A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…

It was almost a year after the master of the Rey Don Phillipos met his maker that Bony Mary came looking for Tall Jack.
She found him in the island’s least reputable tavern with a fat slattern on his lap and a bumper of exceptional rum in his fist. He had obviously been drinking for some time, because he blinked owlishly at her and even went so far as to blow her a kiss. She sighed and jerked a thumb at the tavern wench, who made herself scarce. Once Jack was unencumbered, she carefully removed the tankard from his hand and hefted him under one brawny arm. In most situations the next destination would be the harbour, but she had a sneaking suspicion that a half dwarf with a steel leg was likely to sink without trace, and she sort of liked the little shit. Instead she headed for the bathhouse where she handed the, by now swearing, pirate into the tender care of two very camp young men.
The younger of the duo looked into Jack’s bloodshot eyes. “Give us an hour, Mary, and he’ll be all yours.”
“Just don’t let the little weasel escape. Or I will be annoyed.”
With which imprecation she ambled off to arrange a decent meal and bottle of the best red wine piracy could provide. When she returned to the bathhouse, a sober and clean-shaven Jack eyed her with real dislike.
“This,” he said bitterly, “had better be good. That beard took me the better part of five years to grow.”
Mary favoured him with a sour smile. “Oh, it’s good. Well, no, it ain’t good. But you needs to hear it. And with a sober head.”
Normally, Jack would have argued for form at least, but something in the set of Mary’s meaty shoulders told him this wasn’t the time for random contrariness.
“Okay, then, let’s go somewhere where we can talk.”
Mary didn’t bother to reply, merely turning on her heel and striding off at a pace that had Jack running to keep up.
“Oy,” he puffed. “Tin leg behind you.”
It is a measure of just how disturbed Mary was that she not only abated her pace, but she also muttered an apology.
Once they were seated at a table in the dining room of one of the cleaner bunkhouses around the harbour with bowls of steaming fish stew in front of them and glasses of almost priceless ruby-red wine at their elbows, Mary started to speak.
“I’ve just come back from San Christo. While I was there I checked up on Isabella.”
Jack must have looked as puzzled as he felt because Mary looked skywards and make a tisking noise with her tongue.
“Isabella is the girl we rescued from Don Carlos’ fragging treasure ship. The one you gave a share of the booty to.”
“Oh. Right. I just never knew her name. Is she doing okay now?”
“Yeah. She’s fine. But that ain’t the point. The girl seems to think she owes the pirates of Retiro de Ladrones, so she keeps her ear to the ground and her mouth shut. She works as a bookkeeper for the banquier who holds all our moneys. And she eavesdrops…”
“Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?”
“Because maybe you should. Seems that Don Carlos had him a brother. One Esteban. A very wealthy man. And one who would seem to bear grudges…”
“Tell on, my friend.” Jack suddenly started sounding as dangerous as he undoubtedly was.
“Yeah. Well. I am. Just lining it up right in my head. This Esteban, he takes his brother’s death hard and vows to find the scoundrels responsible and put them to the sword. Only there’s hundreds of pirates out there. But then he got lucky.”
“He did? And how might that be?”
“There’s hundreds of pirates. But there ain’t too many undead talking rats.”
“No. I guess not. There’s probably about one.”
“Probably. So this Esteban is on San Christo throwing gold around like it’s worth nothing. Offering anybody who brings him your head more money than most of us could ever dream of.”
“Many takers?” Jack asked in a deceptively mild voice.
“So far as I heard, none. But there is gonna be a few.”
At that second, a manky looking parrot landed on Mary’s shoulder and chortled derisively. “Pieces of eight,” it grated.
“Shut up Gravel.” Jack threw the ugly yellow and blue bird a crab claw which it caught in its beak.
His mind clicked into gear right about the same time as Mary’s; they both leapt to their feet.
“One-Eye Sam. Assassin to the masses.”

Jane Jago

There will be more from Bony Mary and her crew next week…

A whisper in the sullen air
The wing brush of a thought
Given birth and taught to care
A fractured life and fraught
A seeking stranger, eyeless blind
Among the frail and maimed
May feel the sharp stab of a mind
Focused on the game
Who and what and why they ask
And search a golden eye
Confused by each and every task
Still reaching as they die
Oh cold compassion, heartless love
As cleansing as the fire
May in the end prove truth above
The madness of desire
A whisper in the conscious mind
A wing that lifts the lone
When their last strength is left behind
Cruel truth may guide them home

© jane jago

Pridie Idus Apriles MDCCLXXVIII Anno Diocletiani

It was much too beautiful a day for saying farewell.
The sun was shining in a mild, blue sky, where the clouds that drifted were picture-book white and fluffy. Spring had sprung with enthusiastic abandon and the fruit trees in the orchards around the Villa Papaverus were smothered with blossoms. It had been a long, cold winter and now new life was bursting out everywhere as warmth returned.
The small squad of Praetorians stood on the apron of gravel in front of the house, standing as if on parade before the Emperor. But the formal leave taking had already been done, yesterday, in Viriconium, when they had marched through the streets having performed an open-air concert in the Forum before the Magistratus and other local officials and dignitaries.
This was different. This was just a rag-tag group of Romans and Britons, citizens and servants. Dai had deliberately avoided wearing a toga. For this event, he wanted to be simply Dai Llewellyn the man, not Submagistratus Llewellyn of Demetae and Cornovii. Beside him, Julia his very pregnant wife, had also avoided anything dressy. She was clad in a simple maternity tunic and long skirt. For this was not the formal dismissal of the vexillation of Praetorians that had been billetted in his villa for the last seven months, this was the parting of friends. This departure had already been delayed past the original time, but the day had finally come.
Dai himself had come to know almost all of these men to some greater or lesser extent, but everyone in the household had befriended one or more. Some had gone beyond friendship and two of the Praetorians had requested – and been granted – early release and the necessary documentation to remain and marry local women. And, with room for tragedy as much as happy-ever-after, three of the younger women who had been working in the villa were now waiting by the gate, packed up, happy glowing faces, to travel with their lovers to Londinium. Dai hoped Julia had spoken to them and told them they would always be welcome back, even if they came with an unacknowledged infant or two in tow. Relationships between Citizens and those who were not, were seldom formalised as the legal barriers to doing so were very high and the pressure these young men would be under from family and friends to marry a Citizen would be immense.
There had been hugs and tears all around, but now, formed up smartly, the Praetorians looked every inch the disciplined elite fighting force they were trained to be. At the front of the squad, facing them, stood Brutus Gaius Gallus. He had been Praetorian Decanus Gaius until the previous day and although he was standing with his spine rigid and his jaw chiseled from granite, Dai was fairly sure he could see a slight overbrightness in the older man’s eyes. It was he who snapped out a final salute and then the troop was marching through the gate to where two army trucks were waiting to take them back to Londinium. Dai wondered why Gallus had chosen to take early retirement and had an odd suspicion that it might have been on orders from the Tribune in charge of the Praetorians in Britannia – Decimus Lucius Didero.
“I’m going to miss them,” Julia said softly. Dai put an arm around her.
“Me too,” he admitted, thinking of the number of times he had needed to call on the Praetorians to provide military back-up since he had started working here the previous September. It was going to be tough without them.
“They were actually rather good musicians,” Julia was saying. “We had some lovely concerts. Now we’ll need to hire in when we hold a party.” She gave a sigh of regret. Dai looked at her sharply and she turned her face up so he could see the sparkle of mischief in her eyes.
“I had you with that one, admit it.”
Dai smiled a little wryly. “I’m probably an easy target.”
Julia reached up and drew his head down to hers for a kiss.
“Not often,” she said as she stepped out of his embrace. “But talking of parties, I have one to finish organising for tonight.”
Dai had almost forgotten that.
Almost.
For today was not only a day of farewells it was also a day of celebration. They were having a family party to welcome home his sister, Cariad. She had been away for the last three months, relaxing on a small secluded island in the Mare Nostrum in the care of an asclepieion, recuperating from nearly falling victim to a murderer.
But Dai struggled to find in the return of Cariad any cause for celebration. His sister was a serial adulterer who cared nothing for anyone or anything except herself, her own desires and her own social ambitions – not her husband nor even her two children. That she was married to Dai’s immediate superior, the local Magistratus, who adored her beyond reason and forgave her every failing, made the situation even more embarrassing to handle.
But he refrained from saying anything as Julia chivvied the household back to work and was about to return to his own administrative labour, when Gallus intercepted him.
“Submagistratus, I have a favour to ask of you.”
Gallus was a man typical of his class and status. You could slice and dice through him at any point and the solid soldier would be left in every piece. He had the typical legionary contempt for civilians – a contempt that extended to the Vigiles which Dai had served for many years. If the last few months had led Gallus to give Dai some grudging respect for his abilities, it had manifested in a patronising attitude, which was unspoken but omnipresent. And that grated.
Dai squeezed out a polite smile. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s the matter of my application to join the Vigiles. The Magistratus informed me that whilst he had approved it, since I would be working in your district I  would need your formal approval as well.”
It took a moment for Dai to recover. He suspected that his jaw must have dropped slightly open, but was struggling so much for words that he could not be sure.
“You? You are applying to join the Vigiles?” Not, Dai realised, his finest moment of tactful diplomacy.
Gallus’ expression became even more severe than usual and his eyebrows lowered into a frown.
“I’ve already been approved for it.” He sounded defensive. “This is just a matter of courtesy as you are -”
Dai lifted a hand, feeling acutely awkward. “No. I mean – I know. You just said.” He took a steadying breath, “I am simply very surprised. The last time I heard you say the word ‘vigiles’ it was with the words ‘namby-pamby’, ‘play-soldiers’ and ‘glorified lost and found service’ attached, as I recall.”
At least Gallus had the decency to look a little uncomfortable at the memory.
“Yes. Well – uh – that – that was different. And it was a while ago.”
“About two weeks.”
Gallus cleared his throat and came to attention.
“Submagistratus Llewellyn, I apologise for any prior comments I may have made that in anyway disparaged or demeaned the Vigiles. They were inappropriate.”
“I agree.”
Gallus expression shifted slightly.
“You agree to approve my appointment as an Investigator to the local vigiles?”
“I agree your comments were inappropriate.” As a form of revenge it was petty, Dai knew, but then the digs from Gallus had been too. Dai saw something harden in the other man’s face and realised that his own behaviour was rapidly becoming equally ‘inappropriate’.
“Look,” he said, his tone conciliatory, “before we make anything formal, why don’t you go and spend a few days working with SI Cartivel and his team? See if you fit in. See if you suit the work and if it suits you. I don’t see any point you signing up if not. You can go down to the Vigiles House this afternoon and I’ll let them know to expect you.”
For a moment the grey eyes of the older man held his gaze with the familiar, appraising look that Dai found so profoundly irritating. Then Gallus saluted smartly.
“As you instruct, Submagistratus.”
Dai watched him walk smartly towards the gates and then made his own way into the house. His Senior Investigator and friend of many years standing, Bryn Cartivel, was going to love this. Not.

From ‘Dying to be Welcome’ one of the exclusive bonus short stories The Second Dai and Julia Omnibus by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

MacAlistair’s a messy dog, with always muddy paws
For he’s a mucky puppy dog who trails the mud indoors
He’s the scourge of us his owners, and we often do despair
For when we see those pawprints, MacAlistair’s right there.

“MacAlistair! MacAlistair!” we call his name, “MacAlistair!”
He’s running through the flowerbeds and getting muddy paws
We have to yell his name so loud as he runs in the park
But the bold MacAlistair just thinks it’s all a lark.

MacAlistair’s a brindle dog, he’s very tall and lean
You’d know him if you see him as his paws are never clean
His eyes they are so dark and his legs so very long
By the time you see his pawprints, you’ll find that he’s long gone.

MacAlistair, MacAlistair, there’s no dog like MacAlistair,
He’s a wolf who stalks the sitting room and leaves mud on the chairs
Then when you try to send him out, he thunders up the stairs
And all you see is trailing muddy pawprints everywhere!

He’s outwardly a cutie pie who children love to pet
Unless, of course, you need to get him out to see the vet
Then he becomes a racehorse and runs right down the street
And when you get to find him he’ll have smelly muddied feet.

Even when those pawprints are marking your new furniture
You just get out the Vax again and follow round their curvature.
MacAlistair, MacAlistair, there’s no dog like MacAlistair,
He always looks so innocent you can’t keep up the glares.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Namaste you wonderful, desirable and aspiring individual! This bijou blog is here to help you achieve your best ever ‘you’. Here, I offer my help and assistance in reshaping your shape and doctoring your decor internally and externally, to bring your lifestyle into line with your aspirations.

Gestures

One of the very first things we all notice about an individual we meet will be their gestures. Do they forever make air quotes? Are they bracing their forehead with the back of their hand in times of stress?
We are what we do and gestures such as these both express our inner essence and shape it through repetition. What is within is always reflected without and what is without will be internalised in turn. So it goes without saying that the very best way to shape your inner essence can be through defining yourself externally by your gestures.
Firstly you need to choose what will be your hallmark ‘defining’ gesture. The one that all those who know you or come into contact with you in life will take away with them as being the essential expression of who you are. So you need to choose wisely and think carefully on both what this gesture is seeking to portray about you and reinforce within you.
Some suggestions:

Pointing with the little finger
Tucking your other fingers behind your thumb, use only the smallest digit on your hand to point and indicate with, thus demonstrating both your humility and your confidence. By using it you are saying to the world that you have no need to use the aggressive index finger to point with, you can do just as well with a little finger and that small is beautiful too.

Spread finger hand shake
Instead of presenting a sleek, attack line hand to be shaken, thumb up like the dorsal fin of a shark, offer your hand with the fingers wide apart to show you are not a greedy or grasping individual, but an open and easygoing person, with nothing to hide.

Scratching the third eye
When you are in need of inspiration, instead of scratching your head at random, always aim for the spot above the nose and between the eyes. This shows you are a profound and mystically inclined individual who all should respect. Rubbing it when perplexed is a variant on this theme.

You can come up with your own unique and inspiring gestures to ensure you leave an indelible impression on all those you encounter.

Namaste!
Lucida the Loquacious Lifestyle Coach

I used to hate Harry. He squired me around the country for half a year, popped my cherry and promptly disappeared from my life. I cried for a week, then pulled on my big girls pants and got on with life.
But I hated.
Until Azriel and me went to the hospice. He’s a PAT dog, and he brings comfort to the terminally ill. Guess who we found? Thin, diminished, and dying.
When he saw me, a tear ran down his face, and me and Azriel held him close while he drew his last breath.
I don’t hate him now…

©Jane Jago

Unable to do any more research for his latest book, and unwilling to mark the essays of the hapless few who opted to study Ancient Scrolls under his sarcastic and careless tutelage, Launcelot went home.
He kicked the door open and the parlourmaid winced before whisking herself down the back stairs to the servants’ quarters. She passed the master’s valet, Wilkinson, on the half landing.
“He’s home Mister Wilkinson, and he don’t half look to be in a mood.”
Wilkinson permitted himself a thin smile. “Not to worry, Primrose. Just keep out of his way for a while.”
The girl scuttled down the vertiginous staircase with the speed of a startled mouse, but Wilkinson carried on his stately way, wholly undisturbed by any of his master’s moods. He arrived at that gentleman’s bedchamber in time to field the academic gown and boots that flew through the half-open door.
“Wilkinson! Wilkinson! Get your scrawny backside in here right now!”
Wilkinson arranged his narrow features into a suitably servile expression and oozed into the room.
“You called?”
“Course I bloody well called. You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. Draw me a bath.”
Wilkinson walked into the bathroom on soft feet. An hour later, somewhat soothed by a steamy bath and a change of clothing, Gribble trod the shallow stairs to the family chambers in search of his wife. He found her in her comfortable sitting room. Unfortunately for his brightening mood she wasn’t alone. Sitting on the opposite side of the fireplace was her plain and lumpen sister, Caroline. Gribble sneered.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?”
The unfortunate girl coloured unbecomingly and Gribble’s merciless eyes took in the red blotches on her neck with some amusement.
“Leave the gel alone, you blackguard. Pick on somebody your own size.”
The voice came from within the embrace of his own huge winged armchair, and it reduced him to schoolboy status in an instant. His formidable grandmother chuckled.
“Pleased to see us, are you Lionel?”
“Launcelot, Grandmere,” his wife’s soft tones were edged with gentle rebuke. “You promised not to be confrontational. It’s bad for the baby.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry Gwyn. I should have remembered. But he’s such a pompous arsehole.”
Gwyn waved a finger and the old lady subsided. Launcelot felt a moment of unusual gratitude, and bowed over his wife’s small hand.
“How do I find you today?” he enquired jocularly. “I’m well,” she smiled, a sweetly absent smile and for a few moments a watcher could have thought themselves looking at an ordinary happy family.

From Gribble’s Geek by Jane Jago which is only 0.99 to buy throughout November.

If Tim hadn’t overslept that Monday morning, having been up all night with an emergency plumber in his flooded kitchen, he’d not have been late meeting those important new company clients. And if he’d not tripped over carrying their coffees, he might not have ruined his boss’s new Armani suit and he might have kept his job.
And he might have afforded the repayments on his car, so not have needed to be on his pushbike to go to a job interview and got a puncture right outside a diner and got talking with the owner – Lily, his future wife.

E.M. Swift-Hook

If you have enjoyed Granny’s rants, pearls of wisdom and lifehacks on the Working Title Blog, you can now have a collection of her inimitable insights of your very own or to gift to someone you think would appreciate Granny’s words!

Granny Knows Best by Jane Jago is now available in ebook and treebook.

Gran Rap

They call me Granny coz I’m old and grey
But I’m not looking back to yesterday
I’m as old as my tongue, but much younger than my teeth
And you better watch your ass when I’ve got a beef
This is Gran rap, grumpy Gran rap
Come in too close and you’ll get a slap
I don’t like slippers, though I like trainer shoes
I never waste my pension for I spend it all on booze
I’ve never made jumper nor a tea cozy
And you’ll never learn ladylike manners from me
This is Gran rap, grumpy Gran rap
Come in too close and you’ll get a slap
I don’t play bridge and I think golf’s a bore
Just pour me a gin, and then add one more
I don’t like to go to a ladies lunch club
You’ll find me and mine in a corner of the pub
This is Gran rap, grumpy Gran rap
Come in too close and you’ll get a slap
They call me Granny coz I’m old and wise
And I watch the world with experienced eyes
You have to work hard to get my respect
As I think most people are a pain in the neck
This is Gran rap, with a hip rhyme
But it’s over now because it’s pub time

Grab your copy now – ‘cos Granny says to!

It was the smell – compounded of blood, and burst intestines, and faeces, and fear. He knew it would fill his nostrils for the rest of his days. That and the sound of horses screaming in mortal agony. It was, he had discovered, easy enough to tune out human voices – but not the death cries of the animals who came here through no volition of their own.
He fell to his knees in the mud and hoped death would find him next. It didn’t, though he died anyway.
Another corpse among so many, only this one fell on his own sword.

©Jane Jago