At twelve-forty-five the camper was making its dignified way through suburban Brighton. Anna was driving, and Sam could feel Bill vibrating with excitement beside him.
“Can you pass my jumper, Sam?”
Sam made a long arm and dropped the scarlet wool into the little boy’s lap.
“Need a cuddle?” he asked casually.
“Yes please.”
Sam put a comforting arm around Bill’s small body.
“When we get to your house, shall Anna and Rod and me get out of the camper, and let you have five minutes with Mummy and Daddy?”
“Would you?”
“Yeah. Course we will won’t we. Rod?”
“Of course.”
“Anna?”
“Sure. We’ll go talk to your brothers.”
Bill relaxed a bit but carried on rubbing his face in the softness of the jumper.
Rod fished out the battered phone.
“Jim. We’re five minutes out. You and Pats need to have a quiet five in the camper with Bill before he greets the rest. OK. See you.”

They rolled into the wide driveway of Jim and Patsy’s rather lovely home. Two figures waited impatiently, and the camper had barely drawn to a halt when they leapt aboard. Jim had his son in his arms in an instant. He buried his face in the curly hair, and Patsy had her arms around both of them. Anna, Sam, Rod and Bonnie jumped out of the camper, leaving Bill and his parents to have their reunion in private. At the front door, a tall young man was using his body to keep his siblings inside.
“Yo Jamie,” Rod said “you having trouble with Shitface and Dickhead?”
“Not now I’m not,” Jamie’s grin echoed Rod’s.
“Manners you lot,” Anna said. “This is Sam Henderson. Doctor Sam. He’s a mate of Rod’s, so I wouldn’t imagine he’ll tolerate much crap…”
The lad in the doorway held out his hand.
“Jamie. Pleased to meet you.”
Sam shook hands.
“Likewise.”
The twins surged forward.
“Matt and Cy. You looked after Bill didn’t you?” Sam nodded. “So we guess that means we are pleased to meet you.”
Sam grinned. “Shall we all suspend judgement?”
The twins grinned back. “Yeah.”
Finally, a small boy with curious round eyes pushed his way out from between Matt’s legs.
“Hello,” he said, “I’m Charlie.”
Sam crouched down to his level.
“Hello Charlie. I’m Sam. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Me and asking questions?”
“Maybe. Plus you being Bill’s best friend. You been worried about him?”
“Some. Is he all right?”
“Mostly. He’ll have some wobbles. But if you are all kind and understanding he’ll get through it.”
Charlie regarded him fixedly for a moment.
“Oh. We’ll all be kind. Won’t we?” He turned a beady eye on his tall brothers.
Cy ruffled his hair.
“Yes tiddler. We’ll be kind. You have our promise. And Jamie’s always kind.”

Rod scooped Charlie up into his arms.
“I hear you are coming north to see the midnight sun with me and Bill.”
“Yes please. If you don’t mind.”
“Course we don’t. We want you. Just as long as you don’t expect me to know stuff…”
Charlie giggled delightedly.
“I won’t. If I get bored I can always read your tattoos.”
Rod slung the small boy over his shoulder so his head hung down.
“Cheeky monkey.”

At this point Bonnie decided to take a hand, or a paw, in proceedings. She ambled over, grabbed Matt’s trouser leg in her mouth and shook it firmly. He bent over and stroked the silky head.
“You feeling left out Bon Bon?”
She wagged her tail in a pleased manner, and all the boys made much of her. Anna laughed.
“They all met Bonnie before I did,” she explained to Sam. “Patsy bought her and trained her as a present for me when my collie, Florence, died.”
“That’s what Mummy does,” Charlie said, “she trains dogs.”
“And sons…” Rod said.
“I try to train sons.” The voice came from behind Sam’s left shoulder.
He turned to find himself looking into the bluest eyes he had ever seen.
“You must be Patsy.”
“For my sins. I see you have met my sons. I hope they will all remember that this family owes you.”
Sam held up his hand.
“No debts” he said firmly. “I’m a doctor. I swore an oath. So. Please don’t embarrass me by imagining you owe me anything.”
Before Patsy had a chance to say anything, Jamie spoke up.
“Leave it Mum. You have to let people have their own pride like you expect them to let you have yours.”
She looked into her son’s eyes for a long moment.
“You are so much like your dad it’s scary. Well, can I just give him a hug?”
Jamie shrugged and grinned.
“Not up to me.”
Sam opened his arms and Patsy walked into his embrace. She rested her blonde head on his shoulder for a moment.
“Can I at least say thanks for the jumper? It was a master stroke. Gave him something to cling to without feeling cissy.”
“Yeah. I’m quite proud of that idea, though I’ll admit that it started out as just something to keep him warm. Then the Eau Sauvage coincidence kicked in and I realised it could be a symbol as well.”
Matt spoke for the twins.
“Even we get that. Something to hold on to must’ve been very important to him…”
Charlie climbed out of Rod’s arms and shinned down his leg. He went to his mother and looked up into her face.
“It’ll be all right Mummy. I’ll look after Bill.”
She bent down and kissed him on both rosy cheeks.
“You do that my lovey. You do that.”
“Here they come” Anna smiled as Jim jumped out of the camper with Bill clinging to his back like a giggling monkey.
When they arrived, Bill pulled himself together.
“Daddy. This is my friend Sam.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sam.”
“Likewise, I’m sure. It’s a pleasure to meet Bill’s parents. Like it was a pleasure to meet Bill.”
“Aw shucks,” Bill grinned cheekily.
“Didn’t somebody say something about food?’ Rod said plaintively. ‘I think I might be fading away…”
Everybody laughed, and they went inside to eat Patsy’s excellent soup and fresh bread.

The next few days flew by. Bill managed remarkably well, and wobbles were few and far between. Sam began to understand the rest of the Cracksman clan. He discovered that old world courtesy wasn’t just Bill’s thing, it was bred into the whole family, where it sat, sometimes uncomfortably, alongside enormous intelligence, and a tendency to organise anyone who stood still long enough to let it happen. He watched with concealed amusement as the arrangements for the young ones holidays got made with ruthless efficiency.  He was less amused by how Patsy seemed to take it as her right to tell Anna what to do. Anna saw him noticing, and shrugged her elegant shoulders. He grinned.

And then it was time to for him to get back to Cheltenham, and his work. He made Patsy and Jim promise to contact him if they had any worries about Bill. He hugged Bill and Charlie. He bumped fists with Jamie and the twins. Rod was driving him home, so he threw his bags into the back of a black truck with flames painted on the side, before going in search of Anna.
“You remember I asked for your number?”
She looked at him for a very long moment before nodding and handing him a small pasteboard card.
“I’ll call you when I get home,” he said before swinging himself up into the cab of Rod’s truck. Rod grinned and gunned the engine, so they swept out in a cloud of gravel and burning rubber.
“Don’t say a word,” Sam warned.
“Wasn’t going to,” Rod grinned.

Jane Jago

Love’s not all swings and butterflies
There’s blood, and sweat and tears
There’s compromise, apologise
And learn to face your fears
There’s days when it’s the hardest thing
You’ll ever have to do
Times when loving bites so hard
It scrapes your heart in two
There is a balance to be found
Between the good and bad
A guiding hand that braces you
As you confront the sad
And living as you learn to love
Learn how to give your whole
You may have luck to find the place
Where love protects your soul

©️jane jago 2018

This is an extract taken from the opening of Trust a Few the first book of Haruspex Trilogy, part two of  Fortune's Fools.

“You have no idea what you are letting yourself in for. How can you?”

Commodore Vane shook his head as he spoke, it was beyond understatement and beyond belief. The soldier’s green eyes were fixed on a point some distance behind the Commodore’s left shoulder. Their colour, so brilliant, Vane suspected genetic enhancement and their focus had been unwavering since he entered the room.

“I think I do, sir.”

He stood in a formal parade-ground stance, as ordered by the scowling Legionary Sergeant who had escorted him in and now lurked by the door. Vane had made a conscious choice not to relax him from the rigid posture. He never did with the conscripts. He glanced back at the remote screen he had called up, its contents invisible to anyone else.

“Amnesia,” he read the word aloud and looked back at the soldier. “Total amnesia?”

“Total retrograde amnesia, sir,”

The Sergeant, a big, broad-shouldered man called Hynas, stood almost a head taller than his charge who was not much more than average height, and the ever-present scowl changed to a sneer at the words. Vane ignored him.

“And do you know why?”

“Due to an unknown trauma immediately prior to my arrest, sir.”

“Prior to, not during?”

The way most of his men were brought in to begin their military career in his Legion it would not have surprised him in the slightest to find the injury had been inflicted at that point.

“Yes, sir.”

“I see.” Vane wondered if he truly did, the implications here were so disturbing. “You have no knowledge or memory of anything before your arrest?”

“None, sir.”

“And that means you have no direct knowledge or experience of what life is like outside the Legion?”

“No, sir. I do not.”

“Then how can you know you want to leave us, soldier?”

He noticed a slight hesitation then.

“I have no direct personal knowledge, sir, but I have researched a great deal about it.”

Which, Vane supposed, explained the hesitation. But the idea of researching the complexities of everyday life with zero experience of it, stretched his credulity. Vane tried to keep that disbelief from his voice.

“Researched it?”

“Yes, sir. I have talked to other people in my unit and accessed information through the Lattice.”

Everyday life as filtered through the minds of violent criminals and a military tactical data provider. The Commodore shook his head but let the naivety pass. His job was to confirm that this man met the criteria required and was fit to be released. In fact, it had been made very clear to Vane he should do whatever was needed to speed the process and allow as little questioning as possible.

But this man was no ordinary ex-criminal. Once – and for many years – his name topped ‘most wanted’ lists throughout the Central worlds and the broader Coalition: the Protectorates and Independent worlds. In Vane’s circle, this man’s name used to be a household word for mindless destruction – the bogeyman of ultimate evil.

Avilon Revid.

Vane found it a curious experience to meet the man behind the myth, but it made the responsibility he now held a heavy one, weighing up all the factors to consider if Revid should be discharged. Revid might have a legal right to be considered for release, but that was not the same as having the right to be released. That decision ultimately lay with Vane and it was one he was not finding at all straightforward.

“Well, you passed your orientation course without any problem and have been declared no danger to civilians.”

No danger. A bureaucratic joke even a military man such as the Commodore could appreciate. All the Special Legion were more than just dangerous. All serving a sentence for extremes of violent crime. A sentence that included enforced invasive surgery, implants, and drugs to enhance their capabilities. The brutal training regimens and suicidal military missions were sweetened by the promise of freedom after five years spotless service – a promise almost never fulfilled. In the eight years he had spent co-opted as commander of the Special Legion, perhaps a dozen other men had stood before Vane for discharge approval. Of those, less than half walked out as free citizens. He was not willing to risk any of the monsters he commanded back onto the streets without a very high threshold of evidence to demonstrate they were indeed ‘no danger to civilians’.

Vane nursed no illusions about the fate of those conscripted to serve under him. For the vast majority, joining the Specials meant nothing more than a deferred death sentence. His troops served with an average life expectancy of just under two years. Most died very quickly, either on active service or were killed in the gruelling training. Others fell afoul of their own violent recreational activities or failed to sustain the psychological strength needed and committed suicide. Some died in brawls or were murdered by their comrades. Yet it remained a truism whenever a dirty job needed doing anywhere in the Coalition’s sphere of influence, the Specials were first on the ground, often ahead of the AI mechs. Vane took pride from that. He heard the troops did too.

Ironically, it meant, to be standing here, this soldier could only be the toughest kind: a man who could survive and even thrive in such an environment.

E.M. Swift-Hook

You can hear this opening and some more being read by Justin James.

Dear Reader Who Writes,

At risk of preaching to the converted, I must first take the time to be sure you are all acquainted with me. I am Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV and acclaimed author of the millionth best seller science fiction and fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. As such I have been delving deep into my treasure trove of writing wisdom to bring a few of the more luminous gems of my experience to light.

It is true that young people today are not as they were. When I was a fuzzy-faced youth in my early twenties, awaiting the chance to shave for the first time, I would not have dreamed of behaving in the manner of my old-school chum’s son when he came to stay overnight the other week on the way to some foreign destination for a ‘Gap year’. He has just turned eighteen. Called Henry.

He swanned into the house and dropped his rucksack on my feet, gesturing imperiously upwards with one finger, no doubt to indicate that he expected me to take it upstairs for him. Then he caught sight of Mumsie, spreadeagled over the sofa as is her wont. His eyes widened and I heard him say: “Em. Eye. Elle. Eff.” After which bizarre incantation he threw himself upon his knees beside Mumsie and whispered something in her ear which made her laugh. Well, giggle.

I retreated to my writing room and when I emerged in the early hours I found the rucksack was still untouched downstairs. By the time I rose to breakfast, Henry had left for Peru and Mumsie was humming happily and dancing around the front room holding a half-empty bottle of Champagne.

It occurred to me then and there, that I should address myself to that phenomenon of recent literary note: the Young Adult novel.

How To Write A Book – Lesson 20: The Write Approach to YA

The first thing to remember is that your heroine – and it almost always is a heroine – must be living a normal, but extra-miserable life. She must be the school social reject or the really plain girl wearing glasses and unfashionable clothes. She is probably poor, but if rich, must have an isolated and unhappy time as a result. In a science-fiction or fantasy setting, she will be an orphan, abused, beaten and downtrodden – probably enslaved. At best she may be allowed an ‘ordinary’ background within whatever world she lives. She can have one good friend. 

But, remember, no matter how bad you make her issues, on no account can she be fat.

Having established this dual point of miserable powerlessness and rejected loner, the author must then bestow upon this heroine a magical power or super ability which is linked to a mysterious family heritage. Or may be brought about by the discovery of an artefact – or both. This will then transform our dowdy underdog cygnet into a burgeoning youthful swan.

At this point, the romantic elements should be established. If her ‘one good friend’ was male, he now becomes a suitor and is joined by one or more other suitors all of which now adore the heroine and all want her to adore them. The degree of self-abasement you can portray for these unfortunate males will boost the popularity of your final work. No matter how much the heroine rejects them, or how rudely, they will return and grovel at her feet each and every time. Or storm off and then turn up to save her in the end.

Do be sure to make her suitors as various as possible. If you are writing fantasy or supernatural fiction, they can be an elf,  fairy, angel, fallen angel, demon, vampire or a were-something. If science-fiction then aliens of whatever variety. Be sure to make the nice ones rich and the not so nice ones poor.

On no account allow any long-term romantic liaison to become established between your heroine and any of these males. To do so will end the game and end the series because, of course, this first book will be just the start of a series.

Take this advice to your collective bosoms my dear students and fame and fortune will stalk your steps.

Until next time.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

Dale Carina’s Red Range Rover Sport pulled into the Backwater Shopping Centre strip mall. The L-shaped mall’s physical appearance left plenty of room for doubt that it had ever seen better days, despite the gentrification of the last word in its title. The parking lines were faded and scattered tufts of grass sprouted from a multitude of pavement cracks. Only four of ten stores were operating. A convenience store situated at the far, long end of the plaza, was most likely the main source of leasing revenue keeping the mall afloat. In the vacant store next to it, a sign announcing Coming Soon: Vic’s Vapes, had been heralding its own arrival for over two years.

The remaining stores were a nail salon, tattoo parlor and, squatting in the dark corner of the mall, Harley’s Bar and. Repeated visits from, and fines levied by, the Florida Board of Health had directly led to the demise of the missing last word: Grill. Legend had it that some twenty years ago, the owner, a frustrated Harley Denton, walked out of his establishment one fine summer’s evening with a 12-gauge shotgun. After striding about twenty feet into the parking lot, he turned and obliterated the last word of the sign. With a sense of closure, he announced loudly “Goddamned grill’s closed!” to the people in his vicinity who were busy coping with sudden-onset tinnitus.

Dale put on his windbreaker and trundled out of his car with a sports duffel bag in hand. As he headed toward Harley’s, he tried to pull up his extra-comfort loose-fit jeans with his free hand, but his stomach would have none of it and pushed the pants back down. He swung the door open and entered. God, I love this shit hole, he thought as the door shut behind him, plunging him into darkness that only served to heighten the aromas of mold, mildew and stale everything. Sure, there were a few small neon signs advertising one beer or another, but somehow any light that came off of those partially dead and flickering bulbs wasn’t capable of illuminating an area greater than a pair of fireflies could.

It wasn’t that Dale loved the cesspool ambience unto itself; it was that it made it the perfect place for him to conduct the more strategic parts of his business. A key element being that dark and dingy atmosphere. Even if you walked in on a cloudy day or at night, your eyes needed time to adapt – enough time for anyone to slip out the back exit without notice. Another factor was that the meager clientele it pulled in were either engaged in their own deals or lacked full awareness of their surroundings via habitual drug and drink. But best of all, he could smoke. Smoking was allowed here by virtue of Harley’s being a stand-alone bar thanks to the summary execution of food-service by the aforementioned Mr. Denton. To bolster this, both the bartender and the waitress chain-smoked. The pair looked to be in their early 60’s but it was a sure bet that they were much younger. Even the oppressive visual pall that surrounded them could no longer assist in hiding the ravages of time, sun, booze and smoke. The third person at the bar was a rail of a man who was looking at the shot of whiskey on the counter and the cigarette trembling in his hand as if he wasn’t sure which one he was supposed to be nursing.

Dale ambled to the far end of the room and sat at the table nearest the exit and the bathroom, making it doubly advantageous. The dry husk that passed as a waitress approached him. She had given up standard server lines like “What can I getcha, sugar?” or “What’ll it be, handsome?” ages ago when she realized customers who came here were neither sweet, nor handsome, nor tipped for that matter. So, she took the approach of least effort which was to stand and wait for a count of five. If nothing came out of a customer’s mouth she’d return to her perch on the stool near the bartender.

The Devil and the Wolf is a satirically humorous urban fantasy novel by Richard Pastore. Find out more on his website.

Q1: Twitter or Facebook and why?

Twitter. I’m just not the blogger-type. I wish I were, but it’s not part of my nature. Lord knows, I’ve tried.  I’m happy when I can find the time to read Facebook posts, no less create one. My author site gets about one update per month as well.  I like Twitter’s brevity and (relative) simplicity. It allows me more time to read and respond to followers.

Q2: What is your favourite dessert and why?

Yikes! I have to choose? Well, I’m a healthy eater 99% of the time and I honestly love and crave simple fruit-based dishes (I have a killer recipe for a peach/pear crumble – mmmm). However, for that 1% other time, yeah, cookie-dough ice cream.

Q3: Would you rather meet an angel or a devil from your book and why?

Excellent question and it’s a difficult one. I lightly play around with concept of good and evil in my book, so that members of both sides slide along the scale. I’m also going to sidestep the primary character. Methinks I know him too well already. If I can choose a specific one, then Lilith. I feel like that’s a character I can add more depth too, so I’d like to sit her down for an interview. That, plus I’ve heard she has some amazing anecdotes.

Richard L Pastore was born in Brooklyn New York on a sweltering summer’s day. He spent his entire formative years in that city until moving to New Jersey at the age of 21. Pursuing an education in Cognitive Psychology led to a career in User Interface Design. During a minor behavioral glitch called "midlife crisis" he switched careers to become a Business Analyst.

Although having traveled across the country quite a bit, he feels most at home along the eastern shore of these United States. Be forewarned, should you choose to engage him in a conversation regarding anything food-related; whether it be the history of, growing of, or cooking of; he won’t shut up. You can find him on Twitter, Goodreads, Facebook or his own website.

It’s cold here, cold as the hiss of an angered angel. Cold as the breast of a barren woman. But we are not made to mind the cold, I and my trillion brethren. We float gently down to blanket the stable where a baby cries and a man stares uncomprehending as his virgin bride presents him with an unexpected son.

It’s cold and we band together to hold in what little heat the beasts generate with their breath.

My brothers are glad to be of use to him they are calling the king, but I am afraid. I have seen stars where there should be none. I have heard strange voices singing. I have watched sheep herders bring presents of food and woollen blankets. I have seen camels from the painted lands of the east bring old men bearing unsuitable gifts.

They say snowflakes are individual. That no two of us are the same. But they say a lot of things. I look around me to see million upon million of my siblings locking arms and settling. I am the only one who does not fit.

I am a sad snowflake because I know that tomorrow will bring a warm wind from the south and we will all die…

©️ Jane Jago 2017

You shake your head and look so smug
You vow to breathe it never
That little word you overheard
That makes you feel so clever
Your neighbour’s secret, feeble lies
Are now laid bare before your eyes
To grasp them to your bosom close
Just makes you feel so warm
To hold a secret in your hands
So capable of harm
Your smirking smile, your baleful face
Bode ill for someone, spell disgrace
But as you whisper as you hint
And slyly lift the lid
You ought to hope that your own sins
Are rather better hid
© jane jago 2016

I first happened upon this book courtesy of Mumsie, who threw it at my head in a spirit of joyous playfulness.

“Here, you fucking retard,” she declared in lovingly honeyed tones, “read this and find out how to write a proper hero”.

After I had treated the suppurating wound on my cranium with arnica, I looked with some disfavour at the dog-eared and gravy-besmirched volume, wondering idly why it was peppered with what looked like boils. However, it was a perishing cold day, and the central heating boiler had noisily breathed its last, and I was made painfully aware that if I wished to be seated beside the fire in the withdrawing room I had better be doing something of which Mumsie approved. Thus it was that I made the acquaintance of the wild moorland, and of the orphan Heathcliff, and the cruelly beautiful Catherine.

Oh my goodness me. What power lurked beneath those broken-backed and besmirched covers. What majesty did one find in a flawed hero! How one sobbed as life turned against one so noble – and all for the foolishness that is the love of a female. How one felt for an orphaned boy treated worse than a dog, and how one railed against the fate that brought him to his knees. And how beauteous was his vengeance.

In essence, a man falls for a member of that inferior gender and is betrayed unto his death.

Five stars and a tear on one’s unblemished cheek.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

Nothing was said as they were riding back until a short way from his house, Zarengor reined in sharply, bringing his pony in front of Ralik’s and forcing him to stop.
“Gods, I am sorry Ralik. You should not have had to do that.”
Ralik said nothing. It was true. He should not. Zarengor cursed and turned his pony back to the street. They rode on in silence for a while before the other man spoke again.
“I do not know what I am supposed to have done. These people seem to want to find me a monster.”
“You think it is nothing of your own making?” Ralik was unable to keep silent at that.
He found it unbelievable that Zarengor should think he owned no responsibility for the reactions he provoked in others.
“I know what I have done elsewhere. Well, what I am believed to have done elsewhere, but I have done nothing to harm so much as the fingernail of any Harkeran. I am here to fight their war with them and I will do so and win it for them too if we have even the most leisurely break of good fortune. You would think they might have some sense of that.”
Ralik moved to ride alongside him. It was strange to him to see this side of the man whose strength and self-confidence had once been more than an inspiration for him. It made him question again what he had been doing in Harkera.
“Why should they be grateful to you? They do not know you except by reputation. Perhaps when you have won their war they will be grateful.”
Zarengor looked into the gathering darkness and shook his head.
“Maybe. And maybe they will suddenly find me inconvenient, an embarrassment, something best put away as quickly and quietly as possible. Or am I getting too cynical?” He sighed slightly. “Tell me, Ralik, have you ever known happiness?”
Ralik’s thoughts instantly filled with a beautiful face whose storm-grey eyes held a depth of emotion he had never inspired in any one before.
“I think so. But what man can ever call himself truly happy? The gods may take all we have in a moment,” he spoke quietly, but with conviction.
“Then perhaps happiness is not the goal, just a fleeting side-effect of other events in life. Perhaps the goal is something altogether more straightforward.” Zarengor fell silent a moment and the sounds of the evening streets closed in: a shout of laughter, a woman shrieking, a child crying, two dogs fighting. “What really matters to you Ralik? What do you steer your life by? What principle or creed governs your direction?”
The questions took Ralik by surprise. They were not the kind of questions one fighting man asked of another and they were questions he suspected that the Vavasor in a sober state would never have asked of him. He was tempted to say nothing, to let the moment pass. But, for some reason, the questions had touched upon the disturbing thoughts and events in his own life in recent days and he found himself considering them almost without meaning to do so.
“Honour,” he said stoically. It was the answer he would have given in all honesty until a few moons ago. But now? Well, now he knew there was something he held higher than honour, although he was not sure he could admit it to anyone else and he would still never forsake honour lightly.
“Oh yes, honour,” Zarengor said and sounded weary of the word. “We were brought up with it as our wet-nurse’s milk, you and I. Honour for ourselves, our families, our lord, our clan, our city – a desolate field is honour. Can it put food in the mouths of the hungry? Can it heal the wounds of the injured? Can it make Castellans strong and merchants wealthy? We make whores of ourselves for honour.”
Ralik was shocked.
“Without honour, what is a man?” It was the creed he had been born to and Ralik could recite its catechism as well as any other nobleman from the north. Zarengor looked at him directly for the first time in the conversation.
“I am not sure, Ralik, but I am beginning to think that without honour a man becomes something more. That without honour, he is free to choose the best way to live.”
“Then perhaps that would be a new way of honour,” Ralik suggested.
“Or perhaps it would be a new way of living.”
Nothing more was said until they dismounted at Zarengor’s house, a small but well-appointed courtyard residence in the wealthiest quarter of the city, close beside the residence of Ralik’s own Castellan. He had taken this house after the attempt on his life for greater security. The Vavasor threw the reins to the hands of a stable lad and strode towards the house.
“I am not to be disturbed,” he informed the guard at the door, then paused and turned to say briefly: “Good-night Ralik, I will not keep you up on my account any longer tonight – and thank you.”

From Transgressor Trilogy 2: Times of Change by E.M. Swift-Hook.