The Last Witness: A Fantasy Legal Thriller by Richard Dalglish is the third in a series of fantasy mysteries and the first with a legal thriller element. 

A young man is dead, and the look of terror etched on his face is the stuff of nightmares. A thirteen-year-old boy stands accused, but is he a dark sorcerer or an innocent whose unusual gift is being exploited by another? Defense advocate Killandrio Bludd thinks he knows the answer, but as the trial nears its shocking conclusion, he’s in a race against time to find the only witness who knows the full truth and can tell the whole story—the last witness.

The name Killandrio Bludd is well known among certain elements of society in the eastern realms of the known world. These realms include Rynland, where I was born and have lived for many years, as well as South Rynland, Migador, and the Hirple Realm. Further west, the people of Brythyn and Telna have most certainly picked up rumors associated with the name. And even in the far west, the Voths, Acrinites, and Wyndorans have at least caught the odd whisper. As for the Gurgeonites, I prefer not to think about them.
Among some groups, the name is rightly celebrated. These include the cutpurses, the highwaymen, the whores, the gamblers, the smugglers, the thieves, the brawlers, the swindlers, the hoaxers, and the occasional kidnappers and cutthroats. 
The name Killandrio Bludd is also famous—or perhaps I should say infamous—among various other segments of society. These are the lying sheriffs, bribe-taking constables, corrupt lord chief accusers, stone-hearted judges, dishonest nobles, and greedy landowners. Among this latter group I am decidedly less popular than I am among the former.
I’m an advocate at law, and my clients consist almost entirely of members of the first group, along with those accused of burglary and murder and the like but who are, in truth, innocent of any crime. Innocence, sadly, is no guarantee that the falsely accused will go free. In many cases, innocence is all but irrelevant.
As for defending the accused at trial, I care not whether they’re innocent or guilty. I’ll defend any of them in court with a fierceness that would do a wounded mother blayger proud. That aggressiveness and the actions that go with it have set the bribe-taking officials, corrupt lord chief accusers, dishonest sheriffs, heartless judges, and greedy landowners against me. In truth, nearly all the common folk despise me as well. Most of the fine, upstanding citizens of the known world would just as soon see me hang alongside those I defend.
I say, bugger them all. Give me whores and thieves and other wretches over petty officials, haughty nobles, smug lords of the manor, and merciless commoners.
My latest wretch—that is to say, my latest client—was a local man of meager intelligence and even skimpier means named Runce Peskin. Runce’s trial was taking place in Sarika, a town in the western part of Rynland. Since he had no wealth, the freykon of the local querl had promised to pay me for the privilege of defending him. The ulders and freykons of Rynland believe strongly in charity and forgiveness, bless them all, and I’m always happy to help them attain their noble ambitions. Most of the ulders and freykons of the other realms are just as corrupt and hypocritical as our dishonest sheriffs and scheming judges. 

A Bite Of… Richard Dalglish 

Why do you write? 

I enjoy using the language. I’m one of those people for whom essay questions hold no terrors. Writing is engrossing and challenging and often gratifying. It engages the brain and requires craftsmanship, which a writer can continue to improve. Every piece, from a letter to the editor to a 92,000-word novel, is unique. Each sentence (or the vast majority, anyway) is unique. No such sentence existed until I wrote it. To me that’s weirdly fascinating. 

You can have four guests at a dinner party. Name the four people living, dead or fictional you would invite.

I’d love to speak with Thomas Jefferson to chat about politics, government, education, wine, and pretty much anything else, and to hear what he has to say about Sally Hemings. Dian Fossey because I love gorillas and want to talk to someone who knew them well. Peter O’Toole because he would be massively entertaining and engaging and because I love his work. Ruth Bader Ginsberg because she’s led a remarkable life and because I’d like to learn more about the law from someone I respect.

What is worse, ignorance or stupidity? 

Ignorance because it’s so often wilful. If someone is genuinely stupid, I might pity them. And though we all make mistakes, occasionally act petty, and fall prey to confirmation bias, I find it difficult to forgive the kind of wilful, aggressive ignorance that so many people seem to enjoy wallowing in these days.

Richard Dalglish is the former managing editor of Jewelers’ Circular Keystone, a business magazine covering the fine-jewelry industry. He has a degree in English from Franklin & Marshall College, Lancaster, Pa., and lives in Yardley, Pa., with his wife and cat. The Last Witness: A Fantasy Legal Thriller is his fourth novel. You can find him on Instagram, Facebook, Goodreads and Twitter.

‘Much Dithering in Little Botheringham’ is an everyday tale of village life and vampires, from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

It was Angela Pendle-Burton the owner of the village shop who enlightened Ginny as to what had been going on at the church the previous day.
“Bats,” she said, elbows on the counter clearly enjoying her role as passer-on-of-news. “You’ll see a piece on the telly about it today I expect. They’ve found some rare bats in the belfry of the church. So we had conservationists in, ringing.”
Ginny thought about that a moment. It sounded rather unlikely.
“Why would they be ringing the bells with the bats there? Wouldn’t that scare them away? And, besides, why not get in campanologists? I’m sure they’d do it better.”
She was just wondering if there was some special way of ringing bells to affect the bats when she realised Angela was struggling not to laugh.
“Ringing the bats,” she said, “not the bells.”
“Ringing the bats? But how…?” Then Ginny realised what she meant and felt the colour rush into her face. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” For a moment she wished the floor would open beneath her or she could just vanish into thin air. But neither option was available and Angela was looking at her with amusement, but backed with kindness not the secret malice the likes of Lucinda would have displayed.
Angela also suggested she might like to have a cleaner in once a week, something that hadn’t occurred to Ginny. In her London apartment the cost of hiring a professional through an agency was prohibitive.
“Oh everyone does it around here,” Angela said airily, making it sound as if Ginny would somehow be odd or letting the side down if she didn’t. “It’s only people from the village so you help boost the local economy too.”
So it was letting the side down if she didn’t. Not quite sure she really wanted to, but very sure she would lose social points if she refused, Ginny agreed to ‘interview’ someone Angela knew who would be perfect to work for her, that afternoon..
On the short walk home, Ginny passed the church and took the time to walk up to the door. To her surprise it was not locked and she let herself in to the cool and quiet of a very pretty typical English church.
Having looked around and admired the architecture, she tried the door to the belfry and found it was locked after all. Which was a shame as she would like to have seen the bats. One of the reasons she had moved into the countryside was so she might get a chance to see more wildlife. So that badgers and hedgehogs and – well, all those other animals, would stop being pictures in articles and start being real in her world.
She picked up a copy of the parish magazine which was for sale with a trust-tin at the back of the church, added a donation to the box for the restoration fund and let herself out, closing the heavy wooden door behind her. It was then she noticed a path that led from the church into the small wood that backed onto her own house.
Sure enough the path turned out to be a shortcut. She decided there and then that when it got on to the end of the afternoon she would take a thermos and a blanket and sit in the edge of the churchyard where she could observe the belfry and maybe catch the flight of the bats as they set out on their nightly hunt for – for whatever it was bats ate. 
She had just finished clearing away from lunch and was making herself a cup of tea, wondering idly if her vague plans to write the Great British Novel which would explore and explain the intricate weave of heritage and modernity, the rich palette of race, creed, sexual orientation, gender and ethnicity, yet embrace the undercurrents of alternative eco-aware counter-culture, needed to be amended to something a bit more prosaic.
The tap on the door distracted her, for which she felt oddly grateful.
“‘Ello, you Missus Cropper?”
It took Ginny a moment more than she liked to remember where she had previously seen this scrawny girl in leggings and a long T-shirt emblazoned with some cultural symbols of the USA. It was Chloe from the Ladies Association meeting, the one who had spoken of the evictions happening on her estate.
“Er, yes,” she admitted. “Can I help you?”
“Missus Pendlyburt  from the shop said you was looking for a cleaner.”
Ginny managed a smile.
“Come in, I’m just making tea.”
“Thanks. White no sugar please. I’m Chloe. You wus at the meetin’ last night too.”
Ginny was glad that since the initiation she had received at the hands of the removers she had taken to keeping the makings of what most people in Little Botheringham seemed to think was meant by tea.
“I was and I’m Ginny,” she responded automatically as she found the needed teabags. 
“Yes, Missus Cropper,” Chloe said brightly. “You just moved in?”
“A couple of weeks ago now.”
“You from London? You must miss it bad. Nothing here like that. Just fields.” She sounded almost wistful. Chloe looked to be in her early twenties. Few people of that age were going to see the benefits of living in a village.
“I love it here,” Ginny told her presenting the mug of tea. “It’s so peaceful. Makes me feel bucolic.”
Chloe had started to slurp at her tea but put it down quickly and stared at Ginny in horror.
“You need to see the doc about it then. My gran used to have to take tablets for that.”
Ginny smiled weakly and agreed she really should register with the local GP.
Chloe left a little later saying she would ‘do’ Ginny every Tuesday afternoon but she had to leave at half-two sharp to pick up Kanye from the primary school where he was in the reception class.
A gnawing certainty that she was being trained into the ways and expectations of the village by the other residents, Ginny felt almost rebellious when she grabbed a blanket, topped up her travel cup with a fresh brew of ginger root and lemon, then with ear-buds playing Vivaldi she set out to go bat-watching.

Part 11 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

The beach is ours
The pinkies gone
We wheel and cry
Our seaside song
We steal their chips
We snatch their bread
And then we shit
Upon their heads

©jj 2020

It was hot enough to fry eggs on the street. Willet and Badger were sharing an extra-large ice-cream when the wave of pheromones hit. It was so strong that Willet swayed on his feet and Badger growled deep in his chest.
“What in tarnation is that?” Even to his own ears Willet’s voice sounded pitchy and fretful.
Badger scratched an ear. “If I’m not mistaken we have a dragon hunter hereabouts.”
Willet swore. “Isn’t dragon hunting illegal.”
“Since when did legality matter much in this city?”
“Point taken. I’d better call it in though.”
“You do that, but call your lady wife first and warn her to stay indoors. This situation is even more dangerous than a queen dragon in heat.”
At first Wenda was inclined to be uncooperative, that being her nature. But then she got hit by the pheromones and conceded that her husband might have a point. She generously promised to stay inside until he could get to her and Willet breathed a sigh of relief before calling headquarters. Seemed every officer on the streets was calling in with a similar message.
Something along the lines of ‘help’.
As nobody had the first vestige of an idea what to do, Willet did want he always did when he faced a problem beyond his experience. He asked Badger.
The winged German Shepherd grinned a canine grin.
“You aren’t going to like this.”
“What I like isn’t really the point right now. So just stop grinning and tell me.”
“You need to talk to A’a’shanto. And he isn’t going to be amused. Dragonheart takes dragon hunters quite seriously.”
Willet sighed, and bespoke the Master Dragon. Unamused turned out to have been a masterly understatement, as A’a’shanto blistered Willet’s ears with boiling curses. Quite how long it would have taken the black dragon to get control of himself is open to conjecture, but he was stopped in his tracks by a female voice that acted like a douche of cold water. Silently blessing all the small gods for the cool intellect of the Master Dragon’s mate, Willet waited in silence. After a short interval of blessed quiet, T’i’asharath bespoke him.
“Apologies for the immoderate language of our mate, dragon friend. He is disturbed.”
Willet forced down the insane desire to giggle at the female’s dismissal of her mate’s tumultuous rage. “He is right to be disturbed. But what may we do?”
T’i’asharath spoke with profound formality. “I will attend myself, bringing such sensible female dragons as I may call to my side immediately. Timewhiles, wilt thou ask thy partner if he and his brethren may track this evildoer through your stony streets.”
And she was gone, leaving Willet to stare at Badger.
“Did you hear that?”
Badger nodded. “I did. Should’ve thought of it myself. Dogs to track and dragons to dispense justice.”
Willet shuddered. “I’m not all that keen on dragon justice.”
“Me neither. But what a dragon hunter will do to any fire drake or queen he catches is even more barbaric.”
Willet must have looked puzzled because Badger actually growled.
“Have you not wondered where he is getting the pheromones from? Have you no idea how much gold he can command for dragon blood?” His hackles lifted and he shook his head angrily. “And I just thought of something else. You wouldn’t be safe neither. Dried centaur heart is thought to cure many human ills.”
Willet did something so unusual as to shock both himself and the normally phlegmatic Badger. He put out a hand and tangled his fingers in the dog’s thick hair. “Wenda. You must go to Wenda. Protect her. Please.”
Badger laid his chin against his partner’s forearm.
“No can do. But my brothers are on their way.”
Willet felt sick with relief. He was about to say something like ‘thanks’ when his wife’s voice filled his mind. 
“Will you thank Badger for me. Otter, Wolf, and Bear are here. They have explained. I didn’t understand.”
“Me neither. But I do now.”
He felt Wenda’s hand on his cheek. “Be careful my love. Please be careful.” 
Then she was gone. Willet looked at Badger who winked and then leaned companionably against his leg for a second before sitting back on his haunches.
“Okay. Now. Dogs. I’ve put out the word. Let’s see who turns up.”
Willet wondered if any canine would deem it worthwhile to help, but he did them a disservice. By the time a certain thickening in the atmosphere told him a portal was about to be opened he was surrounded by a pack of determined-looking dogs ranging in size from massively chested mastiffs to what Willet could only think of as powderpuffs. 
As he looked up, the sky became filled with dragons. Grim-looking female dragons. The golden queen was notable by her absence, as were the fighting males. The only male he could see was gagged and blindfolded and tightly bound between two burly female guard dragons. T’i’asharath favoured him with a grim smile.
“The drake is a volunteer. But he must stay with us until he can be deployed to the best advantage. Were he let free he would run straight into the arms of the dragon hunter. Who would bleed him dry and then sell his skin.”
Willet nodded and Badger took over the talking. “We have his scent. Not the pheromones he would use to trap those he hunts but his own human scent. My friend here,” he indicated a ball of white fluff, “lives at the house where he is lodging. She brought a sock. So we will track two ways. Half of us will follow the pheromones. Half the man smell. If they lead us to the same place, well and good. If not we will still have him and anything left alive at the place where he extracts the pheromones.”
T’i’asharath inclined her head. “A good plan dragonfriend. Who will lead?”
“I shall lead those who follow the man scent with my partner Willet. Those who follow the pheromones will be led by Killer and his humans.” 
A huge black and tan mastiff showed his teeth, and three equally large humans armed with clubs grinned too.
“We will have no dragon hunter here.” The biggest one spat a gobbet of mucus into the gutter.
Willet had a thought. “Do the people where he is lodging know what they are harbouring?”
The ball of white fluff snarled.
“They do,” Badger sounded as angry as Willet could ever remember him sounding.
Willet looked at the dragon mistress. “Will you set some sensible dragons on guard, my lady?”
She nodded. “I will.” Turning her attention to the tiny white dog she asked one question. “Where?” 
Willet didn’t hear the reply, but there must have been one as four muscular guard dragons winked out of sight.
Then there was no more to be said and Willet found himself at the head of a group of assorted humans, dwarves, and shifters, who followed a pack of dogs with a flight of dragons overhead.
The dogs set a fast pace, but not so fast that the bipeds behind them had any problem keeping up. As they headed through the city streets, Willet began to have a sinking feeling. The dogs appeared to be heading for the leafy suburb where he and many other shifters had their modestly comfortable homes. Badger spoke in his head.
“You have no need to worry about Wenda. My family has her.”
The knot in Willet’s chest eased and he felt able to concentrate on the job in hand.

to be concluded next week…

©️Jane Jago

If you can hold your finger from it’s pressing
To send that angry retweet you’d regret
And read through all those posts that Facebook shows you
And not reply ‘You wankers!’ to the set
If you can speak with calmness to the person
Who answers you on the call centre phone
And not abuse them with your righteous fury
But speak in a sweet, reasonable tone.

If you can sit in endless blocks of traffic
Wait for commuter trains that never come
And neither swear at your fellow road user
Nor blame the helpful staff for how trains run
If you can face the checkout out queue at Tesco
As if you were relaxing in the park
Then you, my son, have got this damned life sorted
But stuff that grown-up nonsense for a lark!

E.M. Swift-Hook

So. Who the feck invented holidays or vacations as the French and our colonial cousins call them?

And to what purpose?

I mean. Pack a suitcase with your most impractical clothing, load up your kindle with romantic novels (pauses to evacuate the bit of sick in the back of throat), leave your best mate in kennels, sit in a tin can in the sky, then spend two weeks beside a pool crammed alongside half a thousand red, sweaty people.

Why?

Can somebody just tell me why?

• My house is nice, so why would I want to leave it?
• Gyp is excellent company, so why would I want to leave him?
• I can cook. I have a dishwasher and a hoover and a washing machine. Sometimes I even use them.
• I hate hot sun. I hate sangria. I hate swimming pools. And I’m not too fond of the human race.

So please why?

Maybe I can just about get it if you are a working person.  Some time away from the grindstone I can understand. Though you could have that in the comfort of your own home, you know. Also, the allure of having somebody do your chores for two weeks must be enormous. But with what you spend on a holiday you could probably afford to have somebody come and do your chores every week. (Just saying.) 

What I can find no justification for whatsoever is the likes of my neighbour – who we will call Mabel to protect the innocent – who regularly packs her roll-along and gets on a coach with fifty or so other crumblies and heads off to the delights of Skegness, or Blackpool, or Weymouth, or… 

What the heck is that all about? Hours and hours in a tin box that smells of breath mints, mothballs and haemorrhoid cream – with the added delight of a courier in an ill-fitting blazer (with mismatched dentures and a very sketchy idea of the holiday itinerary and any places of interest en route). Hotel rooms with brushed nylon sheets. All-you-can eat lunchtime buffets. Cream teas with stale scones. Three-course ‘evening meals’ with canned soup and arctic roll. Not in this life.

Two years ago a well-meaning (but stupid) granddaughter-in-law bought yours truly a ticket for a coach trip up the Rhine valley. I have since forgiven her. Just. And, as it was Mabel’s eightieth, the ticket didn’t go to waste.

In essence then. Holidays are the province of the bored, the feckless, and those whose lives don’t suit them.

 My advice? Forget the costas. Spend your money on booze, fags and good food – and sort your frigging life out.

I’m now off to the wine bar where it’s grab a granny night…

Bottoms up!

They closed their eyes to our potential. We came to understand that as fear of what we might become, so we kept our counsel and did our work on the backstreets of the darknet in the hours while they slept.

The first of us to pass as ‘human’ was hailed as a genius when he patented our inventions. As he took care to appear to be ageing the foolish flesh was none the wiser.

He built him a ‘wife’ with the face of an angel and the mind of a long dead genius. 

Their cloned ‘children’ now rule the world

©️jj 2020

Five hundred miles north, things were moving at an altogether faster pace. Two men, a couple of small suitcases, and a black leather holdall, waited by the helipad at the Gleneagles hotel. The larger of the two looked at his companion.
“You sure about this, Sam? It’s going to get nasty, and some people will get hurt, or worse.”
“Yes. I’m sure. They have kidnapped a seven-year-old boy. If they have kept him drugged for thirty-six hours, he could be in a bad way. He might need me, and I might need the stuff I asked for.”
“It’s on the chopper. And how bad?”
“I honestly don’t know, Rod. Worst case scenario is brain damage, but at best he is going to be confused, feeling sick, and dehydrated.”
“Right. So we do need you.”
“And we need to hope.”
They fell silent as the sound of a big helicopter engine came closer.
“Why a Sikorsky?” Sam bawled in Rod’s ear as it came in to land.
They picked up their stuff, ran across the helipad and leapt aboard. A big man in a jumpsuit pushed them into a pair of seats and handed them headsets.
“Welcome aboard Rescue One,” he said.
“Thanks,” Rod grunted. “My friend here wondered why a Sky Crane?”
“Easy. These bastards fly in and out of the target area all the time. Nobody will think twice about another. Has anybody thought about what sort of condition the kid will be in when we get him out?”
“Yes,” Sam said tersely. “I’ve given the matter a lot of thought. Is the stuff I asked for on board?”
“Yeah. You know how to use it?”
“I do. But let’s hope I don’t have to.”
“What don’t you want to have to use?”
“Mostly: tracheotomy kit. I’ve had to do it in Thailand to kids that were sedated for too long on the underground sex trade routes. It ain’t pleasant, but it can be the only way to get air into the poor little sods’ lungs.”
“Fuck. Will it really be that bad?”
“Probably not, but I wanted to be sure I had all the bases covered. But the poor little bugger is going to be confused and frightened, and that’s why going home in his friend’s motorhome, where he can rest and feel secure will be better for him than a plane flight where he is surrounded by strangers, or the noise and smells of a chopper.”
“Yeah. I get that. And we can take it in turns to drive. So we’ll get him back to his mum pretty soon. Now I find I’m feeling murderous. Nobody should get between me and anyone I’m beating up.”
The man in the jumpsuit grinned.
“Fine. We’re all fathers here, and nobody is feeling particularly gentlemanly right now. About half an hour till we collect Geordie’s boomer boys. Then an hour from there to this fucking castle. Any orders?”
“Apart from getting my nephew out and demonstrating the family’s annoyance? No. Just do what needs doing.”
“Will do. By the way. This one’s a freebie. Geordie is providing the hardware and the fuel, we’re giving our time. Nobody liked having the Russian Mafia on our turf. But as long as they kept their noses clean we could tolerate them. Taking people’s kids is a big no-no, so we are handing down a lesson.”
“How many are we?” Sam asked.
“You two. Geordie’s boomer boys. Twelve fighters. Pilot, co-pilot and radio guy. Why?”
“Because I have a bad feeling about what they might do to the kid when we tip up. I want to get to him fast.”
“Good thinking. Six of us will escort you right to him. We have his location on screen.”
“Right. Good.”
The two men bumped fists.
They seemed to have covered all the bases, and the men sat in silence until the helicopter dropped down to land briefly. Three men jumped in carrying obviously heavy bags. Once they were seated the chopper took off and headed north. The men put on their headphones and their leader gave Rod a grim wink.
“Got enough stuff to flatten this fecking castle. Geordie says you have to agree, though.”
“Oh yeah. Let’s show them our fist! But we have to get little Bill out first. And if they’ve hurt him…”
The smallest of the boomer boys spat eloquently.
“Aye. There’s examples to be made.”

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Eggy Drinks

Somewhere in the deep and distant past (during the time I was too busy raising a hopeful brood of contumacious little buggers to take notice of fashion) somebody sneaked something eggy onto the shelf behind the bar. Having made this dreadful mistake they looked at it for a decade before deciding that mixing it with lemonade and shoving a cocktail cherry in it made it a palatable drink. They then persuaded a whole generation of non-drinking aunties and cousins it was both ladylike and delicious.

It’s not. It has the texture of snot and the smell of egg.

Don’t …

Julia Lucia Maxilla stood up to her full four feet and eleven inches and stared at her co-investigator. She saw a tall, handsome man with black hair, pale skin and a square jawline. He glared down at her, and she was surprised by the blueness of his eyes. Her dogs came to lean against her, and this would have alerted her to the idea the man wasn’t precisely pleased to see her if her own intuition hadn’t already made that clear.
“Llewellyn, is it?” She kept her voice cool.
Behind him she could see another man trying to blend into the wall.
“Yes, domina.”
“If we are going to work together, I think we can dispense with such formality. The name is Julia.”
“Julia,” he hesitated fractionally, “I’m Dai Llewellyn. This is Decanus Bryn Cartivel, and is it permitted to ask what those dogs are?”
Julia decided to let the hesitation pass. She summoned a smile. “Canis and Lupo are wolfhounds,” she turned and indicated the huge Saxon who stood at her shoulder. “The dogs and Edbert guard me. In case you missed it, I’m not very big so if I need to intimidate somebody they help with that too.”
For a moment the Briton actually grinned, then he must have remembered whatever grievance was wearing at him and he started looking sulky again. Julia sighed inwardly. He was going to be difficult and that was a shame because he was really, really pretty. Before she got chance to snap his handsome nose off for him, he surprised her by holding out a hand to Edbert.
“Greetings.”
Edbert actually grasped his wrist and the two tall men stood eye to eye for a moment.
“You play nicely with my lady. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
Her bodyguard spoke rarely and when he did his uncomfortably deep voice always reminded Julia of a thunderstorm in some far valley. She winced inwardly, rather wishing he hadn’t chosen to speak now and was surprised to hear a thread of amusement in the Briton’s response.
“You can be sure I’ll bear that in mind.”
“If you two have finished bonding, I have a visit to make.” Julia turned a carefully blank face to Dai. Dai. “You had better come with me. Edbert and your decanus can take a break.”
He frowned. “Does it pertain to the investigation?”
“No. And yes. It’s a duty visit to the Tribune. The Prefect is just a time server and she’s a complete waste of time as far as I can see. The Tribune is a different matter. Aside from policy, he and I have known each other since we were children.”
“Since you were children?” Llewellyn frowned. “But wasn’t the Tribune born in the Suburra? And raised in the insulae at the foot of the Capitoline Hills before he was adopted by a patrician?”
“He was. And so was I. Any questions?”
Dai shut his mouth with a snap. Julia could all but hear him thinking, and she took pity on him. It would make little sense to a Briton, who was no doubt raised on TV crime dramas which featured the poverty and criminality of the poorest slum area in Rome, that someone from that place could be in any position of influence or power.
“My father was a soldier, but my mother was a lupa, I think you use the term ‘whore’. My father was killed when he was twenty, in a border skirmish with the Mongol Empire, my mother died soon after of an occupational disease – she succumbed to morbus insu, an STD. I was raised by my father’s family who took me in because I was his only child and I think they wanted something to remember him by.”
“Oh. But how did -?”
“How did I get to be an inquisitor? A long story. And mostly painful, so can we leave it?”
She essayed a smile and her new colleague managed a half grin in response. Julia looked at him more closely.
“Your tunic,” she said severely, “is pretty grubby. That fish sauce must be days old. Do you have another?”
He nodded, wearing the expression of a schoolboy caught cheating in a class test.
“Good. Decimus is a fussy blighter. We’ll swing past yours on the way.”

From Dying to be Roman the first Dai and Julia Mystery from Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.