The Working Title crew bring you the opportunity to enjoy again wisdom from the mysteriously enigmatic Madam Pendulica… You can listen to this on YouTube.

Aries

The ram needs excitement and isn’t sheepish about demanding it. The more extreme the better.

Ideal Vacation
Spearfishing in shark-infested waters.

Taurus

Taureans are stubborn, hard-working beasts. It is hard to persuade them to take any vacation at all. You are more likely to find them insisting on staying at home.

Ideal Vacation
That holiday village down the road that you keep hearing badly sung karaoke from when you go passed.

Gemini

The astrological twins need variety, the spice of life, to enjoy a vacation.

Ideal Vacation
A dual centre holiday in India or Mexico – city and mountains. Which, depends if they prefer to spice their life with curry or chilli.

Cancer

Trying to pry the crab out of its shell long enough to get a suntan is a challenge in an off itself. So make the destination hot and sunny enough for it not to matter if you can persuade them to disrobe or not.

Ideal Vacation
A beach holiday in the Bahamas or a sunbed in the attic with a stack of romance novels.

Leo

The lion needs to shake its mane and roar to let off steam and relax. So any vacation needs to be somewhere others won’t be disturbed.

Ideal Vacation
An African safari – or failing that a week at Disneyland where there is so much noise no one would hear them anyway.

Virgo

The over-organised Virgo is fixated on detail. They will have bags packed and passports ready months in advance and woe betide an errant spouse who forgets to pack the toddler.

Ideal Vacation
Any package holiday anywhere. That way Virgo will know precisely where they will be at any given moment of the vacation and be able to plan accordingly.

Libra

Libra enjoys balance in all things so when it comes to the work/vacation balance they will want to play as hard as they have worked.

Ideal Vacation
For most Libras, this need to balance effort at work exactly in the scales, will mean an afternoon on Blackpool Beach or sunning themselves in the garden if the weather is clement will be more than adequate annual leave.

Scorpio

The super-sexed sign of the zodiac will want a racey destination where they can take the sting out of the daily grind… by having a daily grind…

Ideal Vacation
Any city with a superior red light district

Sagittarius

The archer needs to hit the target at work and equally when on vacation. Kicking up heels on holiday is best done in interesting places.

Ideal Vacation
A well planned itinerary tour into the hinterlands of Mongolia.

Capricorn

Like every good goat, Capricorn loves to eat and any vacation must include plenty of interesting foodstuffs so Capricorn is not tempted to nibble on forbidden fruit.

Ideal Vacation
A whirlwind gastronomic tour of European capitals if our goat is a gourmet, but if it is quantity not quality that appeals, a similar tour of the fast-food outlets of the United States would be preferable.

Aquarius

The water bearer needs to be bourne on water to truly relax and unwind from the gruelling nine to five.

Ideal Vacation
Venice.

Pisces

For the fish the lure of the waves is irresistible. It is as vital to them as the air they breathe and they will be drawn to the sea on vacation like moths to a flame.

Ideal Vacation
Any cruise. But be sure the safety barriers are high – the lure of the ocean can be too strong for Pisces to resist…

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

Victor had always been a photographer, from being a snap-happy child on family vacations he spent his youth grappling with f-stops and lenses and his working life as a freelance paparazzi. 

Social media changed it all and he decided he was too old to compete. Besides, anyone could take a picture of the same quality he had struggled to achieve in the past by using their bloody phone.

But Victor in retirement was still a photographer and that shot of a frost rimed crocus breaking through the late snow meant more to him than all the celeb-shots of his youth.

E.M. Swift-Hook

One o’clock in the morning, and several interested eyes noted a heavily laden cart, its wheels muffled with sacking, creeping slowly out of the malodorous streets around the wharves. These interested parties felt it worthwhile to follow the heavily-laden vehicle at a discreet distance, as it made its ponderous way up the hill from the riverside towards the noble houses surrounding the palace.
The cart stopped at an intersection, and it’s driver waited on the seat whilst a number of burly men in burlap smocks fanned out to check the surrounding streets. Oh yes, this cart did indeed seem worth watching, and various spies, cutthroats, and army intelligence personnel converged on it from all directions. Seemingly satisfied it wasn’t being followed, the cart carried on, although perhaps the watching eyes would have been less smug had they been able to eavesdrop on the conversation between the carter and his companions.
‘Have we attracted enough attention?’
‘Seen Schiapetti, smelled C’hin and Neders, and spotted Church soldiers, so I guess we’re providing good cover for whatever it is we’re providing cover for…’
The cart turned off a wide thoroughfare into a street of exclusive shops, then made another turn, this time into an alley so narrow that the sides of the cart brushed the ivy growing down the walls. The cart slowed as it passed under a balcony, and a rope snaked down. Two small leather-clad figures grasped the rope and were quickly hauled up out of sight. The cart carried on at a stately pace until it reached a secluded square, where the carter got off and approached an iron-bound wooden door where he knocked – an elaborate pattern of thumps and pauses, which he sincerely hoped would sound like a coded signal to any watcher who may have caught up with him. The door opened, and a sleepy face poked out. ‘Oh, it’s yourself Dando. Best get unloaded then.’
The burly stevedores pulled an oiled tarpaulin off the cart, and began rolling in barrels. The carter leaned against the withers of his lead horse and scanned the surrounding area for company. He had soon spotted three sets of eyes and he was sure there would be more. Time for the requested diversion then. He walked to the cart tail in a leisurely manner, and pulled on a loose end of rope whilst whistling an off-key tune to warn his confederates. Of a sudden, two barrels rolled off the back of the cart and bounced along the cobbles. The first one immediately burst, spreading a lake of dark red wine, while the second provided even more of a diversion as it pinned a rather weedy youth to the wall of a convent adjacent to the house to which the stevedores were delivering. The youth went down, screaming; ‘my leg, my leg’. The carter and his mates ran over and manhandled the barrel off the unfortunate young man, who carried on screaming.
‘Best bang on the door of the convent and ask for their doctor. Looks to me like his leg is broke’ muttered one of the stevedores without much sympathy. ‘What was the silly bugger doin’ creeping around behind a cart unloading barrels?’
‘Nosey’ remarked one of his mates equally unmoved by the young man’s plight.
Whilst chaos reigned in the backstreets, two lithe young figures raced across the rooftops, barely able to control their giggles at the mayhem below. Just before the house where the unloading was taking place they reached an alleyway too wide to jump across. Sure that the chaos below would camouflage any sound, the leading figure whistled softly, and a wooden beam edged its way across the chasm. The two figures grabbed the end and slid it into a convenient slot in the brickwork around the roof where they stood.
Having skipped across this makeshift bridge, the leader whistled once more, and the beam began to slide back from whence it came.

From The Long Game by Jane Jago

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

You are old, and you are a disgrace
Should be modest and downcast of face
It is so deeply wrong 
That you’re wearing a thong
And a peephole in black silk and lace

© jane jago

Out Today – Iconoclast: A Necessary End by E.M Swift-Hook, the final book of Fortune’s Fools.

Who am I?
She had been ripped into pieces and put back together so many times only to be torn apart again, that she didn’t know the answer any more. If she ever really had.
Raine Perselle stared through the window at the dark clouds overhead. It was raining. Heavily. She hated it. It made her think of the few days she spent in school where she’d been unwanted from the moment she crossed the yard.
Her guardian dropped her by the gate and told her to go in and find the teacher. There were a group of kids in the yard, playing despite the fine drizzle falling from a grey sky. Two were twirling a rope and the others jumped in and out. She’d thought it looked fun and was going to ask if she could join. Then she heard the chanting.
Raine, go away.
We want to play.
We don’t want you
Raine here today.
She’d felt so bad inside she wanted to scream. Instead, she’d piled into them fists flying. After that, no one wanted her in the school for real. So her guardian took her out again. And then it was just the two of them in the small ex-prospectors cabin halfway up a mountain. The two of them and the hollow emptiness where her mother should have been.
Except she wasn’t Raine’s mother. But Raine hadn’t known that back then. Back then it had been different. Memories of being held and feeling safe. Of playing daft games. Of being happy. Yes, there had been the boyfriends who came and went and yes, they’d moved around a lot. She said it was so they could see a lot of interesting places. But it had meant Raine never got to have many friends, except a few she’d got to know through links. But Raine had always known she came first. Then one day she just wasn’t there. And Raine was left with the cold-eyed woman who said she was Raine’s guardian.
It might have been yesterday the memory was so clear in her mind, not years ago when she was still a little kid. They’d been camping out in a cabin on a wilderness world as she wanted to paint the unspoiled mountains. A kind of vacation. Just the two of them for once. There was nothing much there apart from the wilderness. Not even any link access.
The cabin was very basic, it had a room with two beds and a bigger room with everything else. There was no proper hygiene suite, just an outbuilding with a hole in the ground and water had to be pumped up from a bore. She loved all that, but Raine liked it better when they were in proper places.
Raine had gone to bed with the usual hugs and smiles from her but woke to find herself alone in the cabin. Alone except for an old woman with cold-eyes who was doing something to a dead animal with a knife. She’d put the knife down and wiped the red from her hands on a cloth, then crossed over and looked down at Raine.
“You’re awake. Good. Go fetch some wood. Be sure it’s dry.”
“But…”
“Don’t you dare argue with me you little bitch. Just get the wood.”
She’d been too shocked to be frightened. “I don’t have to do what you say. Where’s my mother?”
The slap had been hard enough to make her stagger back. Raine wanted to shriek, to cry. But she’d stood there, nursing her sore face with one hand and glared back at the old woman. For some reason that seemed to change her mood. Almost as if she was pleased Raine stood her ground.
“You will get the wood,” the old woman insisted. “Then we can eat. Then I will tell you.”
Var Tynacar.
That was the old woman’s name. If she had a first name, Raine never discovered it. That first day, after Raine gathered the wood and followed instructions to help cook their meal, Var Tynacar told her that she was the older sister of her mother’s last boyfriend. She said that her mother had left Raine there as she had needed to go away for a while and she had appointed Var Tynacar to be Raine’s guardian. At the time, Raine had believed it. Now she wondered if it had ever been true. Any of it.
Life on Tranch, as the planet was known, was not all wild woods and people panning for precious metal up in the mountains. There was a half-way decent settlement with a spaceport, medical clinic and the school. Tranchtown. It was all grey block buildings, but then just about everywhere on the Periphery was like that. Their cabin was not even too far from the place. Near enough that Raine could have gone to the school. If they’d have taken her. But that hadn’t worked out. So she had learned from her guardian.
After that first slap, she’d not ever been hit again. Var Tynacar sometimes seemed to quite like her. She’d even smile when Raine did well. And as most of the lessons were things Raine found she liked to learn and was good at, she often did well. The lessons had names different from what she was used to. Tracking. Surveillance. Agility. Endurance. And when they got a passive link set up in the cabin she was able to study regular stuff too. Like any regular kid. She realised her guardian wasn’t as old as she’d thought. Older than her, but not old. No one as fast, fit and athletic could be that old.
Once, four of the prospectors who lived well up the trail rolled up at the cabin high on recs and wanting sex. When they didn’t take no for an answer, her guardian had killed them all. Her only weapon, the gutting knife. The men were all wearing snubs. Raine helped her drop the bodies down a sinkhole. So no, Var Tynacar wasn’t old.
Each cycle they’d go to the town for supplies and then her guardian would leave Raine in an eatery with free run of the menu whilst she went to the spaceport. Raine knew that because she’d followed once, using the skills she’d been taught to keep out of sight. But what her guardian did in there, Raine had no idea.
It was a bit over three years since she had arrived on Tranch when on one such visit, her guardian came back to the eatery looking like she was ill. She’d not stopped to eat and had made Raine leave half her own meal, ignoring Raine completely until they were back home. Then she had still ignored her questions.
“Just pack what you need for a few days. We’re leaving.”
“But we can’t leave. What if my mother…?”
“She wasn’t your mother and she isn’t coming back.”
And that was that. In those few words, Raine had all that remained of her life, who she was—who she’d thought she was—scooped out from inside her. Like when Var Tynacar was scooping the guts out from an animal she’d killed to eat.
“All I know is the Perselles bought you from a stranger on some planet called Temsevar. So I’m taking you back there. Maybe you can find your real family. Someone to take care of you. I can’t. I have work to do.”
So that was how her guardian had really seen her? Taking in a stray and then sending it back when it became inconvenient?
Raine didn’t say much all the way to Temsevar.
She couldn’t.
Someone had sliced her open, taken her heart out and put it in cryostorage.
Keran, the only place on Temsevar which had some kind of spaceport, had been worse than the worst place she could think of. This was a planet where the First Expansion never happened. People lived in crude buildings made of mud. They had no tech at all.
Like none.
You couldn’t even link out to anywhere civilised.
No one on Temsevar had known who she was. Gernie and Micha, who had taken her in when her guardian abandoned her, told her she had once been a slave. That was what the odd mark on her shoulder meant. She had been someone’s property and they had sold her to the Perselles when she was a toddler. That meant there was no way to ever find her parents.
Micha hadn’t filled in the details but she didn’t need to. Raine was plenty old enough to get the picture. Her real mother would have been a sex slave and her father was probably some sick bastard who had owned her and raped her whenever he wanted, selling off her kids as soon as they were old enough. She’d worked it out and she’d come to terms with it. She’d stopped stabbing at the brand and cutting her arm. Mostly.
But that was not the worst thing.
The worst thing was the thought she might be stuck there forever. So when she’d been told she had a chance to get away. To get back to Central, she’d been willing to do just about whatever it took.
And that was why she was now in this place with Creepy and Cute.

Snag a copy to keep reading…

The cover is an original artwork by Ian Bristow, you can find more of his work at Bristow Design.

Jem wondered what to wear.
Meeting his parents for the first time and a formal dinner too to celebrate their engagement. She had never been to a formal dinner before so it was double terrifying and so far out of her comfort zone she wanted to hide under the duvet and tell Rafe she was ill.
Eventually she found a dress she thought suited her and the occasion, did her own hair, tried for a little make-up and waited.
When Rafe arrived she knew she had got something right.
His face lit up with stunned awe.
“My God!” he said.

E.M. Swift-Hook

With the last strands of his grand plan meshing together, Durban Chola is beset by doubts about his own motives and identity.
The consequences of his past actions make it difficult to persuade old allies to support him or to find new ones. His enemies have their plans well advanced.
Then there is the price of his ultimate success to consider – a price that will be paid by all of humanity for good or ill.

Who am I?
How can I be sure I am who I think I am?
The question had begun to plague Durban. Any time he was not actively engaged with one of the other myriad and pressing problems, it crept back and nagged at the edges of his conscious mind.
To be fair, it was a question he had asked himself many times since the first moment, in childhood, when he had realised that not every boy was brought up in a high tech castle on a technologically primitive planet. As a child, his answer had been based around the idea he might be the son of a wealthy Central dweller who was one day going to come and reclaim him from the endless round of focused discipline which constrained his life. Later, as his understanding of both his situation and of the possibilities offered by the biotech lab beneath the castle grew, he became convinced he was some kind of genetic experiment.
But that was an illusion too. An illusion that Alize, the woman whose guardianship dominated his life on Temsevar even after childhood, had brushed aside carelessly. As if the fact that his entire life had been based upon lies was irrelevant. To her it was. To the being he had once been it should have been too. But to the Durban Chola who had until then lived a human life, it mattered profoundly because it meant he was not human.
He was an alien being which in its natural state knew no physical form, did not even come from a physical reality, but which had been housed in a human body to help prepare the way for more alien beings to make the same transition. His kind wanted to exploit the human ability to take energy from their physical base and convert that into a form accessible and utilisable by their own higher consciousness.
A truth which was hard to accept even though his full awareness and memory of that alien existence had been restored. A truth that had far-reaching implications and consequences. Having lived all his conscious life as a human up to that point, it’d been a truth too far. Durban had rejected his own people and chosen to sever their link with this universe. In closing that linking Nexus, Durban had stranded himself and Alize in this physical universe—except at that time Alize had no physical body, sustaining herself from the energy of the fusion core that powered the lab on Temsevar.
In a brutally honest moment of self-analysis, Durban had come to see that it wasn’t a pure, selfless love of humanity that had been his sole motive in that decision. He had been spurred as much by a cold and bitter hate.The only person who Durban ever loved had been sacrificed to further Alize’s ends.
Alize had let his sister, Jaelya, die when she could have been saved.
He had spent the years since burying that hate and denying it, knowing hate destroyed the one who held it close far faster and more thoroughly than it destroyed its object. And he must have succeeded to some degree because when Alize’s non-corporeal form had been eliminated, along with the final remains of his childhood home on Temsevar, he had felt nothing. No sense of victory. Not even relief. Just a flat sense of closure. There was just no cause to feel hate anymore as the object of his hatred had ceased to be.
Or that was how things had been.
Until Avilon suggested the possibility that it had been Alize who had walked away from the final act on Temsevar wearing his body, with Durban nothing more than a puppet personality under her control. Durban was very certain that wasn’t true, even if he had no way to prove it to Avilon. But he couldn’t be equally sure that her second suggestion wasn’t true—that perhaps Alize had survived by somehow attaching herself to him and was influencing him from a threshold below his usual level of consciousness.
That idea was chilling because unlikely as it sounded, it could be true.
How could he be sure he was his own master and not under another’s influence?
How could he prove—even to himself—that he was still the same person he had been before those events on Temsevar three years ago?
Whenever his mind was not engaged in anything else, it homed in and teased away at the problem, seeking a way to prove to his own satisfaction that he was still Durban Chola, uninfluenced and in control.
How can I know who I am?

Out tomorrow – Iconoclast: A Necessary End by E.M Swift-Hook, the final book of Fortune’s Fools.

Portrait of Durban Chola by Ian Bristow.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

I am old I have noticed this fact 
There’s no need to approach it with tact
I don’t bother that you
Will have noticed it too
But stop smirking or you will get smacked

© jane jago

I have never tried to review nine books in one go before, but this trio of triplets is too good not to shout about.
We begin in the harsh world of Temsevar, where life is cheap and people trade whatever they have and whoever they have in their power. It is a place of warlords and ambitious underlings.
It is a place more for endings than beginnings.
Here is where we meet the two threads that wind their way through all nine books: Avilon who is a warrior, soldier, thinker, and perhaps ultimately a sacrifice. His character echoes across the interwoven stories, but he is not a hero in the traditional mode. He is rather one whose actions are sometimes heroic, and sometimes not.
And then there is Durban Chola whom one might term the eminence grise of the whole piece.
Who is Chola? What is he? Is he as amoral as he seems or is there a deeper meaning to his actions? What is he striving for? And do we even have the stomach to find out?
The harsh reality of the lives lived in these pages and the normality of casually brutal acts reverberate through the whole oeuvre like thunder in the next valley.
Those who become part of Chola’s quest leave deep footprints in the mind of the reader, and we are sometimes left hoping that they will at least find their ‘happy for now’ when their usefulness has been devoured by the great plan – which I can’t talk about without a bucket of spoilers, suffice it to say it’s a biggie.
So there we have it. Nine books leading us to a Necessary End.

This is space opera with bells on. Never mind ‘the fat lady’ Fortune’s Fools will have you waiting for the universe to sing!

Jane Jago

The pot had been repaired so many times that Mary called it her ‘tinker’s darling’. It had been her mother’s and her grandmother’s, had seen fair times, poor times and even civil war. It hung on its nail more like a trophy than a working pan, looking down on the other pots as if it knew it had a special place.

When her first grandchild arrived and Mary was cooked the meal to celebrate, it was only natural she reached for her tinker’s darling.

When her daughter died bearing the second, it was the pot that cooked for her wake.

E.M. Swift-Hook