Adrian Collins's Blog, page 241
July 4, 2016
Evil is a Matter of Perspective Author: Matthew Ward
Matthew Ward's works have appeared in GdM#4 and GdM#8, so it's safe to say we're pretty big fans of his short stories. Check out what he has to say about jumping on board the author group for Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists.
By backing Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists on Kickstarter, you'll be not only getting Matt's short story The Game, but also two extra novellas already unlocked in Backer Goal #2.
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Keep sharing and we/ll keep packing the Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists backer packs full of extra goodies! Click the banner below to head to the Kickstarter page for all the latest updates on stretch goals!
June 30, 2016
Guest Blog Post: Adrian Tchaikovsky
I’m Adrian Tchaikovsky, and I hit the writing scene around 2008, and in August 2016 I’ll have my 14th book in print. This tends to prompt a lot of grumbling and use of the word “prolific”, but in my defence the first five books were already written before the first, Empire in Black and Gold, came out. I’m the author of flintlock fantasy Guns of the Dawn, SF Children of Time (shortlisted for the Arthur C Clarke award in 2016, which still doesn’t seem real), upcoming deconstructionist fantasy Spiderlight, and the new series Echoes of the Fall (starting with The Tiger and the Wolf), but I’m probably still best known for my 10-book fantasy epic Shadows of the Apt, the story of the insect-kinden and their many, many wars.
I’ve been asked to contribute to the anthology Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists, a story from the point of view of one of my villains. Thankfully Shadows of the Apt is more than readily supplied with them. Some, such as the mad artificer Drephos or the Wasp Empress Seda have their life stories explored in the novels; others remain something of a mystery. For this challenge I’ve decided to go for Uctebri, the Mosquito-kinden magician and somewhat vampire whose machinations drive a great deal of the early plot in the series. We first meet him as a self-made slave of the Emperor in Dragonfly Falling, but he had a long road to travel before he got there, and there’s plenty of room for a story or two there.
So, if you'd like to see how and why Uctebri became a self-made slave, make sure you back the Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists Kickstarter by clicking the image below and backing the project.
Marc Turner talks about his Chronicles of the Exile contribution to Evil is a Matter of Perspective
Marc Turner is the author of Chronicles of the Exile (published by Tor in the US, Titan in the UK). Marc's short story contribution to Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists will feature a character from his second book, Dragon Hunters. Watch Marc in action to find out who.
If you're a Marc Turner fan, this Kickstarter is a must-back for you. Click on the Kickstarter banner below. We've already funded, and now we're packing more and more into the backer rewards pack as we further surpass our goal and hit stretch goals. If you back us now, you'll get Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists, eight issues of GdM, two Matthew Ward novellas and we are a mere $600AUD away from adding a Mark Alder Banners of Blood short story to the anthology. After that, the awesome Janny Wurts is next! Click below to head to the Kickstarter page!
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June 28, 2016
Meet Anomie, Michael R. Fletcher's Cotardist Assassin and leader of the Schatten Morder
When we first came up with the concept for Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists, Michael R. Fletcher was one of the first people I had in my ideal author group. His book, Beyond Redemption, was one of the most criminally under read books of 2015 and is full of the type of characters I wanted in this anthology.
Michael jumped at the opportunity (he said something about needing some new pants, or whiskey, or something) and pitched Anomie as the character he wanted to further explore. My obvious answer was, "Hell yes."
If you haven't read Beyond Redemption, you need to asap. For now, meet Anomie.
Introducing Anomie, Michael R. Fletcher's antagonist contribution to Evil is a Matter of Perspective
The sky broke and torrents of rain and hail hammered the earth. Slashing lightning lit the dark underbellies of sick and heavy clouds with flickering and unnatural hues. The heavens screamed in torment.
Anomie, deafened by Konig's delusions, heard none of this. Even the stunning displays of colour seemed little more than strobing shades of grey. The eyes of the dead, robbed of life and beauty, saw the world as a stain of monochromatic twilight.
Men and women, gaunt with hunger and covered in filth, hurled themselves in the path of the Schatten Morder. Life meant nothing to Anomie. It rose before her and she cut it down. For those who could achieve the Afterdeath, annihilation was a gift. Anomie and her Schatten Morder had many gifts to give. They climbed mountains of dead and more flocked to receive their alms.
They mobbed her, stabbing and cutting, punching and kicking. It meant nothing. She felt nothing.
She knew this to be the camp of a Slaver. Though never as large, she'd seen similar groups before. The boy will be here, somewhere. She'd kill the Slaver at the heart of this mob and help Morgen Ascend as was his destiny. Death will be my gift to the god-child.
A stabbing flash of lightning momentarily blinded the living but, to Anomie's dead eyes, served only to better illuminate the hellish scene.
Gehirn Schlechtes, Konig's pet Hassebrand, stood waiting for her with a feral smile. Gehirn's dog-like canines glinted in the brief light. Anomie laughed. The dry hollows of her empty skull flickered with reflected light. The skulls of the dead, skin long cracked and peeled away, grin forever.
Gehirn gestured and burned clear a path between herself and the Schatten Morder. Like rushing tide-waters, the Slaver's followers poured in to fill the cleared area.
Anomie laughed again, an insane cackle dying as breath leaked from decaying lungs.
Fire meant nothing to the dead.
END EXCERPT
If you want more Anomie and more Manifest Delusions world, back Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists by clicking on the banner below and heading to our Kickstarter page!
June 26, 2016
EVIL IS A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE: Kaaron Warren talks about the Grey Ladies
From the moment we'd decided to go ahead with Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists, I knew we needed a wide range of genre authors writing the villain's perspective. Often, in horror, it's difficult to imagine the ghost or monster's perspective presented in a way you could relate to. Immediately, Kaaron Warren came to mind as somebody who could knock that perspective out of the park.
When Kaaron sent me The Unwanted Women of Surrey edited by Ellen Datlow I jumped at the chance to include these antagonists in our anthology. With a list of fiction award wins and nominations longer than my arm and a list of published short stories far longer, she was an obvious choice to include in Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists.
Sounds like the type of anthology you'd love to get your hands on? Head on over to the Kickstarter page for Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists and join the near-500 backers already involved in the project by clicking on the banner below!
EVIL IS A MATER OF PERSPECTIVE: Kaaron Warren talks about the Grey Ladies
From the moment we'd decided to go ahead with Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists, I knew we needed a wide range of genre authors writing the villain's perspective. Often, in horror, it's difficult to imagine the ghost or monster's perspective presented in a way you could relate to. Immediately, Kaaron Warren came to mind as somebody who could knock that perspective out of the park.
When Kaaron sent me The Unwanted Women of Surrey edited by Ellen Datlow I jumped at the chance to include these antagonists in our anthology. With a list of fiction award wins and nominations longer than my arm and a list of published short stories far longer, she was an obvious choice to include in Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists.
Sounds like the type of anthology you'd love to get your hands on? Head on over to the Kickstarter page for Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists and join the near-500 backers already involved in the project by clicking on the banner below!
June 23, 2016
GdM #8 delayed till 1 August
There's a pretty simple, non-conspiratorial reason for this one: Our Kickstarter is running, and we don't want to dilute the marketing message for either product. Two weeks after we've finished the funding drive, you'll get your grimdark goodness.
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In the interim, here's the cover art from Jason Deem. Behind it, we'll have James A. Moore, Setsu Uzume, Matthew Ward, articles, reviews and excerpts.
Grimdark Magazine issue #9 is still on track for delivery on the 1st of October.
Keep it grim. Keep it dark. Trackies and pluggas optional.
EVIL IS A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE: Kaaron Warren introduces you to the Grey Ladies
When Kaaron Warren agreed to be a part of Evil is a Matter of Perspective, I was so stoked to have a fellow Aussie join the ToC. Her work is brilliant, her list of awards and nominations as long as my arm, and I'm ecstatic to have her on board. Meet the ladies that made me want to bring Kaaron warren's horror style on board, the Grey Ladies from The Unwanted Women of Surrey!
Excerpt of Kaaron Warren's The Unwanted Women of Surrey
Of all of the unwanted women of Surrey, Grace was the one most terrified when the Grey Ladies knocked on our door.
It was a gentle knock; certainly a gentlewoman. Grace took a last sip of tea and leapt up. “Allow me,” she said, as if anyone else was permitted to answer the door when she was at home. She lived in hope; she imagined somehow her husband would change his mind and take her back to the Manor.
He would not. They never do.
We heard the door open, and her gasp, then a wild screaming.
I spilled my tea in my hurry to reach her, and a plate of scones tipped to the floor. Cook would be heartily offended.
Grace was slumped against the door frame, her face ashen.
Standing clustered together, tall, skeletally thin, grey skinned, were three women. Their mouths were open as if they would speak, but instead they turned and glided away.
Grace screamed again and Dot joined her. Red Sheila shook; she was in no state to comfort them.
“Come on, inside,” I said. Faith still sat in the drawing room, neatly nibbling on a ginger biscuit.
“Faith, help me seat our friends,” I snapped at her, wanting her out of her reverie.
“Who was at the door?” she asked, only now noticing how disturbed we all were.
“The Grey Ladies! The Grey Ladies!” Grace said. “The ones that took Red Sheila’s baby.”
Red Sheila nodded. “They did. Came to visit me one cold night, twenty-five years ago. And did my baby boy live till morning? No, he did not. No, he didn’t. It’s brought it all back to me.”
Grace took a sip of tea; she didn’t seem to notice it was from my cup.
“You don’t say!” Faith said. “Who did they point to?”
We exchanged glances.
“No one,” I said. “They merely looked at us.”
“Then perhaps they made a mistake. Perhaps this time they are not presaging death.” Faith’s sensible voice calmed us.
* * *
Grace’s husband was handsome. We all liked looking at him and the men didn’t notice, so we kept on looking. He was terribly unkind to Grace, though, shaking off her embrace as though she were a bothersome moth, twisting his body to get away from her. All the men behaved that way (although my husband did like to visit my lodgings just before he left and I supposed it was still my wifely duty) but she was not used to it and had dreamed so prettily of what would occur on visiting day.
He made comment with the other men as if Grace was not sitting in his shadow. About his work, mostly, because he was a journalist and that was interesting to them, although I could tell they all thought him a braggart.
“And our daughter?” Grace said, which is when he flicked at her.
“The daughter is fine. She has a good family now.”
She gave a passionate cry and threw herself to the ground. One of the men suggested they withdraw, and they did so, to our glorious garden to smoke their pipes and raise their eyebrows at each other.
Grace ran to her room. We let her be; foolishly, we ignored the warning of the grey ladies and let her be.
It was amongst the men she landed. She’d torn off her dress and squeezed through her window onto the roof. She was lucky, her life was snatched instantly. I looked up as she fell and I thought I could see them, leaning out, the grey ladies, holding on to the window frame with long, sharp fingernails.
One thing about being locked up as an hysterical, unwanted woman; you don’t need to pretend. We all of us threw ourselves to the ground and we didn’t care what our men in their suits thought. Grace’s face was serene, once we’d wiped the blood away
They surrounded Grace’s husband, slapping him on the back, “Sorry, old chap,” but it looked awfully like congratulations to me. “Well done, old chap. You’re free.”
The grey ladies stood together, heads bowed. Aping sorrow. I could see the ghost of their teeth as they tried to conceal smiles.
Grace had been a sweet and kindly member of our household and her passing filled us with great sorrow. And relief? Were we all somewhat relieved that the grey ladies took her and not us?
END OF EXCERPT
If you want more, make sure you get involved in our Kickstarter project for Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists by clicking on the banner below and backing the project.
June 22, 2016
EVIL IS A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE: Bradley P Beaulieu introduces Rümayesh
We were ecstatic when Bradley P. Beaulieu put up his hand to be a part of EVIL IS A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE: An Anthology of Antagonists. In this excerpt we get introduced to Rümayesh, Bradley's antagonist turned protagonist!
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Excerpt Of Sand and Malice Made by Bradley P. Beaulieu
Çeda was just about ready to give up when she saw movement near an old acacia. Half the branches were dead, and the thing looked as though it were about to tip over and fall in the water at any moment. But in the branches still choked with leaves she could see two legs hanging down, swinging back and forth. The skin was the same dark color she remembered, and when she looked harder, she saw movement in the branches above—the second twin, surely, sitting higher than the first.
She took to the damp earth along the edge of the bank to silence her footsteps, then pulled her kenshar from its sheath at her belt, whispering a prayer to fickle Bakhi as she did so. Reaching past her mother’s silver chain and locket, she slipped Ashwandi’s severed finger from around her neck, whipping the leather cord around her hand with one quick snap of her wrist.
She stood twenty paces away now.
As she approached the godling boys, she wondered how vengeful the god Onondu might be. She hoped it wouldn’t come to bloodshed, but she’d promised herself that if they wouldn’t listen to her commands, she would do whatever she needed to protect herself, even if it meant killing his children. Her identity was her most closely guarded secret, after all—no different than a chest of golden rahl, a chest these boys had tipped over with their mischief, spilling its treasure over the dirt for Rümayesh and Ashwandi and perhaps all of Sharakhai to see. Things would only grow worse if she let these boys be.
Ten paces away.
Then five.
The nearest twin faced away from her, looking downriver to the trading ship, which was just mooring, men and women busying themselves about the deck, a few jumping to the pier. She’d grab him first, drag him down and put her knife to his throat, then she’d grip the finger tightly and speak her wish. The moment she took a step forward, though, something snapped beneath her foot.
She glanced down. Gods, a dried branch off the acacia. How could she have missed it?
When she looked up once more, Hidi, the one with the scar, was turned on the branch, looking straight at her with those piercing blue eyes. His form blurring, he dropped and sprinted up the bank.
Çeda ran after him and was nearly on him, hand outstretched, ready to grab a fistful of his ivory-colored tunic, when something fell on her from behind. She collapsed and rolled instinctively away, coming to a stand with her kenshar at the ready, but by the time she did both of the boys were bounding away like a brace of desert hare.
She was up and chasing them in a flash. “Release me!” she called, gripping Ashwandi’s finger tightly. “Do you hear me? I command you to release me!”
But they didn’t listen, and soon they were leading a chase into the tight streets of the Knot, a veritable maze of mudbrick that had been built, and then built upon so that walkways and homes stretched out and over the street, making Çeda feel all the more watched as men and women and boys stared from the doorways and windows and balconies of their homes.
Çeda sprinted through the streets, wending this way, then that, coming ever closer to reaching the boys. She reached for the nearest of them—her hands even brushed his shoulder—but just then a rangy cat with eyes the very same color of blue as the boys’ came running out from behind a pile of overturned crates and tripped her. She fell hard onto the dirt as the boys ahead giggled.
She got up again, her shoulders aching in pain, and followed them down an alley. When she reached the mouth of the alley, however, she found not a pair of twin boys, but a strikingly beautiful woman wearing a jeweled abaya with thread-of-gold embroidery along cuff and collar and hem. She looked every bit as surprised as Çeda—almost as if she too had been following someone through the back-tracked ways of the Knot.
“Could it be?” the woman asked, her voice biting as the desert wind. “The little wren I’ve been chasing these many weeks?”
Çeda had never seen this woman before—tall, elegant, the air of the aristocracy floating about her like a halo—but her identity could be no clearer than if she’d stated her name from the start.
“I’m no one,” she said to Rümayesh.
“Ah, but you are, sweet one.” From the billowing sleeve of her right arm a sling dropped into her hand. In a flash she had it spinning over her head, the sound of its blurred passage mingling with Rümayesh’s next words. “You certainly are.”
Then she released the stone.
Or Çeda thought it was a stone.
It flew like a spear for Çeda’s chest, and when it struck, a blue powder burst into the cool morning air. She tried not to breathe it, but she’d been startled and took in a lungful of the tainted air. As she spun away, its scent and taste invaded her senses—fresh figs mixed with something acrid, like lemons going to rot.
Çeda turned to run, but she’d not gone five strides before the ground tilted up and struck her like a maul. The world swam in her eyes as she managed with great effort to roll over. Blinking to clear her eyes of their sudden tears, she stared up at the blue sky peeking between the shoulders of the encroaching mudbrick homes. In the windows, old women and a smattering of children watched, but when they recognized the woman approaching Çeda, they ducked their heads back inside and shuttered their windows.
Çeda’s kenshar was gone, fallen in the dusty street two paces away, though it might as well have been two leagues for all her leaden limbs would obey her. She’d somehow managed to keep Ashwandi’s finger, though; its leather cord had surely prevented it from flying away like her knife. Her throat convulsed. Her tongue was numb, but she chanted while gripping the finger as tightly as her rapidly weakening muscles would allow. “Release me, Hidi… Release me, Makuo… release me, Onondu…”
The only answer she received was the vision of the beautiful woman coming to stand over her, staring down with bright eyes and a wicked demon grin.
END EXCERPT
Head on over to the Kickstarter and back EVIL IS A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE: An Anthology of Antagonists to read more about Çeda! Click on the banner below to head over there and make this awesome anthology come to life.
June 19, 2016
EVIL IS A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE: Introducing Lord Solomon
I love characters that fit into that kind of "spider" character. They have their hands in everything, manipulating the web of the world around them in a thousand different places through deceit, lies, half-truths, blackmail, threats, torture and murder. They war with the power of their mind, as opposed to the strength of their arm. Andross Guile from Brent Weeks' Lightbringer series comes to mind, as does Matthew Ward's Lord Solomon from Shadow of the Raven.
Matthew (Robert Charles) been kind enough to give us Lord Solomon's introductory scene from Shadow of the Raven. Read on and get to know one of the characters you'll meet in EVIL IS A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE: An Anthology of Antagonists.
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An Excerpt from Shadow of the Raven by Matthew Ward
"My apologies for being such a neglectful host," the grey man said in a mannered voice. "I'm afraid that another of my guests was quite… demanding... of my attention."
He rinsed his hands in the water and dried them on a cloth. At last taking his eyes off me, he meticulously chased the pinkish rivulets down the length of his thin fingers, making sure every last one was captured in the folds of material. This done, he dropped the cloth into the bowl and retreated to an expansive desk.
The attendant, taking this as his sign to leave, gave his master a small bow and then exited the room through the door by which he had entered. The grey man took a seat behind his desk. I remained standing – no one had thought to supply a chair for me.
"You do know who I am, of course."
I offered a small nod. "I do indeed, Lord Solomon."
I'd met Solomon once before, during the brief and farcical reception that marked the beginning of my ambassadorial career. The Tressian council may have been caught wrong-footed by the Empire's sudden willingness to discuss peace, but they were determined to do things properly, and had greeted me with all the pomp and ceremony an honoured guest could have desired. I'd found the whole thing embarrassing, and not a little distasteful. But then I knew full well – and hated – the circumstances that had brought me there.
It was at the reception, in that whirl of dress uniforms and sparkling jewels, of tasteful entertainment and tasteless urbanity, that I'd first set eyes upon Solomon. Even then, with only the haziest knowledge of his actions and influence to guide me, I'd known this was a man I should on no account ever cross. He'd prowled around that room like a lean grey wolf in a crowd of fat, fluffy sheep. Half the nobles and councillors in that room had been in his direct pay, I knew. Most of the rest had been terrified into compliance by the threats of blackmail and abduction Solomon made as easily as breathing.
Tressia may have been ruled by a council during the day, but at night, and in those dark places where even the righteous dared not tread, Solomon was master.
Of course, I'd since learnt much more about Solomon's deeds; the kidnappings and torture he routinely employed to remove obstacles from his path; the bribes and carefully applied patronage he'd used to seize control of the praetorians – once considered the finest and least corruptible of all Tressia's soldiery.
It was probably little solace to the Tressians that Solomon was a monster entirely of their own creation. Five years earlier, faced with a war that couldn't be won, an increasingly leaderless council, and a populace on the verge of revolt, Solomon had set about addressing the city's problems, one at a time. His trusted lieutenants infiltrated the insurrectionists and, one by one, the most vocal and charismatic of the rebels disappeared. There had been outcry at first, but Solomon had produced correspondence and confessions proving that, to the last man and woman, those who had vanished were traitors in the pay of the Hadari Empire.
Even with such 'proofs', Solomon wouldn't have survived the resulting furore if he hadn't simultaneously struck out against the Hadari army. Even as his thugs were dragging Tressians from their homes, his assassins were at work in distant lands. My brother barely survived one such attack and, over a period of weeks, many advisors and warleaders were slain, wounded, or in fear of their lives. Before Solomon's assassins struck we'd been within six months of wiping Tressia off the map. As it was, the disruption dragged the war on for another five years, until my royal brother's untimely death.
After his assassins had done their work, Solomon sank back into the shadows. He didn't have the knowledge to prosecute a failing war, so he left that to others, though always making certain that those others owed him sufficiently – or feared him sufficiently – to ensure that his plans continued apace. From then on he'd watched the world unfold, prodding the council in the right direction by placing appropriate words in proper ears at the opportune time.
Citizens still vanished, I knew that much from Quintus, but there was nothing to connect Solomon to the disappearances save for his past reputation, and the cold, immutable certainties of those who knew his ways. Without proof, Quintus could do nothing.
Solomon didn't want power for its own sake, for he could have been a tyrant by day as well as night whenever he chose to. That he was playing a game, I didn't doubt, but one with rules that only he knew. Even worse, it appeared that I'd managed to stray onto the board.
Solomon opened a drawer and produced a sheaf of papers. Placing them on the desk, he licked the index finger of his right hand, and flicked through them, one at a time. "You, of course, are Edric Saran: late of the Hadari royal family, former champion to the Golden Court etcetera, etcetera."
It was a statement, rather than a question, so I said nothing, silently wondering which of a dozen unpleasant ways this conversation was likely to go.
"You'll have to bear with me, ambassador. I do like to make sure that the details are correct." Solomon turned another page. "Yes, that's right – you more or less held the Hadari army together five years ago; an impressive feat, all things considered. Most inconvenient."
"A lot of good men helped me." I said coldly, hoping to put him off his stride.
"No doubt, no doubt."
Solomon was politeness itself, a man making seemly discussion with a colleague, but I knew that the thumbscrews would come when they were called for. He looked down and riffled through a few more pages, then traced a few words with an outstretched finger.
"Interesting, I'd not seen this one before. You murdered one of my... associates before he could execute your brother." He gave a dry chuckle and peered at me over the top of his spectacles. "History is such a cruel teacher, but one with a fine sense of irony, don't you agree?"
It was a simple provocation, but no less skilfully judged and delivered for all that. With those words, my nervous apprehension of the last few hours boiled away beneath rising anger. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to hurl myself across that desk and choke the life out of the thin, evil monster who sat in front of me.
Gritting my teeth, I forced the anger down. I'd not make it within three feet of the desk before one of the concealed watchers put a crossbow bolt in my back. Even if I did get my manacled hands around Solomon's throat, there'd be no escape for me afterwards.
Solomon leaned back in his chair and watched me with amusement. "I'm sorry, that's still a sore subject, I see."
It was all an act, I was sure, and my reaction would doubtless be recorded in the file with everything else. Edric Saran: reacts violently when reminded of his brother's death. I wasn't surprised Solomon had a file on me. He probably had a file on everyone he'd ever met; he certainly had one on everyone who'd ever stood in his way, and I qualified on both counts.
"And how is your uncle, the newly invested Emperor?" Solomon doubtless knew the answer better than I did.
"I believe that his majesty, Eirac the First, is flourishing." I struggled for a neutral tone. "I can't be certain. We've been out of contact of late." I could play at insincere politeness as well as Solomon could.
"It is such a shame when families fall out." Solomon toyed with his amulet. "But I didn't invite you here to prattle about such matters, pleasant as the reminiscences may be. No."
He rose and walked towards me, hands clasped behind his back. "I think we can help each other. Oh, don't look at me like that. Is it so impossible that we might have mutual interests or, at least, convergent ones?"
"Yes," I replied flatly.
Solomon wagged a finger. "Ah, but we did, not so long ago, though I'll allow that those were most unusual circumstances." He didn't elaborate, but he didn't need to. It was even true, after a fashion. He bunched his knuckles, touched them to his lips and sighed. "I concede, we are not friends, nor are we ever likely to be. But that doesn't mean we can't co-operate when..."
I was tired of the game. "What do you want, Solomon?"
His eyes narrowed, the bonhomie momentarily evaporating before my twin discourtesies of breaking his flow and ignoring his title. But then the mask flowed effortlessly back into place.
"There is a project of mine, some small work I've been pursuing for a number of years. It is about to come to fruition. But I have encountered something of a setback." He paced back and forth, occasionally turning towards me as if he thought I wasn't paying attention. "One of the key elements has been stolen from my associates, and I would dearly love to retrieve it."
"What does this have to do with me?"
"It has come to my notice that you have, quite recently, fallen into bad company. I do understand. You're far from home, lost and thoroughly unpopular with everyone around you. And then a pretty girl approaches you, weaves you a tale of murder and injustice. All she wants is for you to help her when no one else will, an appeal that goes straight to everything honourable and decent in your heart. And so you, quite without meaning to..." He came to an abrupt halt, and spread his palms wide.
"Fall into bad company?" I finished.
"Precisely." He leaned in close. "Arianwyn Kallindri has been lying to you from the moment you met. Worse, she's just a lost little girl meddling in matters she doesn't understand." He took a deep breath. "I'm a reasonable man..."
It was funny how so many reasonable men had to clarify their nature to the poor, confused souls they kidnapped.
"...I know she took the portalstone fragment from Dalrand's study. I just want to know where she's hidden it."
My brow furrowed. Portalstone? Did he mean the chunk of watchstone that was at this moment still sitting in my pocket? Despite the seriousness of the situation, I almost laughed. The great and terrible Lord Solomon had been woefully let down by his minions. I hadn't even tried to conceal the fragment. If they'd searched me at all thoroughly, instead of simply taking my weapons, they'd surely have found it.
"How do you know she doesn't have it on her person?" I asked.
"There was some commotion by the river this morning, I understand," Solomon said. "Miss Kallindri was unconscious for some time, and you were distracted. It was laughably easy to have her searched. The same held true of her house, once that ridiculous... retainer of hers had left to join you."
I wondered briefly who had been Solomon's catspaw. Again my thoughts drifted back to Constans. Solomon's dismissal of him had been curiously heavy-handed. To throw off my suspicions? It wouldn't really matter unless I managed to escape my current predicament.
"I just want the fragment returned," Solomon said. "I give you my word no harm will come to her."
This was getting increasingly odd. If he was so concerned about Arianwyn's actions, why was she not here instead of me? Especially if he knew where she lived.
Then, in a flash, I had it. "You're afraid of her."
He frowned. "Nonsense."
"Then why haven't you got her in one of your dungeons, peeling the flesh from her bones until she talks?"
"Even I have limits. She has allies on the council, allies I do not wish to provoke." I had to give him that. Torture was nothing if not provocative. "That's why I wanted to give you this chance to be reasonable, to help me without need for unpleasantness."
"And if I refuse your generous offer?"
"Then I'll learn everything you know, inch by painful inch. Every man has his breaking point, and that yours will come far more swiftly than you think. I'd rather not resort to such methods, but I will do so without hesitation if you force my hand." He shook his head. "There is much at stake."
I weighed my options. They were, as far as I could tell, incredibly poor. I could refuse cooperation and end my days in the dungeons. They'd find the fragment long before I died, of course, as my clothes would be the first layer stripped from me. I could throw in my lot with Solomon, but even as the possibility formed in my mind I realised I could no more do that than shrug off my manacles and fly around the room. That left precisely one option, an option that was, at best, a delaying tactic. It would have to do.
"You win," I said bitterly."I'll take you to where it's hidden."
END EXCERPT
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