E.L. Tettensor's Blog, page 3

5 Facts and Giveaway!

Today’s stop on the blog tour is On Starships and Dragonwings, where I dish out 5 facts to know about Master of Plagues. Including food and wine pairing, because I feel like that’s important.

Oh, and there’s a giveaway too, so be sure to enter!

Master of Plagues teaser

Lenoir reached for the report, scanning it listlessly. The scribe, whoever he was, had started to write down the names of the dead, only to give up when it became clear there were too many. Death rate has quadrupled in the past week, it read. If current trend continues, Camp population will be halved by the end of the month. Lenoir swore in Arrènais and pushed the report away, sorry he had given in to his curiosity.

He paused. Grabbed it back.

He felt his lips moving as he read, but he did not care. He leaned in close enough to smell the ink on the paper. Milswaith, Brandton, Filimore. With each successive name, he became more convinced. But how could he test his theory?

The idea came to him almost instantly, yet he hesitated. This is not your task, he thought. But still . . . so many are dying. . . . “Get your coat, Sergeant,” he said, rising.

“What is it?”

“Something the boy said. Now go.” Kody needed no further encouragement; he bounded out of the office like a foxhound let off his lead. By the time Lenoir joined him at the bottom of the stairs, Kody had his coat buttoned, his sword belt on, and his crossbow slung over his shoulder. If he had had a tail, it would have been wagging.

Lenoir shared the sergeant’s enthusiasm, even if he did not show it. After three days without a lead, even a long shot felt like a breakthrough. And though this would bring him no closer to the perpetrator, it was something. A purpose.

A purpose was all he needed.

He kept a brisk pace all the way to the market district, Kody following resolutely, and best of all, silently. It was so blissful that Lenoir was almost in a good mood when they arrived at their destination: an anonymous building in the market district, wedged between a butcher and a tailor. Then he remembered what lurked behind that shroud of curtains, and his momentary cheer vanished.

“What is this place?” Kody asked.

“It is . . .” Lenoir paused, unsure how to describe it. “There is someone I need to speak with,” he finished awkwardly, reaching for the door.

Dozens of candle flames shuddered against the breath of wind that followed them inside, their glow flickering against mysterious shapes. Horns dangled in spirals and spikes from the rafters, as though a herd of exotic antelope grazed upon the ceiling. Smooth orbs of glass glinted in the dark like the eyes of a nighttime predator. Shelves lined the walls, as high and crowded as any library, their shadowed recesses only hinting at their contents. Woven twigs and dried bushels of herbs swallowed the light; the sharp facets of crystals threw it back. Lenoir had to duck beneath a brace of pheasants suspended just inside the door, their blood dripping noisily into a tin pail below.

From behind the counter, a pair of golden eyes watched his progress curiously.

“What in the below?” Kody hesitated in the doorway. Lenoir had done the same the first time he visited this place.

“Greetings, Inspector,” said a deep, resonant voice. “I hope you will not think me rude if I say that I am surprised to see you again.”

Surprised to see me alive, you mean. “I am still a little surprised myself,” Lenoir said.

Merden tilted his head thoughtfully. Candlelight burnished the prominent peak of his left cheekbone, melted away into the hollows of his angular face. “How did you survive?”

Lenoir shot a look at Kody, who still lingered warily near the door. He had never told the sergeant the whole story; he could hardly believe it himself. “That is a tale for another time,” he said, hoping Merden would take the hint.

“A shame. I should very much like to hear it.”

You have no idea. Aloud, Lenoir said, “This is Sergeant Kody.”

Merden turned his golden-eyed gaze upon Kody, allowing the sergeant to experience that profoundly wise, profoundly unnerving stare. The Adal said nothing, but inclined his head in greeting. Kody ducked awkwardly in return.

“Merden is a soothsayer,” Lenoir said.

“Okay.” Kody stayed where he was.

Turning back to Merden, Lenoir said, “I need your help.”

“Plainly.”

Lenoir had forgotten how sharp—and how sharp-tongued—the Adal could be. “Are you aware of the disease that has been ravaging the Camp?”

“I do leave this shop occasionally, Inspector.” The dryness of his tone cut cleanly through the lilting accent.

I will take that as a yes. “And its symptoms—you have heard them described?”

“I have.”

“Is the disease familiar to you?”

There was a long pause. Merden considered him carefully. “I would be very disappointed, Inspector, if this were a roundabout way of asking me whether the Adali are responsible for bringing this plague to Braelish shores.”

“Not at all.” Lenoir raised a hand in a mollifying gesture. “I am merely asking whether, in your experience as a practitioner of”—he hesitated, darting another look at Kody—“of traditional medicine, have come across this disease before.”

“If you mean khekra, you can say it,” Kody said from the doorway. “I’m not stupid.”

Merden glanced at him. “You would not be stupid to fear dark magic, Sergeant. On the contrary, you would be a fool not to.”

Silence descended on the room like a fine layer of dust. Khekra was rarely spoken of openly, not even among the Adali. Few southerners had even heard the word, and those who had invariably wished they had not. Fewer still were those, like Lenoir, who had witnessed its power. He cleared his throat. “You did not answer my question.”

“The disease is known to my people,” Merden said warily.

Lenoir could not help smiling. “As are its secrets. Is it not so?”

The soothsayer made no reply.

Lenoir shook his head. “I should have seen it sooner. All the signs were there.”

“What signs?” Kody directed a mistrustful stare at the tall man behind the counter. “Sorry, Inspector, but I don’t follow.”

“It was the report that finally made me see it, though it has been in front of us all along.”

“What has?”

“No Adali among the corpses brought into the clinic. None in the treatment tent, or the convalescents’ tent. Not a single Adali name listed among the dead. And then there was the rumor Zach mentioned, about the Adali having the only cure. Is that true, Merden, or are your people simply immune?”

The soothsayer’s eyes narrowed.

“That is not an accusation,” Lenoir was quick to add.

“Is it not?” Merden’s rich voice sounded a dangerous note, and for the first time, Lenoir found himself wondering what this man might be capable of. He had seen enough of the occult to know he had reason to fear.

“No, it is not. As I told you, I need your help. If you have a cure, you must share it.”

Merden eyed him for a long moment, as though weighing Lenoir’s intentions. The Adali rarely discussed their traditions with outsiders, still less with the police. I should have been more diplomatic, Lenoir thought. Tact had never been his strong suit, but he should have made more of an effort. If Merden turned them away, there would be no second chance.

“I do not have a cure,” the soothsayer said at length. “If I had, I would have told someone by now. Or do you think me a barbarian?”

“Of course not,” Lenoir said, but it sounded defensive, even to him.

Merden went on as though he had not heard. “It is quite possible, however, that a cure is known among the northern clans, for this plague has struck them before.”

“When?”

“Not in our lifetime, but the Adali pass such knowledge from father to son, from mother to daughter, for every season comes again.”

“Death isn’t a season,” Kody said, annoyed.

Merden raised an eyebrow. “What an odd thing to say, Sergeant. Death is the most reliable season of them all.”

Lenoir clucked his tongue impatiently. “Someone in Kennian knows this cure. Otherwise, there would be Adali victims, and many of them.” The Camp was nearly a quarter Adali, after all.

“Perhaps there are,” Merden said. “It may simply be that the Adali who fall ill do not present themselves at your Braelish clinics. My people have little faith in your medicine. We prefer to seek treatment among our own kind.”

“That is possible, but it bears investigating. Will you help?”

“How can I help? I have already told you that I do not know the cure, if indeed such a thing exists.”

“The Camp is under quarantine, a blockade enforced by the Metropolitan Police, and I am about to go canvassing the locals about Adali magic. I would think the matter is plain.”

The soothsayer grunted. “I suppose it is at that.”

“So you will come?”

Merden sighed, his eyes roaming regretfully over the shop. “The summer months are best for business,” he said, “for spirits grow restless when the sun is near.”

Lenoir had no idea what to say to that.

“I will come, Inspector, but give me a moment to prepare.”

“Certainly. We will wait for you outside.”

“You sure this is a good idea?” Kody asked as they stepped out onto the street. “With tempers the way they are, it might not be safe for him to walk around town right now.”

“No more than it is safe for us to walk around the Camp. Hopefully, we can avoid drawing attention to ourselves. In any case, Merden can take care of himself, just as we can.” He patted the sword at his hip for emphasis.

Kody eyed it dubiously. “You carrying a gun too?” The sergeant did not have much faith in Lenoir’s ability to wield a blade, a misgiving that was not entirely unwarranted.

Lenoir pulled his coat back, exposing the butt of a flintlock. Kody looked reassured. As though I am any better with the damn pistol, Lenoir thought.

A moment later, Merden came out of the shop. At the sight of him, Kody groaned softly, and even Lenoir struggled to hide his dismay. The soothsayer had donned a traditional Adali cloak, a spectacular garment of dyed purple wool and bloodred embroidery. Horn beads fringed a wide, drooping cowl, and a rune of some kind was picked out in tiles of bleached bone down the back. It was the most elaborate specimen of its kind Lenoir had ever seen, and though undeniably handsome, it would not exactly blend in with everyday Kennian attire. In the unlikely event that the casual observer should fail to notice the cloak, Merden had helpfully chosen a seven-foot tall walking stick of ebony and bone. They wanted only a herd of cattle to complete the picture.

The soothsayer hoisted a sling of leather pouches over each shoulder and locked the door to his shop. “I am ready, Inspector.”

“We’d better get horses,” Kody said. “Can you ride, Merden?”

The Adal stared at him.

“Right,” Kody said, coloring. He might as well have asked a fish if it could swim.

Lenoir started off toward the station. Already, he could feel the eyes of the entire market square upon them, though whether hostile or merely curious, he could not tell.

This day was about to get very interesting.

Review: Fresh Fiction

Master of Plagues gets another thumbs up, this time from the good people at Fresh Fiction.

“I won’t deny peeking at the end of MASTER OF PLAGUES to see how E.L. Tettensor was going to unravel the very sticky situations her characters find themselves in.”

Stop by and take a look!

Tour Review and Giveaway from The Bibliosanctum

Day 2 of the Master of Plagues blog tour brings us a pair of firsts: first review, and first giveaway. Head on over to the Bibliosanctum to enter, and stay for the review, whydontcha? Oh, and did I mention Mogsy gave the book 5 stars?

Tour Stop #1: Fantasy Book Cafe

The Master of Plagues blog tour has begun! Today’s stop is at Fantasy Book Cafe, where I offer some thoughts on antiheroes. Stop by and say hello!

Announcing the Master of Plagues blog tour!

MASTER OF PLAGUES, Book 2 of the Nicolas Lenoir mysteries, is about to hit bookstores everywhere, and to celebrate, I’m going on tour!

Starting next week, I’ll be hitting up some of the coolest sites in the blogosphere to talk about Master of Plagues, superpowers, antiheroes, and a ton of other good stuff. Oh, and we’ll be giving away FREE BOOKS!

Check out the tour schedule below.

Monday January 26          Fantasy Book Cafe

Tuesday January 27          The Bibliosanctum

Thursday January 29       On Starships and Dragonwings

Friday January 30            Fantasy Review Barn

Monday February 2         SFF World

Tuesday February 3         Skiffy and Fanty

Wednesday February 4   Not Yet Read

Thursday February 5       Fresh Fiction

Friday February 6            The Qwillery

Magic in the Five Villages

With Master of Plagues only a few short weeks away, it seemed like a good moment to drop a bit of extra lore from the world of Nicolas Lenoir, and specifically, the role magic plays in it.

Braeland, the country in which the series is set, is loosely based on early nineteenth century England. As such, the denizens of the Five Villages are outwardly skeptical of the supernatural. While the more backwater villages might hold on to a few superstitions, like avoiding cemeteries after nightfall, few would openly admit to believing in magic. The more cosmopolitan residents of Kennian, meanwhile, being a sophisticated and educated lot, would laugh outright at the suggestion that magic was anything more than children’s tales. And yet, there is a difference between what Braelishmen are prepared to acknowledge and what they feel in their bones.

Most Braelish harbour a deep suspicion of the Adali, a race of foreigners whose ways are alien and unfathomable. Much of this suspicion stems from the Adali’s reputation for dabbling in the occult. The Adali candidly profess their belief in the supernatural, including ghosts, demons, and magic — including its darkest form, known in their tongue as khekra — and they credit the latter with their astonishing healing abilities. As a result, even though Adali medicine is renowned for being far more effective than conventional medicine, few Braelish would dare seek the services of an Adali witchdoctor. In other words, while it might be deeply unfashionable to believe in magic, the Braelish aren’t taking any chances.

So, is magic real?

Curious minds like Nicolas Lenoir have cause to wonder. Certainly, Lenoir can attest to the fact that some aspects of the occult are real — terrifyingly so. The Darkwalker, a supernatural being of unknown origin, spent nearly ten years hunting him. Little is known about the Darkwalker — where it comes from, whom it serves, whether it is angel or demon or something else. The Adali have fragments of legends. Other cultures probably have tales of their own, should anyone go seeking. Even the Braelish must have their myths, buried somewhere under the layers of time, for the Darkwalker does not discriminate; all those who have wronged the dead will face his vengeance. If such tales exist, they are lost to history. But Lenoir doesn’t need tales to convince him — he’s seen the spirit with his own eyes.

But does believing in a vengeful spirit — or, for that matter, God — necessarily mean that one must believe in magic too? Lenior, for one, is not sure.

Adali soothsayers like Merden certainly believe; indeed, they claim to wield it. For Merden, magic is like any other natural force, wind or rain or sunshine. Evidence of it is everywhere, for those who have eyes to see, and it can be harnessed by those who know how. That the Braelish choose to remain willfully blind to these arts, even as they believe in a god they cannot hear or see, is a mystery Merden struggles to understand. Moreover, he resents that only the most backward of Braelish peasants share his beliefs, for he considers himself a man of culture and learning. Lenoir’s comparative open-mindedness is a therefore comfort to him — not to mention a convenient source of superiority.

Lenoir cannot help but be open-minded, having bumped up against the supernatural before. He knows it will happen again, perhaps soon. Until then, he is determined to view the matter with an inspector’s eye, weighing the evidence until he knows for sure.

If the series continues, he’ll have plenty of evidence to consider…

Review: Fantasy Review Barn

Another nice review of Darkwalker popped up last week, this time over at Fantasy Review Barn. Here’s hoping reviewers enjoy Master of Plagues just as much!

Enter 2015

And so we bid farewell to 2014, a very interesting year for me. It opened with publicity around Darkwalker, a quirky tale that struggled to get attention from a saturated market. It closed with publicity around The Bloodbound, another crossover story whose commercial fate is not yet clear. In between, I wrote two novels, Master of Plagues and The Bloodforged.

In some ways it was an incredibly satisfying twelve months. After long years of work, I finally got to see my name in print. I could walk into the Barnes and Noble in Union Square in New York City and be confident of finding a copy of Darkwalker, and later, The Bloodbound. It’s an incredible feeling. The Bloodbound was named a Best of 2014 by the Book Pushers and the Bibliosanctum, and was picked up by German publisher Bastei Lubbe.

In other ways, it was a very stressful year. Cranking out two books while working a full-time job (and living in a very stressful place) was always going to be difficult. But I greatly underestimated the challenges associated with publishing and selling novels. When you’re just starting out as a writer, you tend to think of the writing itself as the hard part. It’s not. It’s SO not. Once you figure this out, you imagine that getting the agent, selling the book, is the real obstacle. And it is tough, no question, but it’s not the last peak you will climb. Indeed, I’m coming to realise that however many peaks you climb, there will always be more ahead of you. Not necessarily higher, but just as grueling in their way.

So I begin 2015 with the first New Year’s resolution I’ve had in years: to worry less. To stop obsessing over sales and publicity and reviews. To write, and love writing, and let that be enough.

Easier said than done, of course, but just setting that goal is a step forward. And if I remind myself of it often enough, I just might get there.

Review: Drey’s Library

With Master of Plagues coming out in a little over a month (hurray!), Darkwalker has been doing the rounds of book bloggers and reviewers not already familiar with the series. So it is that Darkwalker gets a nice new review over at Drey’s Library. Thanks, Drey!

As for Plagues, I have the usual review season unease. Whoever came up with this commentary on the creative process was spot on. Except that in my experience, the process isn’t linear, but cyclical — you go through all of these steps again and again for any given work. I’m on 5 right now…