait outside.”
Her palms were sweating, but she wouldn't wipe them on her dress like a cook's assistant. This wasn't part of her plan. There should be nothing further for the two of them to discuss on this matter until after he had a chance to become accustomed to the idea and was prepared to plan the ceremony. She knew him better than anyone else living or dead, and she could see there was something on his mind.
He crossed to her and caressed her cheek. When he released her, he took a step back and looked at her. “How proud your mother would be,” he said in a whisper. “And I am proud as well.”
“Thank you, father.”
He looked at the door, then at her with a scrutiny she didn't know how to interpret. “Does he know you carry his child?”
Her heart all but stopped. She had no spittle in her mouth, and her tongue felt swollen. A hard swallow made it easier. How could he know such a thing, when she wasn't sure herself? How would he feel about it? That he knew was beyond question. She chastised herself for not being forthright about her suspicion.
He seemed to read her every thought and allowed her to play them through her mind. There was a pitcher of water on a table next to his chair. He poured some for her and handed her the cup. With a laugh he said, “You are not thinking clearly, my dear. If you were, you would have known I would see it in you. These things warm my heart.” He smiled with as much warmth and happiness as she had ever seen from him. “We return to my question. Does he know?”
She stood. “I only suspected it myself...and apologize for not thinking you would see it as clearly as you see light.” Her apology was waved away. She swallowed and glanced at the door. “No. He does not know. He must focus his attention on the rescue of Andy from the Crescens. To ask otherwise of him would tear him apart. He will not know about my...”
“Daughter.”
“Don't try to stop me! Please.”
“I was not stopping you.” He chuckled. “I was but finishing your thought.”
“I was going to say 'pregnancy.'”
“I am telling you that you will have a daughter.”
“Father!”
The devilish twinkle in his eyes was much closer to the look they normally carried, but she didn’t like that it was aimed at her. “You were saying...?”
She aimed a finger at him. “You will tell no one I’m pregnant. And I will not tell him until he comes back safely with Andy. Then and only then, if he will still have me, will we marry. Agreed?”
He embraced her. “I will do as you ask.”
2
John was waiting at the door when Tom finally got to his room. He was leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest and a big grin on his face. There was a sack on the floor next to him. “How did it go?” he asked. “I see you’re not a toad yet.”
Tom rubbed his chin. It had been a long day, and he was tired. “Not yet anyway.” He glanced at the sack in John’s hand. “Did I lose a bet with you?”
“No. Why would you ask that?”
“That looks like a sack of laundry, and you’re waiting outside my door. Is it a welshing if I don’t do your laundry because I don’t remember the bet?”
“It would be.” John laughed. He picked up the sack and nodded at the door. “Benecala said I had to bunk with you. These are my clothes.”
Tom was too tired to ask, and too tired to argue with any response asking might have brought. He shrugged and reached for the door handle. “You get the couch. There’s only one bed.”
“You have a couch? How do you rate?”
“Academy grad. There aren’t a lot of perks that go with that, but this is one.” he smiled. “Rent is due daily...a silver. I get the bed and the first shower in the morning.” He opened the door.
“You have a shower?” He wasn’t sure if Tom was kidding or not. The last thing he expected was Tom stopping in the middle of the doorway. He walked right up to him. His eyes bugged when he saw the room was lit. Candles on the table in the middle of the room gave enough light for him to see the bed, the couch, the doors on the balcony, and what made Tom stop in his tracks.
His royal majesty, King Rolof of Sexton, was sitting in the chair. The candles were burned half down, and there were little puddles of white wax on the table. He’d been there a while. They hadn't seen him since they got back. Not that they expected to see him. Kings had better things to do than wait for a couple of guys to come back from a failed mission. John smiled at him. He liked the king... They liked the king. He looked healthy and vibrant. His red hair shined in the candlelight and his teeth looked white under his beard when he finally smiled.
“No,” Tom said.
“No?” Rolof repeated. “I haven’t said a word, and you start with a no?”
Tom sat on the bed. “I’m very tired, and John probably is too. No offense intended, your highness, but every time we see you, you want us to go on a mission that could get us killed. I figured I’d save some time and just say no.”
Rolof stood. He crossed to the bed and clapped Tom on the shoulder. His grin was infectious and both men joined him. “I came to ask no favors, nor to send you on a mission. “He shrugged. “I reserve the right for that at a later time, of course.” The smile faded from his face. “Let us not forget that I’m the king.”
“It’s good to be the king,” John said. He was thinking of a Mel Brooks movie and almost laughed. His brain pictured Rolof telling all the pawns—living people in lawn chess—to jump the queen. It almost made him giggle. Sleep. He needed sleep, and soon.
Tom yawned. “What brings you to my room in person in the middle of the night?”
Rolof let go of his shoulder and extended his hand and shook hands with Tom. “Congratulations are in order. I understand you and Quaiva are engaged to be wed!”
Tom’s eyebrows rose. “How did you know?”
“Why do I have to keep saying it? I’m the king.”
Jon said, “And people tell you everything? The only people that now are the folks that were on the boat, and the sailors on Quarick’s ship, and Quaiva, and me, and Benecala. Who told you?”
“Know you nothing about rumors?” He glanced at the expression on John’s face and let loose a booming laugh. “Yes, I suppose you do. What you do now know is that my people have a habit of assuming I neither listen nor care to listen to comments not directly addressed to me. If I sit long enough in one place, with a royal and ponderous expression on my face, the people around me assume I’m thinking royal thoughts...governing from the limits of my skull, or some other nonsense.” His next laugh was almost a giggle. “You should hear what the chambermaids prattle about when they give me baths.”
John shot Tom a look and saw laughter in his eyes. “Do they give you baths too?”
“Do I look like a king?”
“A little...around the eyes.”
Tom shook his head. “You came to congratulate me? Thank you, your majesty.”
Rolof’s expression turned serious. “I will stay out of your wedding plans, of course. Still, you must know this: I have no wife and no daughter. The closest persons in this castle to royalty other than myself are Benecala and Quaiva. She is not now, nor can she ever be a princess, but when she weds no one by appearances will know the difference.”
“A royal wedding?” Tom asked. His expression was almost comic. “You’re kidding. Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
John leaned forward and put his face close to Rolof’s. He turned to Tom and smiled. “He doesn’t look like he’s kidding.”
“I see that.”
Rolof turned to leave. He stopped next to the door. “One more thing, gentlemen. I know your friend Andrew was captured. I count him as one of my personal friends. Nothing will stop you from affecting a rescue, I know. You probably plan to leave soon, correct?”
Jon looked at Tom. He couldn’t read anything in his face, but he knew his friend would want to leave at first light and ride hard for Crescens. He was all for it if that was the plan. They were already nine days behind him and it would take several more for them to reach Crescens and start looking.
“Soon,” Tom answered.
“You need to rest for a couple of days before you go. I can see the exhaustion in both of you and I am—according to most—not an observant man. Three days will not make a difference in your mission. Stay and rest.”
“We’ll take that under advisement, sir.” Tom smiled. His yawn was real.
The king nodded. He looked at John and smiled. “Benecala asked me to give you this.” He reached under his belt and pulled out a small pouch. It rested in his palm.
“What is it?” John asked.
Rolof closed his hand over the pouch and squeezed. He threw it to the floor. A cloud of orange flew into the air and he backed out the door covered in haze. In the hall, he continued to hold his breath until he could hold it no longer. That damn wizard could pack a lot in a small package, but he didn’t say how fast the dust would work. He felt sleepy himself, but knew he didn’t breathe much of it in. If he had, he would sleep for a long time.
There was no noise from within the room. John and Tom would sleep for three days. Resting would arm them better for their mission than anything else he could give them. For his part, Rolof decided a hunting trip to his forest in the north would be in order. He would return to the palace in five days...two days after the Americans woke up and left for Crescens.
3
Andy opened his eyes. Bright light. Hurts. He closed them again, but stayed awake. Groggy. He was, but could feel himself growing alert. The last thing he remembered was getting the crap kicked out of him by a mob of Crescens in the tunnels under the Fortress Balfour. After that things were a blur: captivity, chains, getting carried—probably drugged, but maybe under that damn druid’s spell—on a land route to somewhere. How long ago was that? He had no idea.
He opened his eyes to slits and tried to get used to the light. Prisoner of war. The term rattled around in his head for a while. But why? They didn’t hesitate to kill everyone that got in their way. What’s special about me? Other than coming from a world they couldn’t imagine existed, he couldn’t think of anything. It wasn’t like he was a great warrior, or a prince, or a general in the Army of Sexton. As a hostage he wasn’t worth much. He had no rank, so they wouldn’t think he could give them enemy plans.
He moved his hands, which were untied, over the mattress under him. It was odd they put a mattress in a prison. The place didn’t smell bad either. No stench of sweat, no reek of urine, no odor of moldy straw. What the hell was he lying on? He wriggled his hips and didn’t hear the crunch of straw. If he didn’t know better, he would think he was on a feather bed. His eyebrows went up when he opened his eyes. The light was sunlight filtered through sheer curtains. There was a pillow under his head. A nice, soft pillow. Nice digs. Too nice. He wondered if he should be alarmed. Could he move? His ribs hurt when he sat up, but it was an aching pain rather than the stab of broken bones. His lips felt funny. Swollen? He moved his jaw around with his hand, remembering a few punches to his face while they were in the tunnel. He was dressed in something that looked and felt like silk pajamas. He ran his hands over his thighs, enjoying the feel of the fabric, and grinned when he realized he wasn’t tied up in any way.
The room was small and clean. Very clean. The floor was some kind of tile: green with flecks of gold. The walls were white, and the window did indeed have sheer curtains over it. A warm dry breeze blew into the room and fluttered the curtains. To his right was a door with a peaked arch at the top. There was no handle on the inside and he figured it was locked. It was a prison of some sort, but what kind of prison? If he was in Crescens, and he had no reason to think he was anywhere else, why was he in a nice place? There was plenty of poverty in the country. He was sure they didn’t have money to treat all prisoners this well.
He looked to the right and saw a table against the wall. On it was a pitcher and a plate with some kind of bread on it. His stomach rumbled at the sight. His legs wobbled when he stood, probably from lack of use. He couldn’t remember the last time he stood up or walked after the beating in the tunnel. Five or six steps took him to the table. He spilled a little of the water when he gulped it. Rather than waste the spilled water, he smeared more on his face. There didn’t’ seem toe any bruising, but there were a few tender spots that were probably pretty banged up for the first few days after the beatings. There was a lot of stubble on his face. Maybe he’d grow it into a beard.
A knock at the door brought a chill to his spine. He put the cup down and looked at it without saying a word. It opened, and a woman entered. She glanced at the bed, then looked deeper into the room and smiled when she saw him. A word whispered over her shoulder, and the door closed behind her.
It took him a second to realize who she was. The blond hair and blue eyes, the ready smile over white teeth, and the shape of her hips and breasts under the black dress did the trick. It took another second to get his lungs to work well enough to push breath and words out. “Sarah?”
Sarah was on of the wives of their friend Raj—an exile from Crescens who became their friend and got them into the spice trade, which was illegal in both countries, and who—Andy remembered with a gulp—went on to become King Rajahd’een of Crescens, the man responsible for starting the war. “Is that you?”
She smiled. “I am quite happy to see you awake. Are you well?”
He blinked and grinned. “Am I well? Um...I guess. How long have I been here?” Before she could answer, he held up a hand to stop her. “I mean. Where am I and how long have I been here?”
She shook her head and looked away. “I came only to see that you are well. I am so sorry, my friend, but I am not authorized to answer any of your questions. Is there anything in the way of food or drink I can get for you? The bread and water are here only to break your fast. Other foods are available to you. Perhaps you would like fruit or wine?”
“Tacos.”
She smiled. “What, pray tell, are tacos?”
“Ground beef heated until brown, served in flat bread with tomatoes, and lettuce, and cheese on top. A little spice added to the meat would be great.” his stomach rumbled loud enough for her to hear and make her giggle. “Four or five of ‘em should do the trick.”
“Tacos.”
“Yes, please.” Hot damn! I just invented tacos!”
“I will see what I can do. In the meantime, you should rest. You have a meeting in a few hours. I will wake you when I bring the tacos.” She knocked once on the door. It opened and she smiled at him as she backed out.
“Wait! Who is the meeting with?”
Her head poked back in. “Why...with the king. King Rajahd’een. Who else?”
The door closed. He heard a bolt click. Feeling tired again, he looked at the bed and sighed. “Tacos on the way, brought by a hot chick in a tight dress, a feather bed, and a king coming to see me. Things could be worse, I suppose...” The bed felt good. He was asleep in minutes.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Sexton Sand sample chapter--Chapter 74
Here's a sample chapter for you, while you wait for the book: Sexton Sand (Sexton Chronicles IV)
74
Benecala was in the corridor near the hole he used to escape the fortress. Given the fight atop the wall, it was the only place he was reasonably sure would have no druid presence. His senses were keenly attuned to magic, but virtually any practitioner would have been able to feel the power hurling around above his head. He did something he almost never did—he ran toward the nearest stairs. The only magic he could feel as he barreled up the stairs was druid magic. For all he knew, Niccolo was dead already.
†
The blackrobes stood five feet apart, three spectral shapes in black, staring at a pile of rubble that was the top of the outer wall moments before. The tall one in the middle took a few steps toward the smoking rubble and stopped. He looked at the one on his right and raised an eyebrow. There was no sign of their enemy.
“He must be dead,” he said to the others. “There was nowhere for him to go.”
“Our magic is strong, united as it was.”
The tallest of the three said nothing. He pushed a corner of a shattered brick aside with his boot. “There is more to him than met the eye.” The others were looking at him. His red eyes glinted in the morning sun. “He is not of this world, and will have magic we do not know. Caution is called for.”
“I thank you for your estimation of my powers.”
The voice came from behind the tallest blackrobe. He stiffened. Without turning, he looked at his companion on his left. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second and no words were exchanged, but each knew the other’s thoughts. As one they spun and cast black destruction directly at the source of the voice.
They saw the wizard, smiling. His sword still sheathed at his side, his arms spread at his waist. Their spell blasted through him, but left him untouched. Their surprise was palpable.
He vanished. Reappeared behind their comrade on their far left. As one the two blasted—sending a tentacle of power toward the other druid, who spun neatly out of the way with a yelp that sounded like a dog bark. He spun as well, joining their blast.
The wizard vanished again.
†
Nick could play the game all day if he chose. He was leaning against the outer wall that ran along the right side of the square around the courtyard. It was too far from the druids to hear them speak, but their confusion was both obvious and humorous. He thought it odd that men who were capable of assuming the shapes of a variety of animals never thought of illusion. They weren’t shooting at him at all. They were shooting at a projected image. Still, it was a game with no point but putting off the inevitable. Sooner or later he would have to flee or fight. The energy the druids spent casting their spells didn’t come from them. Unlike Nick’s magic, theirs came from their god—or some other source he didn’t understand.
There was a change in the air, magic from somewhere. It coalesced near him, close enough to startle him. His hands came up and a spell formed on his lips, but he stopped both when he realized the man he was looking at—who came from nowhere, it seemed—was on his side.
He grinned. Looked, shook his head, and grinned again. “Welcome to the fun, Lord Benecala,” he said.
Benecala didn’t answer at first. He was watching the druids look at each other in confusion. “They will understand what you’re doing, you know. Very soon, I should think.”
Nick put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “They’re probably going to be mad as hell when they figure it out. I like that.”
“You would.” He grinned back at the American. The other Americans he knew would have been shocked at the sincerity in the smile. “They cannot be allowed to live.”
“My sentiments exactly.” His grin faded. He was looking over Benecala’s shoulder at the blackrobes. They were done with the illusion, apparently. All three sets of red eyes were fixed on them. None of them moved. None summoned power.
The moment lasted several seconds. The breeze blowing over the fort remained constant, and Nick remembered the extent of control over the weather the druids had. He could hear Benecala’s deep smooth breaths, and feel his own heart beating in his chest. It was hot. Sweat was beading on the back of his neck. Nick ignored it. “What are they waiting for?”
Benecala didn’t look at him. “I do not know.”
As if that was the cue rather than something else, there was movement into the courtyard. Men came from inside, a lot of men. Nick looked down. He recognized the uniforms of the Crescen army. They came in from all sides, in silence, in some sort of formation. He estimated there were sixty or seventy men in all. They were looking up at them.
“This just got interesting,” Nick breathed.
“It will get more interesting in a moment, I would wager.”
“More interesting?” He chuckled. “Do we want that?”
“I think so.”
Nick heard a screaming, whistling sound from their right, from the bay below. He felt his eyebrows rise, and shot a glance that direction. He could see a cloud of smoke from the side of the ship in view. Before he could process what it was, there was a crash of brick. The wall shook, and he almost lost his footing. “What the hell?” came out his mouth almost before he realized it.
“Cannon fire.” Benecala grinned—the ghastly one.
“They have canons?” He glared at the wizard. “Since when?”
“Since you Americans started arriving in droves.”
Before Nick could say another word...all hell broke loose.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Ending the book ritual--I think all novelists have one, whether they admit it or not.
I designed the final cover for Sexton Sand last night. The manuscript isn't finished yet, but it's close. People with traditional publishers don't get to design their own covers, but I'm still a self-published author so I get the privilege of designing my own cover art. I also get the privilege of doing everything else for the book. Someday I hope I'll be able to trade those privileges for the privilege of cashing royalty checks with commas in them, but until then I get to do my own artwork.
My wife is one of those detail by the rules kind of people, which is one of the many reasons I love her. I'm not quite the antithesis of that, but I'm not much for rules unless they make sense at the moment I'm considering them. In her mind, the cover should be the last thing I develop, or the first, but definitely not the I'm-almost-done exercise.
I'll tell you why I do it, why I like to design the final cover just before I write the ending. It's because I always experience a little trepidation just before I write the ending. Oh, I know how the book is going to end before I design the cover. That's not the problem. And now that I'm my own publisher, I know I can have the book ready for sale within a couple of hours after the final edit. That's not the problem.
The problem with finishing the book is the let down. Yes, I always feel a little lost right after I finish a book. I feel satisfaction of completion...but then there's a lull, a mental pause, before I type chapter one and start the next book. I never want to take a break after I finish a book, but my brain (a thing I sometimes refer to as a fictional character I call Ralph The Muse) needs to take a break.
Maybe this time it'll be different. After I finish Sexton Sand, I'm going to finish a book I've already started--a non-fiction account of the 9 weeks I spent in Peru in 1987. It was an interesting time, and a lot of the world called Sexton started with what I felt, saw, tasted, and feared in those days in Peru, when the country wasn't very stable. That book will be called: "Everything is Tomorrow?"
I'll be darned. I just plugged two books in one post.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Sexton Spice Sample--Chapters 1-3
Here are the first three chapters from Sexton Spice (Sexton Chronicles, vol. 2) You can buy it from www.lulu.com/spotlight/Misticuf or www.amazon.com, or Barnes & Noble. It's available in paperback, hardcover, epub, or file download.
Chapter Two
Corporal Cliomet brushed a piece of lint from his black cloak while another man changed the bandage on his face. Sistelli looked over their shoulders at the steps in front of the temple he was standing in. Soon he would be decorated with the Order of Sexton—the first such decorated officer in this generation of the reign of Rolof the First. It was a singular honor he felt he richly deserved. And Clio, good man that he was—the man who dragged him out of the inferno and tended his wounds until help arrived—would be decorated as well, though to a lesser extent.
A man wearing the purple mantle of high office over his shoulders made his way to them. “In a few moments,” he said without preamble, “the crowd will be quieted and I will go to the front and call you gentlemen out. I shall read the commendation and present you with your medals.”
“What do we do after that?” Clio asked.
“Resume your duties and assist with the tax collection.”
Sistelli winked at the corporal. “After that, I will buy you an ale and we can celebrate.”
“I’m sorry sir, but I will pass on your offer…for now. With your permission, I would like to go home.”
Bells in the tower rang. The King’s man walked out and raised his arms to the crowd. The sun shined in his face, but he could still see three lines of commoners stretching yards down the street. The were there to pay their taxes and if given a choice would probably rather just pay them and leave than watch a guild officer receive praise, but they were not going to be offered a choice.
There were two protectors standing behind each of three tables at the top of the stairs. Behind each were chests full of coins: taxes. They came to attention as he stepped to the center. His voice rang loud and clear in the morning air. “Good citizens of Sexton, I come before you to hail two heroes of the realm. Raise your voices and hearts and cheer the presence of Lieutenant Sistelli and Corporal Cliomet!”
Sistelli and Clio stepped into the sun. The crowd applauded, and a few managed to shout. Although no announcement was made, most knew of the fire in the warehouse, and that many died before it fell into the Bay of Sexton. Some believed the blaze was caused by renegade magic, others thought it was the wrath of one of the gods, and still others heard from those who heard from those who claimed they were there, that it was an explosion of mundane cause.
The King’s man raised his long-fingered hands until the crowd quieted. “His majesty sent me to award these good men—your protectors—high honors for their deeds of two weeks ago. Allow me to introduce the noble heroes of the day…Lieutenant Sistelli and Corporal Cliomet!” Applause rose as the two protectors joined him at the top of the stairs. Clio wasn’t sure what to do with his hands; they sat at his sides and twitched. He stood at stiff attention and suddenly wished he was somewhere else.
Sistelli beamed. He stood with his legs spaced to shoulder width, grinning, and raised both hands to the crowd. They responded with a cheer. His thigh ached—the wound from Viper’s thrown dagger had yet to knit. He suffered a deep cut from the point of the little bastard’s sword just before the warehouse fell. His smile almost faded when he remembered the moment he discovered that his former roommate at The Protectors Guild Academy at Misticuf was the outlaw known as Viper. Of all those present, only he knew that Tom Benton was Viper—and that Tom Benton didn't die in the blaze. That will change, he thought, when I find him and reveal him for what he is. Until then…let these fools believe him to be a fallen hero. It costs me nothing.
The King’s man’s voice was deep and carried easily up the street. “…discovered the thieves known as John and Andy, who had the audacity to rob the coffers of your hard-earned taxes, were hiding in an unused warehouse on the wharf. He and the deceased Lieutenant Benton led two patrols to the warehouse to retrieve the taxes and execute the criminals.
“The criminals were clever, diabolical, and not working alone. A wizard…unauthorized by the kingdom, and evil, known to some of you who may have utilized his tavern as Ambrose Bierce, assisted them. In spite of the danger, Lieutenant Sistelli and Corporal Cliomet, accompanied by Lieutenant Benton, faced fire and explosion. It is obvious from his wounds that Lieutenant Sistelli suffered much to protect you. We are assured, happily, that his wounds will heal!” He waited for the crowd to cheer. It took a moment but they complied…if with somewhat less enthusiasm than he hoped to see.
“It gives me great pleasure, on behalf of the Grandfather of Protectors and the King of our nation, to confer upon Corporal Cliomet the rank of sergeant!” Cheers went up. Those who knew Cliomet thought him to be as honorable as members of the guild could be. Clio broke into a grin. He knew he was going to receive a medal, but never dared dream he would be a sergeant. If only his men were there to see such a thing. A few were. He could see their faces in the glare and was happy to see them smile. In spite of the pain in his chest—he was kicked by a mule in the attack—he stood up a little straighter.
“…and know, good people of Sexton Proper, that Lieutenant Sistelli is now Captain Sistelli! A man of unquestionable, indisputable character, Captain Sistelli was gravely injured in the fight with John and Andy. He vanquished both while the wizard Bierce worked his magic to the destruction of the building. That he was unable to save the life of Lieutenant Benton is no reflection upon his skill as a fighter—Captain Sistelli, as you can see, sustained terrible wounds before emerging victorious. We take the greatest pleasure and honor in recognizing these two heroes.”
He stuck out his hand and two boys came out. Each carried a shining medallion resting on a pillow of the finest purple fabric. The King’s man picked up the first medal and held it in the sun for the crowd to see. “Sergeant Cliomet has been conferred the King’s medal of Noble Service.” Clio snapped to attention with only a slight wince at the pain in his ribs, and bowed his head slightly to receive the medal.
“And good Captain Sistelli, for facing two of the greatest villains of our day…and killing a rogue wizard at great personal expense, it is my singular honor to recognize you with the highest award conferred in the king’s name—the Order of Sexton!”
At that, the crowd cheered in earnest. The Order of Sexton was rare, almost unheard of. They would be able to brag for generations that they were there to see a brave man accept it. Sistelli lowered his head and relished the shine on the medallion as it passed before his eyes, the weight of it on his chest when he straightened. The increase in status as well as pay almost overcame the stabbing pain in his leg and the dull throb of his face. He looked noble and strong, the picture of a model protector in spite of, and perhaps because of, his wounds.
These wounds will heal, Tom the Viper. They will heal, and when they do, I will find you and kill you. Until then, and probably after, he would use his status as a hero and protector to increase his wealth by whatever means he could. Duty did not have to be synonymous with poverty. It was a lesson he learned years before.
No one noticed when a bent man with a cane and a brown cloak with the hood pulled over his head turned away from the end of one of the lines and moved slowly up the hill. Under the hood, Andy shook his head.
Chapter One
Andy looked at the chicken frying in the pan and grinned. Not only was it browning nicely, it smelled great. The potatoes were boiling and would be ready to mash about the time the chicken was done. It was as close to an American meal as they had seen in more than five years, and if Tom and John were late, he would eat it without them. Every bite. …And run them through with a sword if they groused about it.
He grabbed the bundle of sticks they called a broom and swept the floorboards again. With no screens on the windows and the door open to vent the heat from their stove, the city dirt came in nonstop even on the third floor. If he thought about it, he might have realized he was contributing to the problem when he swept the dirt out the door and let it fall over the rickety stairs and down to the street, but he didn’t think about it. He glanced at the stove and saw that the chicken was done. Stove, he thought. That’s a kind name for it.
John came through the door and laughed at him. “You’ve got to be the ugliest housewife I’ve ever seen.”
“Ever had a housewife bend, fold, mutilate, and staple you?”
He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “It’s the apron.”
“How else am I supposed to keep the grease off my shirt?”
“Ah. The Betty Crocker defense.”
Andy stuck a fork in one of the potatoes and flipped it John’s direction. “Hot potato!”
John didn’t disappoint him. When he saw the white object come flying at him, he caught it by reflex. He howled and tossed it from one hand to the other. It looked ridiculous—the big guy hopping from one foot to another, his chiseled face twisted in a wince, bouncing the soft potato over his fingers. Finally, he put it down on the table. “What’d you do that for?”
Andy stuck the long fork in a chicken leg and transferred it to a towel on a shelf on the wall to drain. “To see if you’re dumb enough to catch it, even after I warned you.”
“Shouting something’s hot when you throw it at a guy isn’t a warning.”
“Next time I’ll write a memo.” He flicked another potato over his shoulder.
“Ow, ow, ow!”
It was hard to talk and snicker at the same time, but Andy managed. Without looking, he said, “Caught that one too, didn’t ya?”
“Now you’re just wasting food…ya bastard.”
“I’ll bet I didn’t. You put it on the table, didn’t you?” He spun to look and cackled when he saw John reach to knock it to the floor. “Too late! Ha! I knew you wouldn’t drop it.”
“It’s food!”
“It was a weapon.” He winked. “That you can eat. That’s how the Irish invented mashed potatoes—they ran out of rocks and put boiled potatoes in their slings. When they hit the enemy, they burned, and smashed, and tasted good.”
“You’re making that up.”
“How could you tell?”
“The question,” Tom said from the doorway, “is when can we eat?” He walked into the room and looked at John, who was blowing on his fingers. Andy looked ridiculous—sweat on his face, his thin black hair sticking up, wearing a dirty apron over a cotton blouse grease stained with spatters from the frying chicken. “I have to admit,” he said as he sat on one of the rough chairs at the table, “that smells great. I can’t remember the last time I had fried chicken, but it sure wasn’t in this world. What’s in the breading?”
Andy grinned and started transferring the rest of the pieces onto the towel. “Stuff I got on the street. A little bit of red pepper, some leafy stuff that might be tarragon, a few miscellaneous powders with names I can’t pronounce…”
Tom arched an eyebrow over a blue eye. Somehow, his lopsided grin made his face look thoughtful. “Spices?”
“Yeah.” He took off his apron and bunched it in his hand so he could lift the pot of water from the stove, carried it over to the window, and tilted it. Looking out and down, he shouted, “Hot water!” None of the potatoes fell to the street, and he didn’t hear any screams from below.
Andy looked at the chicken frying in the pan and grinned. Not only was it browning nicely, it smelled great. The potatoes were boiling and would be ready to mash about the time the chicken was done. It was as close to an American meal as they had seen in more than five years, and if Tom and John were late, he would eat it without them. Every bite. …And run them through with a sword if they groused about it.
He grabbed the bundle of sticks they called a broom and swept the floorboards again. With no screens on the windows and the door open to vent the heat from their stove, the city dirt came in nonstop even on the third floor. If he thought about it, he might have realized he was contributing to the problem when he swept the dirt out the door and let it fall over the rickety stairs and down to the street, but he didn’t think about it. He glanced at the stove and saw that the chicken was done. Stove, he thought. That’s a kind name for it.
John came through the door and laughed at him. “You’ve got to be the ugliest housewife I’ve ever seen.”
“Ever had a housewife bend, fold, mutilate, and staple you?”
He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “It’s the apron.”
“How else am I supposed to keep the grease off my shirt?”
“Ah. The Betty Crocker defense.”
Andy stuck a fork in one of the potatoes and flipped it John’s direction. “Hot potato!”
John didn’t disappoint him. When he saw the white object come flying at him, he caught it by reflex. He howled and tossed it from one hand to the other. It looked ridiculous—the big guy hopping from one foot to another, his chiseled face twisted in a wince, bouncing the soft potato over his fingers. Finally, he put it down on the table. “What’d you do that for?”
Andy stuck the long fork in a chicken leg and transferred it to a towel on a shelf on the wall to drain. “To see if you’re dumb enough to catch it, even after I warned you.”
“Shouting something’s hot when you throw it at a guy isn’t a warning.”
“Next time I’ll write a memo.” He flicked another potato over his shoulder.
“Ow, ow, ow!”
It was hard to talk and snicker at the same time, but Andy managed. Without looking, he said, “Caught that one too, didn’t ya?”
“Now you’re just wasting food…ya bastard.”
“I’ll bet I didn’t. You put it on the table, didn’t you?” He spun to look and cackled when he saw John reach to knock it to the floor. “Too late! Ha! I knew you wouldn’t drop it.”
“It’s food!”
“It was a weapon.” He winked. “That you can eat. That’s how the Irish invented mashed potatoes—they ran out of rocks and put boiled potatoes in their slings. When they hit the enemy, they burned, and smashed, and tasted good.”
“You’re making that up.”
“How could you tell?”
“The question,” Tom said from the doorway, “is when can we eat?” He walked into the room and looked at John, who was blowing on his fingers. Andy looked ridiculous—sweat on his face, his thin black hair sticking up, wearing a dirty apron over a cotton blouse grease stained with spatters from the frying chicken. “I have to admit,” he said as he sat on one of the rough chairs at the table, “that smells great. I can’t remember the last time I had fried chicken, but it sure wasn’t in this world. What’s in the breading?”
Andy grinned and started transferring the rest of the pieces onto the towel. “Stuff I got on the street. A little bit of red pepper, some leafy stuff that might be tarragon, a few miscellaneous powders with names I can’t pronounce…”
Tom arched an eyebrow over a blue eye. Somehow, his lopsided grin made his face look thoughtful. “Spices?”
“Yeah.” He took off his apron and bunched it in his hand so he could lift the pot of water from the stove, carried it over to the window, and tilted it. Looking out and down, he shouted, “Hot water!” None of the potatoes fell to the street, and he didn’t hear any screams from below.
“What’s wrong with spices?”
Wood creaked on wood as John pulled back a chair and sat. “Feed me!”
Andy grabbed the potato from the table—the one on the floor was too far past the three-second rule—and tossed it in the pot with the others. He mashed the ones in the pot with the back of the wooden spoon and threw in a dollop of butter and a pinch of salt, some milk purchased that morning, and a dash of pepper. He slopped the mashed potatoes on three plates at the table. “Dinner is served,” he said with a bow.
Tom took the first bite of a leg, chewed, and sighed. “After all this time, fried chicken. Man this is good!” John pinched skin and meat from a breast and shoved it in his mouth. The look on his face showed his agreement with Tom. Andy, busy with a spoonful of mashed potatoes, didn’t miss their expressions. It was good. Especially after years of bland Sexton food.
“So answer the question,” Tom said.
“What question?”
“Where did you get the spices?”
“Actually,” Andy said through his food, “you didn’t ask the question.” A glance at Tom’s face took away his mirth. “I know a guy.”
“You know the purchase, use, or sale of foreign spices is illegal.”
“They’re spices, not heroin…or cocaine, or mara-gee-wanna.”
John looked worried. He leaned toward Tom and met his eyes. “You’re not a protector anymore, Tom. …Are you?”
The hard look passed from Tom’s eyes, and his face relaxed to its normal grin. “No. I’m an outlaw with the same price on his head as you. But you need to understand…” He pointed at the plate of chicken. “The protectors guild looks at illegally imported herbs and spices the same way cops on Earth look at illegal drugs.”
Andy sucked the meat off a wing and tossed the bone on his plate. “Let me see if I have this right. The government of this ass-backward, police state kingdom will kill me for preparing a decent meal of fried chicken, the guy who sold me the stuff that made it a decent meal, and anyone who ate the decent meal? I should worry if they smell mustard on my breath?”
“Sorry, pal. It’s not a decent meal of fried chicken.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a great meal of fried chicken.” Tom pushed his chair away from the table, put his hands together behind his head, and—to Andy’s consternation—put his booted feet on the table. “In fact, I think we owe it to the people of Sexton to reproduce this meal in a low key, off the beaten path, restaurant.”
“I like where you’re going with this,” John said.
“But I don’t have that much of any of the spices.”
Tom shrugged. “So we have a little supply problem, and one or two minor problems with the law.”
“Minor problems?” John coughed.
“They already want us dead.” Andy grinned. “It can’t get much worse.”
“It can’t?”
Tom looked at each of them and winked at Andy. “It seems to me, gentlemen, that we are about to move from a life of crime, to a career of crime.” They were in; he could feel it. “…What’s for dessert?”
Wood creaked on wood as John pulled back a chair and sat. “Feed me!”
Andy grabbed the potato from the table—the one on the floor was too far past the three-second rule—and tossed it in the pot with the others. He mashed the ones in the pot with the back of the wooden spoon and threw in a dollop of butter and a pinch of salt, some milk purchased that morning, and a dash of pepper. He slopped the mashed potatoes on three plates at the table. “Dinner is served,” he said with a bow.
Tom took the first bite of a leg, chewed, and sighed. “After all this time, fried chicken. Man this is good!” John pinched skin and meat from a breast and shoved it in his mouth. The look on his face showed his agreement with Tom. Andy, busy with a spoonful of mashed potatoes, didn’t miss their expressions. It was good. Especially after years of bland Sexton food.
“So answer the question,” Tom said.
“What question?”
“Where did you get the spices?”
“Actually,” Andy said through his food, “you didn’t ask the question.” A glance at Tom’s face took away his mirth. “I know a guy.”
“You know the purchase, use, or sale of foreign spices is illegal.”
“They’re spices, not heroin…or cocaine, or mara-gee-wanna.”
John looked worried. He leaned toward Tom and met his eyes. “You’re not a protector anymore, Tom. …Are you?”
The hard look passed from Tom’s eyes, and his face relaxed to its normal grin. “No. I’m an outlaw with the same price on his head as you. But you need to understand…” He pointed at the plate of chicken. “The protectors guild looks at illegally imported herbs and spices the same way cops on Earth look at illegal drugs.”
Andy sucked the meat off a wing and tossed the bone on his plate. “Let me see if I have this right. The government of this ass-backward, police state kingdom will kill me for preparing a decent meal of fried chicken, the guy who sold me the stuff that made it a decent meal, and anyone who ate the decent meal? I should worry if they smell mustard on my breath?”
“Sorry, pal. It’s not a decent meal of fried chicken.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a great meal of fried chicken.” Tom pushed his chair away from the table, put his hands together behind his head, and—to Andy’s consternation—put his booted feet on the table. “In fact, I think we owe it to the people of Sexton to reproduce this meal in a low key, off the beaten path, restaurant.”
“I like where you’re going with this,” John said.
“But I don’t have that much of any of the spices.”
Tom shrugged. “So we have a little supply problem, and one or two minor problems with the law.”
“Minor problems?” John coughed.
“They already want us dead.” Andy grinned. “It can’t get much worse.”
“It can’t?”
Tom looked at each of them and winked at Andy. “It seems to me, gentlemen, that we are about to move from a life of crime, to a career of crime.” They were in; he could feel it. “…What’s for dessert?”
Chapter Two
Corporal Cliomet brushed a piece of lint from his black cloak while another man changed the bandage on his face. Sistelli looked over their shoulders at the steps in front of the temple he was standing in. Soon he would be decorated with the Order of Sexton—the first such decorated officer in this generation of the reign of Rolof the First. It was a singular honor he felt he richly deserved. And Clio, good man that he was—the man who dragged him out of the inferno and tended his wounds until help arrived—would be decorated as well, though to a lesser extent.
A man wearing the purple mantle of high office over his shoulders made his way to them. “In a few moments,” he said without preamble, “the crowd will be quieted and I will go to the front and call you gentlemen out. I shall read the commendation and present you with your medals.”
“What do we do after that?” Clio asked.
“Resume your duties and assist with the tax collection.”
Sistelli winked at the corporal. “After that, I will buy you an ale and we can celebrate.”
“I’m sorry sir, but I will pass on your offer…for now. With your permission, I would like to go home.”
Bells in the tower rang. The King’s man walked out and raised his arms to the crowd. The sun shined in his face, but he could still see three lines of commoners stretching yards down the street. The were there to pay their taxes and if given a choice would probably rather just pay them and leave than watch a guild officer receive praise, but they were not going to be offered a choice.
There were two protectors standing behind each of three tables at the top of the stairs. Behind each were chests full of coins: taxes. They came to attention as he stepped to the center. His voice rang loud and clear in the morning air. “Good citizens of Sexton, I come before you to hail two heroes of the realm. Raise your voices and hearts and cheer the presence of Lieutenant Sistelli and Corporal Cliomet!”
Sistelli and Clio stepped into the sun. The crowd applauded, and a few managed to shout. Although no announcement was made, most knew of the fire in the warehouse, and that many died before it fell into the Bay of Sexton. Some believed the blaze was caused by renegade magic, others thought it was the wrath of one of the gods, and still others heard from those who heard from those who claimed they were there, that it was an explosion of mundane cause.
The King’s man raised his long-fingered hands until the crowd quieted. “His majesty sent me to award these good men—your protectors—high honors for their deeds of two weeks ago. Allow me to introduce the noble heroes of the day…Lieutenant Sistelli and Corporal Cliomet!” Applause rose as the two protectors joined him at the top of the stairs. Clio wasn’t sure what to do with his hands; they sat at his sides and twitched. He stood at stiff attention and suddenly wished he was somewhere else.
Sistelli beamed. He stood with his legs spaced to shoulder width, grinning, and raised both hands to the crowd. They responded with a cheer. His thigh ached—the wound from Viper’s thrown dagger had yet to knit. He suffered a deep cut from the point of the little bastard’s sword just before the warehouse fell. His smile almost faded when he remembered the moment he discovered that his former roommate at The Protectors Guild Academy at Misticuf was the outlaw known as Viper. Of all those present, only he knew that Tom Benton was Viper—and that Tom Benton didn't die in the blaze. That will change, he thought, when I find him and reveal him for what he is. Until then…let these fools believe him to be a fallen hero. It costs me nothing.
The King’s man’s voice was deep and carried easily up the street. “…discovered the thieves known as John and Andy, who had the audacity to rob the coffers of your hard-earned taxes, were hiding in an unused warehouse on the wharf. He and the deceased Lieutenant Benton led two patrols to the warehouse to retrieve the taxes and execute the criminals.
“The criminals were clever, diabolical, and not working alone. A wizard…unauthorized by the kingdom, and evil, known to some of you who may have utilized his tavern as Ambrose Bierce, assisted them. In spite of the danger, Lieutenant Sistelli and Corporal Cliomet, accompanied by Lieutenant Benton, faced fire and explosion. It is obvious from his wounds that Lieutenant Sistelli suffered much to protect you. We are assured, happily, that his wounds will heal!” He waited for the crowd to cheer. It took a moment but they complied…if with somewhat less enthusiasm than he hoped to see.
“It gives me great pleasure, on behalf of the Grandfather of Protectors and the King of our nation, to confer upon Corporal Cliomet the rank of sergeant!” Cheers went up. Those who knew Cliomet thought him to be as honorable as members of the guild could be. Clio broke into a grin. He knew he was going to receive a medal, but never dared dream he would be a sergeant. If only his men were there to see such a thing. A few were. He could see their faces in the glare and was happy to see them smile. In spite of the pain in his chest—he was kicked by a mule in the attack—he stood up a little straighter.
“…and know, good people of Sexton Proper, that Lieutenant Sistelli is now Captain Sistelli! A man of unquestionable, indisputable character, Captain Sistelli was gravely injured in the fight with John and Andy. He vanquished both while the wizard Bierce worked his magic to the destruction of the building. That he was unable to save the life of Lieutenant Benton is no reflection upon his skill as a fighter—Captain Sistelli, as you can see, sustained terrible wounds before emerging victorious. We take the greatest pleasure and honor in recognizing these two heroes.”
He stuck out his hand and two boys came out. Each carried a shining medallion resting on a pillow of the finest purple fabric. The King’s man picked up the first medal and held it in the sun for the crowd to see. “Sergeant Cliomet has been conferred the King’s medal of Noble Service.” Clio snapped to attention with only a slight wince at the pain in his ribs, and bowed his head slightly to receive the medal.
“And good Captain Sistelli, for facing two of the greatest villains of our day…and killing a rogue wizard at great personal expense, it is my singular honor to recognize you with the highest award conferred in the king’s name—the Order of Sexton!”
At that, the crowd cheered in earnest. The Order of Sexton was rare, almost unheard of. They would be able to brag for generations that they were there to see a brave man accept it. Sistelli lowered his head and relished the shine on the medallion as it passed before his eyes, the weight of it on his chest when he straightened. The increase in status as well as pay almost overcame the stabbing pain in his leg and the dull throb of his face. He looked noble and strong, the picture of a model protector in spite of, and perhaps because of, his wounds.
These wounds will heal, Tom the Viper. They will heal, and when they do, I will find you and kill you. Until then, and probably after, he would use his status as a hero and protector to increase his wealth by whatever means he could. Duty did not have to be synonymous with poverty. It was a lesson he learned years before.
No one noticed when a bent man with a cane and a brown cloak with the hood pulled over his head turned away from the end of one of the lines and moved slowly up the hill. Under the hood, Andy shook his head.
Chapter 3
It wasn't the heat of the day that bothered him, but the dampness of the air. The stench of the bay reached into his shop and almost overwhelmed the pleasant odors of his wares. He knew some passersby on the street would disagree with him. Their barbaric noses were not refined enough to enjoy the spirit of Crescens—his homeland to the south. That was fine with him. He catered to a more adventurous clientèle: those who appreciated his fine rugs, his tobaccos, his water pipes, and other parts of his culture he was allowed to sell in this backward land.
He was about to close his shop for the afternoon and go to the bazaar and see if his younger brother was making any sales. Someone walked through the door just as he was about to lock the money box and take it upstairs. Raj tried not to watch him overtly, but kept an eye on the man while he dusted a water pipe on the counter.
The man was small and well dressed in blue trousers and a pale blouse. His black hair was clean and cut short, as was his beard. He looked with an appraising eye at the variety, and seemed to admire the roots and herbs in the barrels by the window. When he caught Raj looking at him, he nodded and went back to looking.
Andy bounced into the shop and shoved the open door against the wall to jangle the bell. He grinned at the startled look on the face of the proprietor and was relieved to see the look change to a happy one. His teeth were startling white in his shaved, olive-skinned face. Andy wondered if Tom knew what country the man was from based on his long white robe and brimless white cap. Probably not, he thought. The protectors guild doesn’t worry about anything outside the borders—that’s the army’s problem.
“Good afternoon, my friend!” Raj boomed. “What does your wife think of your newly found cooking skills?”
“You mean the ones with food?”
Raj laughed, but his eyes flitted to the stranger behind his friend—who’s name he did not now. Something struck him as odd and he didn't like it. In light of the moment, he regretted selling this man spices against the law of this land, and was certain the fire at the warehouse—which resulted in death several times over—was caused, at least in part, by the barrels he sold to him. “I am sorry sirs, I was about to close for the afternoon. Perhaps you could return some other time?”
Tom walked over and closed the door. He smiled at the shopkeeper and bowed his head slightly. “Relax. We’re here to discuss a business arrangement that will result in more money than you will ever see from the sale of even your finest rugs.”
He reached under the counter and put his fingers around the handle of a long dagger. “You have my attention, but first I must know your names.” He gave the a long look. “Names your mothers would recognize.”
Andy looked at Tom and shrugged. “He trusted me with contraband spices and illegal explosives. The least we can do is trust him with our real names.” He turned and reached out to shake the shopkeeper’s hand. “Ringo Starr,” he said. It might have worked if Tom wasn’t laughing so hard.
“…And he has a screen door on his yellow submarine,” Tom said. The shopkeeper looked confused. “His name is Andy, and mine is Tom. As long as we’re friends… I ask that you let go of that weapon in your hand.”
Raj let go of the dagger and brought both hands to the counter top. “How did you know?”
“It’s what I would've done.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You have the mark of the protectors guild on you. The stench of it, I mean to say.”
Andy decided to intervene. “He’s not with the guild. Not anymore…I mean…uh…”
Tom walked to the counter and shook hands with the shopkeeper. “My name really is Tom. You have a good eye. I was a protector for a while, but no longer. Now I’m afraid you have me at a slight disadvantage.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know your name.”
“Raj.” He shook the proffered hand. “Are you the one known as Viper?” The grip on his hand tightened, and the little man’s eyes narrowed, but only for a fraction of a second.
“How do you know that name?”
He laughed and winked at Andy. “When one makes a living selling foreign goods, and a better living selling foreign goods that are contraband, one does well to pay very close attention to whispers in dark streets.” His eyes turned back to Tom. “Why do you wish to speak with me?”
“To propose a partnership.”
“I am listening.” The little man’s face did not change; his eyes pierced his. “You can be assured I will keep this conversation in the strictest confidence. Call it a matter of mutual respect. As I see it, you are wanted by the protectors guild…and I make more money in the spice trade than any other way. A slip of the tongue, a word placed in the wrong ear, and neither of us lives for long. I have but one question.”
“What’s your question?” Andy stepped next to Tom. He sensed tension without knowing exactly why.
“What happens if I do not accept your proposal?”
Tom smiled without a trace of anything but satisfaction. “Nothing. You stated the situation very well, which is one of the reasons I think we’re going to get along. I can’t give you up to the guild—not that I would anyway. If I had a problem of any sort with spices, I would never have set foot in this shop…as a civilian.”
“I think I like you as well.”
“But time will tell.”
“Yes.”
Tom accepted the equivocation with a nod. “My friends and I are going to open a restaurant, and we’re going to use spices to make food a man with a palate can enjoy.”
“That is not a crime.”
Andy dove in. “Would you sell us the spices?”
“No. That would be a crime.”
“Exactly,” Tom agreed; his grin came back. “We need to supply ourselves.”
Raj toyed with the mouthpiece of the water pipe. “I suppose, if it is done quietly and the price is right, I can supply you with enough for your restaurant.”
“Thanks, but it’s not enough. The restaurant is a distraction.” Tom tapped a finger on the counter and waited until Raj looked him in the eye. “What we want to do is change the economy of this country. If people get used to food that tastes good, and we can sell it in quantity…the guild won’t be able to stop its widespread use.”
“You seek to make something illegal, legal through popular use?” The pipe fell from his hand and bounced on the counter. “To what end?”
“A little piece of freedom.” Tom smiled. “That’s the ultimate goal. Do you pay enough in taxes? Or do you pay too much—rather, are you expected to pay too much? We seek to get ahead of the guild’s ability to enforce the law. In the interim, there’s a lot of money to be made for all concerned. Like the sound of this so far?”
Raj grinned. “I do, sir. I like it very much.”
“There are details we’ll have to work out: procurement of the spices, transportation from Crescens to Sexton… We’ll need good men with courage and tight lips. And we’ll need a mechanism for distribution. Are you with us?”
“Oh yes!”
Read more... Buy today from the links at the bottom of the page. Thanks!
It wasn't the heat of the day that bothered him, but the dampness of the air. The stench of the bay reached into his shop and almost overwhelmed the pleasant odors of his wares. He knew some passersby on the street would disagree with him. Their barbaric noses were not refined enough to enjoy the spirit of Crescens—his homeland to the south. That was fine with him. He catered to a more adventurous clientèle: those who appreciated his fine rugs, his tobaccos, his water pipes, and other parts of his culture he was allowed to sell in this backward land.
He was about to close his shop for the afternoon and go to the bazaar and see if his younger brother was making any sales. Someone walked through the door just as he was about to lock the money box and take it upstairs. Raj tried not to watch him overtly, but kept an eye on the man while he dusted a water pipe on the counter.
The man was small and well dressed in blue trousers and a pale blouse. His black hair was clean and cut short, as was his beard. He looked with an appraising eye at the variety, and seemed to admire the roots and herbs in the barrels by the window. When he caught Raj looking at him, he nodded and went back to looking.
Andy bounced into the shop and shoved the open door against the wall to jangle the bell. He grinned at the startled look on the face of the proprietor and was relieved to see the look change to a happy one. His teeth were startling white in his shaved, olive-skinned face. Andy wondered if Tom knew what country the man was from based on his long white robe and brimless white cap. Probably not, he thought. The protectors guild doesn’t worry about anything outside the borders—that’s the army’s problem.
“Good afternoon, my friend!” Raj boomed. “What does your wife think of your newly found cooking skills?”
“You mean the ones with food?”
Raj laughed, but his eyes flitted to the stranger behind his friend—who’s name he did not now. Something struck him as odd and he didn't like it. In light of the moment, he regretted selling this man spices against the law of this land, and was certain the fire at the warehouse—which resulted in death several times over—was caused, at least in part, by the barrels he sold to him. “I am sorry sirs, I was about to close for the afternoon. Perhaps you could return some other time?”
Tom walked over and closed the door. He smiled at the shopkeeper and bowed his head slightly. “Relax. We’re here to discuss a business arrangement that will result in more money than you will ever see from the sale of even your finest rugs.”
He reached under the counter and put his fingers around the handle of a long dagger. “You have my attention, but first I must know your names.” He gave the a long look. “Names your mothers would recognize.”
Andy looked at Tom and shrugged. “He trusted me with contraband spices and illegal explosives. The least we can do is trust him with our real names.” He turned and reached out to shake the shopkeeper’s hand. “Ringo Starr,” he said. It might have worked if Tom wasn’t laughing so hard.
“…And he has a screen door on his yellow submarine,” Tom said. The shopkeeper looked confused. “His name is Andy, and mine is Tom. As long as we’re friends… I ask that you let go of that weapon in your hand.”
Raj let go of the dagger and brought both hands to the counter top. “How did you know?”
“It’s what I would've done.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You have the mark of the protectors guild on you. The stench of it, I mean to say.”
Andy decided to intervene. “He’s not with the guild. Not anymore…I mean…uh…”
Tom walked to the counter and shook hands with the shopkeeper. “My name really is Tom. You have a good eye. I was a protector for a while, but no longer. Now I’m afraid you have me at a slight disadvantage.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know your name.”
“Raj.” He shook the proffered hand. “Are you the one known as Viper?” The grip on his hand tightened, and the little man’s eyes narrowed, but only for a fraction of a second.
“How do you know that name?”
He laughed and winked at Andy. “When one makes a living selling foreign goods, and a better living selling foreign goods that are contraband, one does well to pay very close attention to whispers in dark streets.” His eyes turned back to Tom. “Why do you wish to speak with me?”
“To propose a partnership.”
“I am listening.” The little man’s face did not change; his eyes pierced his. “You can be assured I will keep this conversation in the strictest confidence. Call it a matter of mutual respect. As I see it, you are wanted by the protectors guild…and I make more money in the spice trade than any other way. A slip of the tongue, a word placed in the wrong ear, and neither of us lives for long. I have but one question.”
“What’s your question?” Andy stepped next to Tom. He sensed tension without knowing exactly why.
“What happens if I do not accept your proposal?”
Tom smiled without a trace of anything but satisfaction. “Nothing. You stated the situation very well, which is one of the reasons I think we’re going to get along. I can’t give you up to the guild—not that I would anyway. If I had a problem of any sort with spices, I would never have set foot in this shop…as a civilian.”
“I think I like you as well.”
“But time will tell.”
“Yes.”
Tom accepted the equivocation with a nod. “My friends and I are going to open a restaurant, and we’re going to use spices to make food a man with a palate can enjoy.”
“That is not a crime.”
Andy dove in. “Would you sell us the spices?”
“No. That would be a crime.”
“Exactly,” Tom agreed; his grin came back. “We need to supply ourselves.”
Raj toyed with the mouthpiece of the water pipe. “I suppose, if it is done quietly and the price is right, I can supply you with enough for your restaurant.”
“Thanks, but it’s not enough. The restaurant is a distraction.” Tom tapped a finger on the counter and waited until Raj looked him in the eye. “What we want to do is change the economy of this country. If people get used to food that tastes good, and we can sell it in quantity…the guild won’t be able to stop its widespread use.”
“You seek to make something illegal, legal through popular use?” The pipe fell from his hand and bounced on the counter. “To what end?”
“A little piece of freedom.” Tom smiled. “That’s the ultimate goal. Do you pay enough in taxes? Or do you pay too much—rather, are you expected to pay too much? We seek to get ahead of the guild’s ability to enforce the law. In the interim, there’s a lot of money to be made for all concerned. Like the sound of this so far?”
Raj grinned. “I do, sir. I like it very much.”
“There are details we’ll have to work out: procurement of the spices, transportation from Crescens to Sexton… We’ll need good men with courage and tight lips. And we’ll need a mechanism for distribution. Are you with us?”
“Oh yes!”
Read more... Buy today from the links at the bottom of the page. Thanks!
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Three American teenagers, caught in a world they don't understand--SEXTON
It's the first book in the series, and you don't have to love books in the fantasy genre to enjoy your trip to Sexton. Seen through the eyes of those born in our world, in Michigan, USA, the world of Sexton is an exciting and dangerous place.
Here's the cover text:
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Three guys camping in the woods early in their senior year of high school dream of their futures after graduation. They find something unusual...a hole, a tear in the reality they know. One dives through and the other two follow him. The move changes the course of their lives. Displaced, separated from each other, they take different paths. Two become criminals, and the first is trained as law enforcement. Only one Protector of Sexton can find and execute the offworld criminals...but will he?
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It's probably going to rain--someday. You need a good book!
Sometimes Lulu comes through with a really good offer on my books. They're offering free shipping through the end of May. Go to my page at www.lulu.com/spotlight/Misticuf
At checkout, enter FREESHIP305 in the coupon code box and receive free shipping on any order over $19.99
http://www.lulu.com/static/051811_FREESHIP305wv.html/?cid=051811_en_email_FREESHIP305
At checkout, enter FREESHIP305 in the coupon code box and receive free shipping on any order over $19.99
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Thursday, May 5, 2011
I think the secret of good dialog in fiction is...
...Never write it on purpose. If I ever find myself wondering what the next character to speak is going to say next, I take a break and get a snack, or take a little walk, or go to sleep.
I think the secret to writing dialog is to relax and let the characters have their conversation. If you know your characters, you should have a pretty good idea of how their mind works and what they're going to say or do will just kind of happen.
In the Sexton Chronicles, Andy is the smartass of the characters. There's a pretty good chance he'll come up with a snappy reply to whatever John says--and it's often at John's expense. Andy likes to make fun of John, and say that John isn't funny. He's wrong about that, by the way. Andy is usually too busy trying to make fun of John to notice that John just said something funny. I let them sort it out.
Having a background in theater is the biggest help I have when it comes to dialog, but not in the way you think. Sure, it helps that plays are almost all dialog and that I had the privilege of acting in plays written by some masters of dialog. However, the strength I took from theater in writing dialog has more to do with the ability to get "in character" and think like the character who is speaking. On the stage, that ability helped me ad-lib successfully when the wheels left the rail. I was once accused of ad-libbing in iambic pentameter when I played Macbeth. The accuser was right. I was. It wasn't any sort of ability to place the emphasis on every fifth syllable by instinct (I don't think so, though it could have been) but a matter of not just playing Macbeth, but of being Macbeth.
Similarly, I have been accused of writing great dialog in the Sexton books. I deny the accusation. It's more a matter of letting dialog happen. I don't over-think it. Much like a conversation, I just let the next line happen. Unlike conversation however, I reserve the right to revise it. And the fun is...when I revise it, you, the reader, never know!
I think the secret to writing dialog is to relax and let the characters have their conversation. If you know your characters, you should have a pretty good idea of how their mind works and what they're going to say or do will just kind of happen.
In the Sexton Chronicles, Andy is the smartass of the characters. There's a pretty good chance he'll come up with a snappy reply to whatever John says--and it's often at John's expense. Andy likes to make fun of John, and say that John isn't funny. He's wrong about that, by the way. Andy is usually too busy trying to make fun of John to notice that John just said something funny. I let them sort it out.
Having a background in theater is the biggest help I have when it comes to dialog, but not in the way you think. Sure, it helps that plays are almost all dialog and that I had the privilege of acting in plays written by some masters of dialog. However, the strength I took from theater in writing dialog has more to do with the ability to get "in character" and think like the character who is speaking. On the stage, that ability helped me ad-lib successfully when the wheels left the rail. I was once accused of ad-libbing in iambic pentameter when I played Macbeth. The accuser was right. I was. It wasn't any sort of ability to place the emphasis on every fifth syllable by instinct (I don't think so, though it could have been) but a matter of not just playing Macbeth, but of being Macbeth.
Similarly, I have been accused of writing great dialog in the Sexton books. I deny the accusation. It's more a matter of letting dialog happen. I don't over-think it. Much like a conversation, I just let the next line happen. Unlike conversation however, I reserve the right to revise it. And the fun is...when I revise it, you, the reader, never know!
Friday, April 15, 2011
Another excerpt from Sexton Sand (Sexton Chronicles, vol. 4)
Raj, as King Rajahd'een of Crescens, struggles to fight the possession...
Chapter Sixty-seven
Raj was trapped in darkness stronger and sweeter than dream. From immeasurable moment to immeasurable moment, he could feel the grip of the demon tighten and loosen, loosen and tighten around his consciousness. It did not pulse with any sort of regularity, nor did it ebb and flow. He could find no way past it.
Where am I?
The question floated around him in all layers as if the words were objects rather than a conveyance of ideas. He wondered where his spirit was trapped. Was it trapped in his head, his brain, his mind, or did it lie restless in a spirit cage between paradise and the pit? Glimpses stronger than blackness—allowed or required by the demon, he could not be sure—showed him he was physically with Tom and John and Andy. He wanted desperately to ask their help in this...but could not break through.
Where are they taking me? He wondered. The demon gave no answer. Silence. Surrounded by silence as thick as the darkness that held him. There was no sense of the physical. Is this death? Was death naught but the cessation of the physical, leaving the mind to fold in on itself until finally fatigued beyond all sanity it swirled in useless circles like sand caught in the dry wind of the desert?
I WANT OUT!
He roared with his mind, half expecting to hear hollow echo, but of course there was none. How could there be an echo in a void where there was nothing from which to bounce sound? Indeed, how could there be sound in a void?
Fringes of panic tickled him like invisible fingers. He squelched the feeling. Centered himself. Paused...
Something did not make sense. Did not add up as his American friends might say. The link. It was possible for the demon to kill him, but if it had...
If I am dead, my body is dead as well. If my body is dead, the demon would have nothing to possess. The silver cord remains. I am connected to my body. This is a false darkness. This touchless blackness is a curtain rather than a wall or a void. I am capable of movement. I must be capable of movement. How? What must I do?
He decided to begin with his extremities: fingers and toes. The concentration was easy, but sensation was difficult. It was as if he was trying to move someone else’s arm by the power of his imagination. Time was meaningless in his present state. He had no frame of reference for it to know whether it passed or whether he was outside its reach.
Finally he felt something. As if he was sliding his fingers into a glove—as he had done only in Sexton—he slipped his imagined fingers into his real fingers. Moved the index finger on his right hand. Raise it. Lowered it. Again.
†
Andy was only half awake as the light of dawn started to turn to the long planes of sunrise slanting in through the crack under the door when he saw Rajahd’een’s finger move. He cocked his head to the side, staring. The guy didn’t move his hand, arm, or head. Just raised the one finger and let it fall. He glanced at John and saw he was asleep. A glance at Tom and he was pretty sure Tom was asleep too. Moved his gaze back to Rajahd’een. The hand was still again, resting on his leg. I probably imagined that, he thought. He hoped he did. John didn’t seem to mind punching Raj in the jaw to knock his body out, but it wasn’t on Andy’s list in his head entitled: Things I’d Like To Do Today. Possessed by a demon or not, Andy didn’t like the idea of punching a good guy. On the other hand, the demon who was the king of the country—the country that took him prisoner, thank you very much—was not completely out of the question.
He looked back down at Rajahd'een's hand. The index finger was in the air again. His eyes widened. He leaned forward without getting up. What’re you doing, Raj? He wondered without knowing for sure whether he was asking himself or the guy with his finger in the air. And so much for not wanting to punch anyone.
His right hand was clenched in a fist. I’ll pop ya good before I let you hurt us. He raised his left hand to push himself off the floor. Crouching on his haunches, he started to get ready to move. Another movement—caught from the corner of his eye—made him stop. Tom held up his hand. Andy looked at him and saw him shake his head. “What?” he whispered.
“Let’s watch him for a minute,” Tom whispered. “This isn’t like the last time he woke up.” He grinned. “...But stay ready.”
†
STOP THIS IMMEDIATELY! The demon roared through the void fully awake and in firm control once again. With a spasm of the soul more than the mind, all sensation left Raj and swept him away from touch...
Where am I?
The question floated around him in all layers as if the words were objects rather than a conveyance of ideas. He wondered where his spirit was trapped. Was it trapped in his head, his brain, his mind, or did it lie restless in a spirit cage between paradise and the pit? Glimpses stronger than blackness—allowed or required by the demon, he could not be sure—showed him he was physically with Tom and John and Andy. He wanted desperately to ask their help in this...but could not break through.
Where are they taking me? He wondered. The demon gave no answer. Silence. Surrounded by silence as thick as the darkness that held him. There was no sense of the physical. Is this death? Was death naught but the cessation of the physical, leaving the mind to fold in on itself until finally fatigued beyond all sanity it swirled in useless circles like sand caught in the dry wind of the desert?
I WANT OUT!
He roared with his mind, half expecting to hear hollow echo, but of course there was none. How could there be an echo in a void where there was nothing from which to bounce sound? Indeed, how could there be sound in a void?
Fringes of panic tickled him like invisible fingers. He squelched the feeling. Centered himself. Paused...
Something did not make sense. Did not add up as his American friends might say. The link. It was possible for the demon to kill him, but if it had...
If I am dead, my body is dead as well. If my body is dead, the demon would have nothing to possess. The silver cord remains. I am connected to my body. This is a false darkness. This touchless blackness is a curtain rather than a wall or a void. I am capable of movement. I must be capable of movement. How? What must I do?
He decided to begin with his extremities: fingers and toes. The concentration was easy, but sensation was difficult. It was as if he was trying to move someone else’s arm by the power of his imagination. Time was meaningless in his present state. He had no frame of reference for it to know whether it passed or whether he was outside its reach.
Finally he felt something. As if he was sliding his fingers into a glove—as he had done only in Sexton—he slipped his imagined fingers into his real fingers. Moved the index finger on his right hand. Raise it. Lowered it. Again.
†
Andy was only half awake as the light of dawn started to turn to the long planes of sunrise slanting in through the crack under the door when he saw Rajahd’een’s finger move. He cocked his head to the side, staring. The guy didn’t move his hand, arm, or head. Just raised the one finger and let it fall. He glanced at John and saw he was asleep. A glance at Tom and he was pretty sure Tom was asleep too. Moved his gaze back to Rajahd’een. The hand was still again, resting on his leg. I probably imagined that, he thought. He hoped he did. John didn’t seem to mind punching Raj in the jaw to knock his body out, but it wasn’t on Andy’s list in his head entitled: Things I’d Like To Do Today. Possessed by a demon or not, Andy didn’t like the idea of punching a good guy. On the other hand, the demon who was the king of the country—the country that took him prisoner, thank you very much—was not completely out of the question.
He looked back down at Rajahd'een's hand. The index finger was in the air again. His eyes widened. He leaned forward without getting up. What’re you doing, Raj? He wondered without knowing for sure whether he was asking himself or the guy with his finger in the air. And so much for not wanting to punch anyone.
His right hand was clenched in a fist. I’ll pop ya good before I let you hurt us. He raised his left hand to push himself off the floor. Crouching on his haunches, he started to get ready to move. Another movement—caught from the corner of his eye—made him stop. Tom held up his hand. Andy looked at him and saw him shake his head. “What?” he whispered.
“Let’s watch him for a minute,” Tom whispered. “This isn’t like the last time he woke up.” He grinned. “...But stay ready.”
†
STOP THIS IMMEDIATELY! The demon roared through the void fully awake and in firm control once again. With a spasm of the soul more than the mind, all sensation left Raj and swept him away from touch...
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Plotting--mapped, not outlined
Some writers outline their books before they start to write. That's fine if it works for them, but it's not my way of doing it. I like to start with a vague idea and work my way through it one chapter at a time.
Today I found myself in a little bit of a lull in my day, wondering how to get to the dramatic ending of Sexton Sand, the 4th book in the Sexton Chronicles. I'm not stuck--I've been busy for the past several months trying to promote the other books in the series, my collection of short stories, and tinkering with my book about the 9 weeks I spent in Peru in 1987.
Step one: Stop playing around with the other stuff for the moment and finish this book. (It's one of my favorites.)
Step two: On a scrap piece of paper, I wrote the names of the 3 groups of main characters and their locations, with one group in the upper right corner, one in the middle left side, and one on the bottom.
Step three: In the lower right corner I wrote the whereabouts of each of the main characters at the end of the book. (I know the end, remember. It's the here to there I needed to work out.)
Step four: Drew arrows between where the characters are now and where the characters are at the end of the book.
Step five: On the lines between the arrowheads, I wrote a sentence summarizing the action that must occur in order to get them from where they are now to where they will be at the end of the book.
And now it's time to do Step six.
What's "Step Six?" Thanks for asking. Step Six is when I shut the hell up and get busy before I forget how to interpret this drawing...
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Chapter Sixty-six
I'm working on Chapter Sixty-six of Sexton Sand, the fourth book in the series Sexton Chronicles. About two thirds through the book, Chapter Sixty-six isn't a pivotal chapter. It's important pretty much only because people have a reasonable expectation to go from chapter sixty-five to sixty-six to sixty-seven. That means I pretty much have to write chapter sixty-six.
Does it seem like I'm stalling? I suppose it does.
I'm just waiting for an idea. It'll come, it always does. Just a little whap upside the head from Ralph the Muse...
OW!
Gotta go. I'm ready.
Friday, November 12, 2010
I wonder why they're called royalties
I've never received a lifetime award for anything and I hope I never do. I haven't lived a lifetime yet! ...How do you like that? I'm digressing before I start. That should be as impossible as receiving a lifetime achievement award while you're still alive.
I don't know why the money paid to artists for the sale of their work is called a royalty. If you know, I'd appreciate it if you would post it. I'm curious.
...But that's not really why I'm posting this tonight...
What I really want to say is that I'm delighted to report that my first ever royalty check is on its way to me. In addition to wanting to cheer out loud (which, by the way, I have done this evening), I feel like reflecting. It's long been a dream of mine to write and publish books. By publish I mean writing a book (in my case it's plural and getting plural-er by the week), getting those books for sale to the public, and receiving income from sales.
When I get that check next week from Lulu Enterprises, Inc., it will be the fruit of that dream. I really don't know how the term "royalty" came to be when it comes to paying the artist a portion of the sales price. I think it's an interesting word to use for those payments. I also think it's really cool that it is the work, not the writer, that is and will generate those royalties. If I get hit by a truck tomorrow and killed (which, btw, I aim to make sure doesn't happen), the royalties will keep coming. The books will generate income as long as people buy them.
If you're a writer and you're considering publishing, my advice to you is not to stop with eBooks. I've blogged about those before and I haven't changed my mind. It's a growing portion of publishing. For now, and for the foreseeable future, just so you know...the money is in print books. I have to sell 3 Kindle copies of Sexton to make as much as I do from one paperback copy of the same book.
I'm looking forward to getting that check. I hope it's the smallest royalty check I ever get. I'll know without remembering. Before I cash that check, I'm going to make a copy and frame it. I'll treat it like...wait for it...royalty.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Er...unintended consequences
This one caught me by surprise--a rare treat, by the way--and I laughed pretty hard at it.
I can look at stats for this blog and see how people found the page. I don't get to see who visited, but I can see from where they visited.
I started this blog by blogging about what I call the "Moby Dick Exercise", in which a man copied the book Moby Dick by hand. I copied (re-typing) several books while I was recovering from Wernickes.
So...when I saw that someone found this blog through a Google search for "Moby Dick Exercise", I was intrigued.
That's where the "Er..." comes in.
Guess what I found when I backtracked the "Moby Dick Exercise" search.
...Well... The searcher was concentrating on the second two words. Not the first two!
I can look at stats for this blog and see how people found the page. I don't get to see who visited, but I can see from where they visited.
I started this blog by blogging about what I call the "Moby Dick Exercise", in which a man copied the book Moby Dick by hand. I copied (re-typing) several books while I was recovering from Wernickes.
So...when I saw that someone found this blog through a Google search for "Moby Dick Exercise", I was intrigued.
That's where the "Er..." comes in.
Guess what I found when I backtracked the "Moby Dick Exercise" search.
...Well... The searcher was concentrating on the second two words. Not the first two!
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