Because life happens…

I miss my old bookshelf, he sighed
It reminds me that time passes by
That the books that I read
Now exist in my head
Though no more in front of my eyes

Jane Jago

Sergeant Lian Gorfan propelled himself along the line that stretched between the shuttle and satellite base station. When he’d been a child his grandmother had always said, disparagingly, “That lad don’t know which way’s up!” Well now he did. Forget about the universe, up is defined by the airlock you are leaving.
Another thing he’d learned in the marines, quality was shown in little things. It was the care taken by the tech who serviced your vac suit, the care taken when ‘throwing the line’ between two vessels. In this case it was the care the shuttle pilot had taken to align the shuttle airlock with the base station airlock so both were the ‘same way up’. Indeed the SRCC team which had placed the base station in orbit had made sure that its ‘top’ was aligned with the north pole of Tsarina. It seems a little thing, but it meant that as he moved along the line, he didn’t have a vertiginous feeling that he was about to plunge a thousand miles down to the planet surface. No, the planet was hanging there ahead of him, just to the left of the base station.
He glided along the line, the momentum of his first jump carrying him smoothly along. Ahead of him, it must have been early afternoon in Kaunas City; he couldn’t make out the city itself but could see the straits of Farrant. Akin was moving through evening, great swirls of dark cloud covered it, thickening toward the north.
He turned his attention to the station ahead of him. The hull plates were enamelled, another useful indicator that someone was taking care. The enamel coating wore better than steel. So if you expected the installation to last into its second century, enamelling was a cost-effective process. He reached the airlock, swung down, punched the ‘open’ button and waited for the door to slide open.
He unclipped from the line and stepped into the airlock. He put down his tool chest and stood at ease, glancing around while waiting for the air pressure to equalise. Above the internal door, moulded into the metal was the slogan, “The Sands River Citrus Cooperative: Serving its members for over four thousand four hundred years.” Lian had read up about the SRCC in the shuttle. Formed initially as an agricultural cooperative it had branched out into meteorological prediction and weather satellites. From there to providing ‘intra-system traffic control services’ was a small step. Now the SRCC had a presence in well over a thousand systems, and insurance premiums were lower if you were shipping in an SRCC-monitored system.
The inner door of the airlock opened, and Lian could see two men waiting for him, each wearing nondescript grey overalls with SRCC badges on the left breast. Lian unfastened his helmet. “Good day, gentlemen. I am Sergeant Lian Gorfan of Tsarina Marine Division; I believe you have a problem.”
The older of the two men stepped forward. His head was shaven and tattooed extensively. Lian put him down as a Hubwards Initiate from Kraft.
“I’m Taf, the Meteorologist,” said the man. “This is Aran, my colleague and intra-system traffic controller. I’ll try and explain while you take your vac suit off.” Lian gave him a casual salute and nodded to Aran. Aran too, had his head shaved, but Lian noticed that his overalls were short-sleeved and that on his arms and hands sections of the skin appeared to be covered with small mirrors. These mirrors were flexible; Lian could see that they conformed to the movements of the skin.
Lian started to remove his gloves. Taf, with the air of a lecturer faced with students of uncertain intellect, began. “What do you know about computers?”
Lian looked up from unfastening the seals on his torso plate. “Well, I hold the standard naval qualifications.”
“So you know that no one in their right mind links one computer to another so they can communicate electronically.”
Lian parroted the answer from one of his training manuals. “This is Standard Operating Procedure to stop some bright twelve year old producing a virus which can disrupt banking systems or send power stations off-line.”
“Exactly,” Taf sounded like he was trying to encourage one of the slower members of class, “and so we communicate with computers through a keyboard, voice, hand-signals or by having them use optical recognition software on printed documents. Except that, at SRCC, we don’t. Because of the sheer volume of meteorological data, we have to use electronic transfer as well.”
Lian felt he had to prove he wasn’t out of his depth here so interjected, “Some warships use linked systems as well, but obviously they are sealed from outside contact.”
Taf smiled in a slightly patronising manner. “And obviously we make sure that software is securely hardwired into the computer. This reduces the risk of problems introduced from outside.”

About The Tsarina Sector by Jim Webster

Not one book but four! Basically a long time ago, when I was just a kid, (I think it was in 2013) I got talking to a small publisher. They wanted some SF. I said I could write SF. Anyway in 2014 they published ‘Justice 4.1’. It came out in paperback and ebook and I took it to LonCon and it sold pretty well really. Later that year the second book came out. War 2.2. Already the publisher was fading. Small publishers do this, life is tough and family commitments can crowd out high ambition. So War 2.2 only came out in kindle. Then the published finally closed their doors and I was left with two manuscripts, half a third, and a story arc.
Which is fine, just fine. Except I was busy. And, from the point of view of SF, a bit disheartened. Anyway during lockdown I had time. It wasn’t that I didn’t have plenty to do, agriculture didn’t lock down, the food chain is too important for that sort of thing. But all sorts of inspectorates, ministries and quangos all ran off and hid and suddenly all the unpaid work they usually find for me to do just didn’t materialise. So in that spare time that had blissfully materialised I finished the third book and wrote the fourth.
Now the fourth was an issue. I’d intended it to be a five book arc, but the fourth book finished the story. Admittedly it did so in a book twice as thick as the others, but there wasn’t a gap. There was no way I could split book four into two without leaving cliffhangers all over the place.
Now if there’s anything I dislike more than a cliff hanger in a series, it’s a series that just doesn’t happen. So after the messing about after the first two books I decided that this time the series would happen. I’d make damned sure it happened. I pressed publish on all four books on the same day. So you can buy this series knowing that the author isn’t going to lose interest. Each book has a beginning and an end.
So what’s the thing about? It’s set on and about the world of Tsarina. The planet at the edge of the galaxy. A place where they’re sort of holding things together but ‘just getting by’ has become government policy. It’s just the story of the problems that the Governor’s Investigation Office has to tackle. There are starmancers, genetic engineers, brush fire wars, narcotics, expensive furniture, night club singers, and through it all runs a question. What is justice (with the subtext, and can we afford it) and how do we do it?

A Bite of… Jim Webster

Sci-fi? How does the master of practical fantasy come to that harbour? And are there any parallels between the genres?

The first SF book I bought with my own money was Jack Vance, the Dragon Masters. After that how could I think that SF and Fantasy were separate genres? There is a broad fuzzy borderland between them where all sorts of fun things get to happen.
Perhaps the following year after the Dragon Masters, I bought a copy of the first single volume edition of Lord of the Rings and read it in three evenings! Mind you, I’d been blown away by Peter Pan, years before that, so I’ve pretty much always loved both Fantasy and SF. What do I like? Good stories well told.

What has been the most fun about the genre hop?

-Looks round furtively- “Well in SF I get to shoot people and don’t have to be the nice guy.”

What would Tallis Steelyard and the orchidaceous Maljie think of this venture?

Given this venture started before Tallis Steelyard or Maljie broke into my life, they have to accept that every so often a man must do what a man must do.
Mind you, ‘the orchidaceous Maljie.’ There must be a story in there!

For somebody who was first busted for illegal arms dealing back in the late 1960s, the author’s ability to remain at liberty has surprised many. Perhaps it’s his ability to stick with what he knows that has been his unexpected strength. Certainly when asked to invest in dubious business ventures, his answer, “Boy, I trade in land and cattle” may have saved him a lot of grief. Steve Jobs never saw that answer coming.
Jim Webster’s married, has three daughters and his co-worker is a Border Collie. He farms in England, south of the Lake District where the sun both rises and sets over the sea.
Hobbies? He’s much in demand as a pilot, in spite never having held a pilot’s licence or even flown a plane. When asked this question he’ll instinctive say, “reading and going for long walks.” Then when he realises you’re not interviewing for some sort of dating website he’ll admit to an interest in military history, wargaming and the sorts of things a wise man will never put on a questionnaire.
You can find him on Twitter or check out his blogs for life and agricultural stuff, for Tallis Steelyard and fantasy and for wargaming and SF but mainly wargaming.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

On the very occasional ‘special occasion’ one has been known to slap on the razzle and do the whole ‘let’s do it and fuck the expense’ thing. 
One such occasion arrived last summer, when number one son reached retirement age. A splash was called for and a large table was booked at a suitably expensive eatery. 
Knowing the family propensity to lateness and disorganisation we agreed to meet in a trendy bar for pre-dinner drinkies. I rolled up and ordered a Negroni, which arrived. In a jamjar.
All I can say is What The Actual Fuck.
And just NO…

Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…

Milla spun on her heel and picked up the pace into the village, not stopping until she had reached One Eye’s shop. The old ryeshor rubbed at his eye patch as the elf’s armour lit up the rather dingy interior. Ruffkin was happily snarfing some fish guts from a bowl in the corner and Pew looked pleasingly surprised.
“You found a tank!”
“Better,” Milla told him I found a…”
“Blessedknight Gloryjammer,” the elf announced, then her eyes narrowed. “Don’t I know you? You an alt of Pewpowerpewpew? Used to be in Forgotten Order of Lost Souls before it had a drama fest and fell apart?”
Pew looked a little awkward.
“That was a while ago and it wasn’t me. I didn’t do what they said I’d…”
“You were the best Firecaster on the server in vanilla – everyone knew that.”
“Well, not really, I was one of the many good…”
But Glory wasn’t listening. There was a fervour of hero worship in her words. “You won’t remember me but you gave me my first decent weapon. Said I’d grow into it one day. I was just a newby, and you were one of the greats, but you took the time to group with me.”
Pew was looking increasingly as if he wanted to be somewhere else, but Milla was too intrigued by this glimpse into his history to stop it. In the end it was One Eye who came to Pew’s rescue.
“It’s what we all do, isn’t it? Pay it forward, they call it. Help the next ones in so they can help the ones as follow them.”
“Yes. What he said.” Pew snatched up the backpack he had been filling. “I’ll be outside.”
One Eye lifted an eye ridge at Milla and sniffed.
“I’ll be looking after your little Ruffkin, but you should know I don’t approve of this. Your a Local not a Visitor. Locals don’t go on ventures.”
“I already did,” she protested.
“Yes. You did. ‘An’ that were one too many in my view. But you’re as wild as a sandylion, young’un and there’s no point telling you what to not do. So have my blessing for what it’s worth and here…” he held out an old belt that seemed to be made from strips of plaited fabric. “You wear this and come home safe.”
Milla took the belt and felt a tingle as she buckled it around her waist, surprised that it seemed to fit perfectly. Then she hugged the old ryeshor impulsively and left him to find provisions for Glory, as she went to join Pew who was sitting on the seawall staring out to sea.
“You don’t have to come,” he said. “Thing is, it could be dangerous. I’m not sure what is going on. Someone could really get hurt.”
“If what you say about String is true, someone already is.”
“I know but…”
“So I’m coming.”
He gripped her hand tightly, looking into her eyes as if trying to read something there.
“I know. I don’t deserve you. And if anything happens to you I’ll never…”
She stopped his words with another kiss, then sat back quickly as she heard footsteps on the cobbled street.
“I’m not interrupting anything?” Glory was smirking again.
Pew pushed himself from the wall and stood up.
“Not a thing. We need to get a boat to the Barren Steppes.”
And that was the one thing that had been troubling Milla. Locals never went on the boats. She’d not known any to even try because, well, everyone knew you just couldn’t do it. But then, as One Eye had said, Locals didn’t go on ventures either. So she stiffened her crest frills and strode after Pew as he headed along the dock. He stopped by the mooring place where the ship would come in and looked at her with concern.
“Barren Steppes is in a different zone. I don’t know what it’d be like for you to move cross zones. I don’t even know if you can do it. I mean for us zoning is just something that happens, but for you… I can’t imagine what it might be like.”
“Neither can I,” Milla admitted, pushing out a brave smile, although inside her stomach was feeling queasy. More from the prospect of leaving Wrathburnt Sands, the only place she’d ever known than from any real worry about travelling. “I guess I’m going to find out.”

We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.

Return to Wrathburnt Sands was first published in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

Once upon a picnic beery, whilst I guzzled, drunk and cheery,
Over the tartan blanket spurious, spoke words which could only bore –
While I waffled, sometimes rapping, suddenly there came a flapping
As of some bird quickly crapping, crapping on my fresh coleslaw.
“Tis a bloody gull!” I shouted “Crapping in my fresh coleslaw
“Shoot the bugger!” I did roar.

And the seagull, never flitting, still is shitting, STILL IS SHITTING!
All across the tartan blanket and the bowl of my coleslaw!
Soon his evil squawk brings streaming every seagull near, it’s seeming
And the flock of flockers teeming do devour my picnic more,
Thus, my cup of fine Prosecco now is spilt upon the floor.
I shall picnic – nevermore!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Dai watched the familiar countryside roll by and tried to forget, rather than obsess about, the fact that he was lying to his bride of less than a month – and on two issues. Well, lying by omission. He had promised himself he was not going to keep anything from her about his working life. She had lived it herself and her security clearance had been higher than his until his sudden promotion.
Even his friend, and newly appointed Senior Investigator, Bryn Cartivel had warned him. Slapping him on the back the day before Dai’s wedding as they were taking a final drink in the Londinium taberna that had seen so much of their custom over the previous eight years.
“Two bits of advice from a long-married man to one about to take the plunge. One is never forget she is always right, even when you think you are and two – never – and I mean never – keep secrets from her.” Bryn burped loudly and adopted a fatherly look. “You see, if you get to the day you think you’re always right and she’s wrong or start finding there are things you can’t tell her – well, that’s the day your marriage hits the rocks.”
“You can’t tell your wife everything,” Dai protested. “I mean half the stuff from work is -”
“Everything she wants to know,” Bryn cut over his protest, then dropped a heavy wink. “But then my Gwen she’d know if I was keeping things from her. She’s descended from a long line of Druids on her mother’s side.”
The trouble was Bryn was right and these were things Julia would want to know – things Dai wanted to tell her. But it was not in his hands. These were secrets he had been ordered to keep from her.

The first had arisen in a conversation with the Tribune in charge of the praetorians in Britannia – Decimus Lucius Didero, foster-brother to Julia. He had summoned Dai on the pretext of a meeting about some legality around the marriage and had not been at all repentant about his duplicity.
“This is serious, Llewellyn and is a big part of how I swung this post your way. Our intelligence people are saying that a lot of dangerous contraband is getting in through the coast there and Viriconium is the hub of it. We need someone who is accepted by the British community and who we can trust. You fit the bill.”
“And here I was thinking I got the job on my merits as an Investigator alone.” Dai made no attempt to keep the cynicism from his tone. He had been wondering why this had come his way and was not too surprised to find it had been for reasons other than those put out for public consumption.
Decimus grinned at him.
“Well my sister falling for your baby-blue eyes helped as well,” he admitted, then he switched back to the clipped tones of before. “As if the smuggling isn’t enough we are talking a major anti-Roman group somewhere in the area and they have their fingers deep in our pies. We need to know who they are and how they are being financed and supplied before they start out on a major terrorist campaign. I’m sending you out with twenty of my lads under their own decanus, a good man Brutus Gaius Gallus. You may need them. We have no idea how high or deep this thing goes – even the Magistratus is not in the clear. So trust no one there and I mean no one.”
Dai took a moment to digest the implications. He had known it was going to be hard enough taking on a post he had been over-promoted to fill. But he had been looking forward to learning his way in and doing so with Julia’s sharp insight and wisdom to help. But Decimus had just taken that fond daydream of a bucolic honeymoon easing into things and blown it away. He realised now why, when he had asked for permission to relocate with some of his old team he had not met with more resistance.
“Julia will need…”
“Julia will not be told anything about it, Llewellyn.” Decimus sounded almost ferocious. Then he drew a breath and sighed. “She has been through too much, I am not having her dragged into this. She needs a chance to have some simple happiness with no more to worry about than what colour she wants to paint the guest bedroom.”
Which, Dai reflected rather grimly, probably showed more of wishful thinking on Decimus’ part than any true understanding of what Julia would want or need.
“I think she might notice Brutus Gaius Gallus and his men hanging around,” Dai said pointedly. “My wife is many things, but she is neither unintelligent nor unobservant.” And you of all people should know that, he added in the privacy of his own mind.
“Relax, Llewellyn. They have an official reason for being there and wandering around wherever. Amongst his other talents, Gallus once served as a bandmaster and all the men with him can play instruments. They are going to be there to learn some traditional British music as part of a ‘Hearts and Minds’ Arts initiative – a real one, believe it or not, from those effete, money-wasting idiots in Rome. But it gives them the cover we need for this, so some good comes out of it.”
It was sounding more and more complex and Dai’s heart plummeted.
“So you are pitching me in against smugglers, terrorists, corrupt Roman administrators, and whoever is behind them?”
Decimus pulled a face.
“You about have the size of it. But you are not exactly going in alone. You’ll have my praetorians and your own people and as soon as you have anything solid we can act on I’ll bring half a legion in to clean up if need be. But we can’t pounce until we have a target.”
“Don’t you have undercover people doing that kind of stuff? I don’t see how I’m going to succeed where they have failed.”
“This is deep Britannia, Llewellyn,” the Tribune reminded him. “The arse end of the Empire, hanging over the edge half the time. Hell man, you should know you grew up there. These are people who only trust someone they have known from birth and who has a British pedigree you could unroll from there to Londinium. We don’t have that many such people just lying around – in fact we have one. You.”
There was no answer to that and Dai had finished the meeting being briefed about what little was known of the situation in Viriconium and along the coast. It left him in a foul mood.
Decimus had stated very firmly that he needed to establish his bona fides by being anti-Roman from the first, as much as his position allowed. The problem, Dai found, was that it was feeling like no kind of act. Returning home triggered all the reminders of why he struggled with the two-tier Roman way of life. His resentment at being plunged into a cauldron of intrigue when he had expected to be starting a new life with his beloved as its focus, made him fractious and snappy. The fact that he found Julia was getting the brunt of it when she deserved it least of anyone, just added to his frustration and misery.

From Dying for a Poppy, one of the Dai and Julia Mysteries by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

I am a pig of little brain
I write my verse because I must
Put my thoughts on paper

My aim is but to entertain
To be both kind and just
Which is a difficult caper

I wrote this one here to explain
How rhyming schemes my purse strings bust
With wasted sheets of paper

Χαίρετε,

It is I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author extraordinaire of the bestseller science fiction and fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, lightsome spirit, and all-round good egg. I come to you today all aflutter with excitement, and with a spring in my delicate heels. Mumsie and I have come into money. Well, Mumsie has, but as she so playfully puts it: “One can’t leave the fruits of one’s fanny out of the treat, even if he is a disappointing plonker, with no charm and less humour.”

And guess what the treat is…?  We are going away on holiday to the sun. To the Greek isles in general and to Mykonos in particular. To the place of dreams, to the wine-dark sea and the retsina. Sadly this visit, which will no doubt refresh my creativity in the home of Calliope herself, is not to occur for some months yet. But even now I am feeling ever more uplifted towards my Muse.

Mumsie says she intends to spend two weeks ‘on the lash’ (whatever vulgarisms that portends) whilst I ‘sort my freaking head out’. As if my beauteous little noddle was in need of ‘sorting’. Be that as it may, one is so excited that one’s breath comes in short pants and one finds oneself almost as excited as an eight-year-old on tuck-box day…

But such delights cannot be allowed to stand in the way of the programme of authorly improvement upon which we have set our feet. En avant ο φίλος μου.

How to Start Writing a Book – The Write Way to Court your Muse

It has been suggested to one that writer’s block is a condition that exists only in the mind of the writer. One would counter that claim with the irrefutable fact that one’s writing emanates from one’s mind. Ergo writer’s block is as real as one’s fingers or toeses. And if it is a real condition of the true literary giant, which it is, it behoves one to search for the remedy which must, as surely as the sun rises, be somewhere in the shining ionosphere

Researching the words the literary glitterati, one hears of stratagems varying from long walks in the countryside, to excessive sexual activity, to the consumption of hallucinogenic substances, to just giving up and going to bed.

In one’s own small experience of the stubbornness of the Muse of literature, one has found that capricious semi-deity can best be summoned by providing an atmosphere conducive to the comfort and delight of a creature accustomed to the finest things this world – and any other – has to offer.

Summon Calliope with soft music. With the scent of burning incense. With the delicate petals of rosebuds. With the richest of fabrics and the softest of cushions. Lay aside the vulgarity of the pad electronic in favour of the smoothest of papers, the blackest of inks and the most beautiful of fountain pens. Gaze upon only the fairest of nature’s creations. Bring yourself into that meditational state advocated by the most practiced of yogis. Do all this and you shall see the return of your faithless mistress to her perch at your shoulder. You shall once again smell the sweetness of her breath, and her inspiration shall once again enter your writing like a soft breath of breeze from the summer sea.

Above all do not despair my student. Apply yourself with humility and love and your Muse will love you once more.

Until next καλή τύχη. And ecrit bon.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

I’m as fond of food as anyone, and I cook some pretty mean stuff. But the day I plate it and stick it on a carefully dressed table in order to post a picture of it on Facebland or Instayawn or Birdnoise you have my full permission to slap me about the head with a wet fish and have me committed. 
Worse still?
Being in a restaurant and perfectly willing to let food go cold so one can be a pretentious poser.
Just.
Stop.
It.
You are paying through the nose for your food. Eat it and stop fucking about.

When word of the Church army reached the Sky Temple, the High Priest was delighted by what he perceived to be an opportunity for a very wealthy retirement. He reasoned that he, as the ranking churchman, should assume control of this army, by which measure he would also control the city, and thus have a major say in the election of a new Emperor – which would, he reasoned, result in pecuniary gratitude on a grand scale. Accordingly he called up his personal guard and sallied forth to take command of his army.
The High Priest found the general in command of the Church troops in a noble square close to the palace precinct. A commanding figure in his golden robes and tiara of office, he rode forward on his white palfrey. ‘You’. He addressed the general. ‘Come forward’. The general looked up briefly from the papers he was studying but made no move. The cleric kneed his palfrey closer; ‘I spoke to you knave’, he said severely. The general, a husky-looking veteran in a plain soldier’s uniform only differing from that of his men by virtue of the embroidered insignia on his left breast, cocked a sardonic eyebrow at the pompous prelate, then spoke quietly to a diminutive grey-cloaked figure at his side. The enraged priest urged his mount closer; ‘Come to me at once, lest I relieve you of your command.’ Finally the general turned and gave his full attention to the by now purple-faced priest. ‘You? Relieve me of my command? I think not. Sergeant-at-Arms, this man is irritating me, do something about him.’ Another burly veteran stepped forward and plucking the High Priest from his saddle threw him to his knees on the ground. The grey-clad figure beside the general put back its hood to reveal a young female face of icy beauty before speaking in a low compelling voice.
‘By what right do you address the commanding general of the Church Army?’
‘By the right of my office, and as the ranking churchman in this city.’
‘That would be the churchman who hid in his temple whilst the common people were terrorised by thugs and assassins. The churchman who cowered behind his altar while the whole of the Imperial family lay murdered and unburied. Again I ask you by what right you address this army?’
Stung by the young woman’s tone and her accusations, the arrogant old man raised his face and looked at her. ‘I ask you by what right a mere woman questions a prelate of the church?’
A rustle ran through the ranks of those close enough to hear those words. The young woman laughed low in her throat and raised her right hand towards the cloudless sky. A black speck appeared in the heavens, and plummeted down towards the small, grey-clad figure. As it came closer all who dared look saw it was a great Golden Eagle, which came to rest gently on the woman’s shoulder. The city prelate suddenly bereft of his arrogance prostrated himself on the cobbles, aware that he was outranked and in grave danger. He had just challenged a Priestess of the Sky, a direct representative of the Holy Mother, and would be lucky to lose only his position for such presumption. ‘Forgive me gracious lady, I knew not to whom I spoke.’
‘Do not beseech my forgiveness, rather reach deep into your soul and ask forgiveness of the gods for your many sins.’
She turned and beckoned into the mass of church soldiers, which parted to allow a procession of brown-clad figures to converge upon the priestess and the dumbstruck churchman. The priestess raised her voice. ‘Let all who can hear my voice bear witness. The man now cowering on the cobbles is here stripped of his office, and will be taken from this place to await the judgment of the Holy Mother.’
She paused and two of the brown clad figures hauled the, by now jibbering prelate to his feet. They plucked the tiara of office from his head and one of them stamped on it with a sandalled foot. He then placed the mangled mess of gold and jewels at the feet of the priestess, before he and his colleague frogmarched the sobbing ex-priest away.
The priestess spoke again, only this time her voice seemed to come from the skies all around and everyone in the city could hear her. ‘By the powers given to me and mine from the hands of the gods themselves, I declare a ten-day period of mourning for the Imperial family. During that time the Monks of Chastisement will cleanse your temples. On the eleventh day after this we will inter with all honour such Royal remains as can be found, and a new High Priest will be appointed. On that day we will also announce our decision in the matter of the Imperial succession. In the meantime do not fear to go about your business. The streets will be safe.’
The thunderous voice ceased, and quiet held the city for a moment, as if life itself held its breath for an instant before shaking like a wet dog and carrying on.

From The Long Game by Jane Jago.