The Working Title women offer their thoughts on The Rose Thief by Claire Buss.

This is an engaging romp whose wild inconsequentiality had me in a little bubble of laughter throughout. It’s an avowed homage to the late, lamented Terry Pratchett, but is none the worse for that. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t ‘fan fiction’ by any stretch of the imagination. The author takes us on a journey of her own making, peopled by a cast of the odd, the weird, the insane and the downright creepy – all of whom, one hopes, grew from her imagination. I’d hate to think the poor woman knows them all in the ‘real’ world.

To précis. Somebody is stealing the Emperor’s roses.  This is Not A Good Thing – and Ned Spinks and his band of thief-catchers are tasked with apprehending the thief.  Or else.

The story jumps along happily, although I did sometimes think plot got a bit sacrificed for jokes. But. Hey. Jokes, and funny ones of those.

The writing is crisp and clean and my only caveat there is that I did, once or twice, get a bit muddled by exactly whose head I was in at any given time. Although that’s only a minor blot on the escutcheon of a truly talented writer.

I very much enjoyed this book and I really hope Ms Buss has more of the like in her locker. Four and a half stars rounded up to five because I’m a Pratchett fan too. Highly recommended.

Jane Jago.

 

Baa-Baa black sheep, have you any wool?
Yes, my fleece is soft and thick, and very warm and full.
I also have a mind I keep, within my ungulate brain
It helps me think and helps me know and means that I feel pain.
And my eyes are very good at seeing what I see,
So I recognise your face – but don’t think you do me.

Research into a sheep's ability to recognise faces. "The results show that the animals' face-recognition abilities are similar to those of monkeys, apes - and humans."

Outside it was dark and the air was cold. Ralik took a moment to find his charge since Zarengor was braced against the wall, his lean body almost invisible against the rough stonework.
“Don’t you have a home to go to?” The Black Vavasor’s voice sounded weary. “I am old enough to be out on my own, you know.”
Ralik said nothing. There was nothing to say. It was easy enough to understand the level of frustration that the other man had to contend with.
“Don’t you just love these Harkerans? They think themselves so civilised and superior – regard war as unreasonable, think a man who can write poetry or design a building is of more value than one who can use a sword, they regard their women as their equals in all things and even give legal rights to their slaves and their animals.” His voice was very slightly slurred betraying the amount of alcohol he had consumed. “But when it comes to good old-fashioned affairs of the heart, they are as quick as the next man to leap to the wrong conclusions and draw their blades.”
Ralik watched a group of young Harkeran noblemen leave the inn. They were obviously looking for something, or someone and two carried lights.
“It is getting late, Honoured One,” he said carefully. Zarengor, when drinking, could be persuaded but never pushed.
“Then you go home,” the other man suggested, his voice quite friendly, “I was thinking of finding another Harkeran matron of high standing to ravish, your Castellan’s wife perhaps.”
Ralik stiffened at the insult but said nothing, knowing it was deliberate, knowing Zarengor was goading him and knowing also it was the frustration and the drink that spoke through him. The Harkerans were getting closer and the mood Zarengor was in, it could easily end with blood on the street – their blood.
“Death of the gods, Ralik, what does someone have to do to get under your skin?” Zarengor sounded amused more than irritated.
The Harkerans had heard the voice if not the words and were moving now with intent. Ralik moved closer to his charge, who seemed to notice the threat for the first time and groaned aloud.
“Oh joy, children with swords and pistols. Just what I needed to make my day complete.”
The five young men, none of whom could have seen more than twenty summers, moved to confront them, throwing the burning torches to the ground and two of them had drawn swords, a third rested his hand on the butt of a finely crafted pistol. Zarengor still rested against the wall.
“Tell them I’m not hungry, Ralik, I have eaten enough babies today.”
“I’m more a man than you are, butcher,” the ring leader called out. Zarengor laughed briefly.
“Of course you are, that’s why you have your four friends with you. Brave child, go home to your mother and suckle some more then you might grow up big and strong one day.”
The Harkeran made a sound of incoherent fury and launched himself forward. Zarengor barely seemed to move away from the wall, his sword suddenly in his hand and cutting down through the youngster’s guard, drawing blood on his shoulder. The Harkeran stepped back, but found he could not escape the blade which seemed to be everywhere. Then as his sword went flying and he tried to jump aside, Ralik’s own blade came up and caught the death cut at the last moment and moved ready to parry again as the deadly blade disengaged.
“He is only a boy!” Ralik said the words urgently and ungently, part of his mind furious at Zarengor for allowing himself to drink to the point of such judgement loss and for the rest, afraid that he himself might now become a target for the feral sword. But the Vavasor seemed to come to himself, hesitating to attack through Ralik, and the youngsters took advantage of the moment to escape, disappearing into the darkness at speed.
For a moment, the two men stood facing each other, swords in their hands. Ralik waited with the point of his own blade towards the ground in a defensive gesture. He could not afford to surrender any advantage, Zarengor, drunk or not, was by far the superior swordsman. Then the Vavasor sighed and lowered his sword slowly.
“We should find the ponies,” he said heavily, sliding the blade back into its sheath. Ralik allowed himself to relax and stepped back carefully before putting his own sword away.

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

I am old and I make no apology
Because I mistrust anthropology
If you study our race
You’ll get egg on your face
You should never mix booze and biology

© jane jago 2017

The God-Emperor was playing knuckle bones with his friends in the peaceful fountain garden when the conquistadors burst into the palace. There were many of them, armed and armoured in steel, and they systematically swept every chamber, leaving nothing living in their wake. When the last room was cleared a group made its way along the paved walkways to the place by the largest fountain of all where the children continued to pay their game.

The soldiers brought with them the smell of blood, and their booted feet left reddish splotches on the white stone paving. The last soldier pulled a skinny old woman, in the dress of slave behind him. He held her by her bound wrists, dragging her cruelly, careless of whether or not she remained on her feet. The God-Emperor wrinkled his nose but said nothing.

The only adult in the garden was a young priest, and one of the soldiers grasped him by his braided scalplock.
“Where is your accursed God-Emperor?”
The young priest was braver than he looked.
“He is not here. He and his tutor fled the palace at first light.”
The old woman who they dragged along in their wake shook her head. “He lies,” she spat, “nobody has left the palace all this moon.” The priest gave her a look of such loathing that anybody less in fear of their life would have been abashed, but the old crone met his eyes contemptuously. Then she spat on his feet.

The troop commander, one Don Hermano Gonthalez, marched into the cool of the garden. He carried his helmet under one arm and his floridly handsome face was flushed with bloodlust.
“Well,” he said coldly. “We now know it’s one of the brats. Which one is it?”
“Nobody is telling.”
“Kill the lot then.”

The God-Emperor stood up and faced the tall European.
“There is no need to kill any more. I am he who you seek.”
The soldier looked down at the unimpressive little figure and laughed harshly.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because you know I speak the truth.”
“Then you will know your life is forfeit.”
“Kill the God, Kill the faith?”
Hermano nodded brusquely then looked into the lightless depths of the child’s eyes, for a moment he knew the true meaning of love and compassion, but he shrugged his shoulders, pushing those feelings to one side. He took a pace forwards and grasped the black topknot in one large fist. The gaze of the God-Emperor did not waver from his face, even when a sword of the finest Toledo steel severed the thin neck and the conquistador was left with a disembodied head hanging from his hand.
“And what of your God-Emperor now?” Don Hermano demanded harshly.
The young priest shrugged. “I know not.” Then he laughed a laugh of genuine amusement, before deliberately impaling himself on the long dagger of the soldier who held him by his hair.

“What is so funny?” The soldier who held the old crone’s wrists shook her brutally.
“I know not.” She said in a voice of resignation. “How should a slave know the thought of the great ones?”
One of the other children lifted frightened eyes from the ground. It was a girl of some ten or so summers, who was as fair as the garden in which she sat. She looked at the conquistador.
“He meant that once the God-Emperor’s soul left his body it will have found another host. Once you killed our brother he lost his divinity. What you hold in your hand now is only the head of an ordinary child.”
Don Hermano dropped the severed head and grasped the shrinking girl.
“Who?” He demanded. “Who? Who?”
She lifted her great dark eyes to his face. “We do not know. Nobody knows. Yet.”
Understanding dawned, and the conquistador gave a great cry of rage as he dragged the girl’s face closer. His blade moved almost of it’s own volition, all but cutting her in half.

© jane jago 2017

They had a pleasant meal, and Bill enjoyed himself greatly. He chose chicken and bacon pie for himself, but claimed the right to steal a trial forkful of everyone else’s. He thought Rod’s steak was too rare, and Sam’s curry was too hot, but he liked Anna’s lasagne so much that he pinched a bit more. She laughed and flicked his ear.

“Eat your own. Or don’t you like it?”

“I do like it. It’s almost as good as Mummy makes.”

“That good?” Rod grinned at his nephew. “I may have to try a bit.'”

Bill glared.

“Mine! And I only got a kiddy portion.”

 

By the time the dessert menu was on the table, Bill was full.

“Oh drat,” he said, “I really wanted lemon meringue, but I don’t think I’ll be able to eat it.”

“Tell you what.” Anna smiled, “I’m pretty full, too. Why don’t we share a lemon meringue?”

“Oh you are a kind girl. I would like that.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

 

By the time the grown ups got to coffee and mints, Bill was about on his last legs. Rod got the bill and paid up, grinning at his sleepy nephew.

“We fit for bed, Bill?”

“We are.”

“Let’s go then.” He tucked a note under the cafetière and picked the tired little boy up.

 

Bonnie slipped out for her ablutions, while Anna made Bill ready for bed. His head had barely hit the pillow before he was deeply asleep.

“Now what do we grown-ups do?” Rod asked.

“We can sit outside and chat if you want” offered Anna, “I’ve got chairs in the garage. And if we’re just outside the door the little man won’t wake up alone.”

“That’s a good idea. If Sam gets the chairs out. I’ll go and get some drinks from the bar. Brandy Sam? What for you Anna?”

“Brandy too. And a cappuccino.”

“What a good notion. Three brandies and three cappuccinos. I’m on it.”

He cantered off leaving a laughing Anna to hand Sam the garage keys. He got out three chairs and a smallish table, before quietly closing the door.

“I don’t think we’ll get Rod to bed as early as last night.”

“No. I’m sure we won’t. But I’m glad to see it. Last night he was wiped. And hurt. Today he’s more like himself.”

“He is that,” Sam concurred as he watched the huge figure striding back across the garden with a tray balanced professionally.

 

They sat down and Anna took a sip of her brandy.

“Tell me how you two met. The cage fighter and the orthopaedic surgeon seem like an odd couple to me.”

Rod grinned.

“The first time I saw Sam he was wearing a pair of not too clean drawstring trousers and some flip-flops. It was in Thailand. I’d been offered an obscene amount of money to fight two Cambodian brothers. So much that I couldn’t refuse. Win or lose it would set me up for life. I was just sitting waiting for my fight when an English voice spoke behind me. It warned me to watch the smaller of the two Cambodians around my nuts, if I didn’t want them bitten off. I nodded, and my informant moved off. That piece of information was the last bit of the jigsaw and enabled me to beat the crap out of the Cambodian boys. Carelessly, I managed to dislocate a knuckle, and I was wondering what to do about it when the English voice spoke again. I turned around and saw this scruffy looking bugger, with two Chinese girls on his arms, and a doctor’s bag in his hands. Cut a long story short he fixed it, and his companions came back to my hotel with me. The girls were nurses, who worked for Medecins sans Frontiers. They clued me to the fact that Sam was actually not a local, which I found funny. So I sent him a bottle of single malt to show my appreciation. He reciprocated with a can of Red Stripe. And that’s how we became friends.”

“I see. But why was Sam dressed so scruffily?”

“I was blending. I enjoyed the real Thailand. Though it can be fucking brutal. A big black guy dressed like a local could go anywhere in relative safety. A Caucasian doctor not so much. If it wasn’t whores and beggars, it would be con men and muggers. I was safer…”

“I bet.”

Then Anna grinned wryly.

“I’ve never seen Rod fight. I always wanted to, but never been brave enough to go.”

“I could watch him all the time. He’s incredible. It’s not just how big and strong he is, he’s graceful, and unbelievably fast. The Lin twins – the two nurses in the story – had a theory that he could pluck flies out of the air if he wanted. Mind you, they also said he was a prodigious lover and had the best tattoos they had ever seen.”

“Oh yeah. Except your dragon.”

Anna raised her eyebrows. Sam got up and pulled the t-shirt over his head to reveal a broad, hairless chest, decorated with a rampant dragon, which started on his chest ran around his rib age and finished just above his navel.

“That is an excellent dragon. But. On an orthopaedic surgeon?”

Sam grinned and put his shirt back on.

“That’s the whole point isn’t it? Everyone needs a small rebellion. Smaug here is mine. Wanna show me yours?”

She laughed.

“I don’t have one. And what’s Rod’s excuse? He’s got more ink on him than the Sunday Times…”

“I dunno. It has a bit to do with the cage fighting culture. But mostly I just like the way it looks.”

“On girls too?”

“Especially on girls.”

Anna winced.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

Sam grinned.

“Yes. It does. I nearly gave up at times, but once I started…”

Rod nodded.

“True. The worst bits are the sleeves, the underside of your arms is mightily sensitive.”

“If I live to be nine hundred I will never understand men. Talking of which will somebody look and make sure the little man is asleep?”

Rod got up and looked into the camper.

“Oh aye,” he grinned. “He’s got his face pillowed on his jumper and his back against Bonnie.”

“Good. Then we need to talk a bit about what is going on in Scotland.”

“We do” Sam agreed. “Are we all up to speed?”

“I’m not sure,” Rod said. “I know that Mairead’s boys are dishing out justice. And what was planned for the wee man. Is there more?”

“A bit,” Anna said quietly. “Chris and Belle worked in the Russian Federation for a lot of years. Chris recognised your man’s name. He’s Armenian. Even persona non grata with Putin’s boys. She texted me while we were eating to say a list of his known associates is on its way from some people she knows in Russia. She will send it to Jim when it arrives.”

“Good,” Rod grunted. “Mayn’t be of much use now, but information is always to be prized.”

“Jim said Geordie gave him the name of the man they are sending the body back to, though he doubts that’s the top of the tree,” Sam remarked. “So maybe the list will help…”

“Yes,” Anna said soberly, “but what it boils down to is there’s nothing we need to do except take care of Bill. So can we change the subject. Even thinking about…”

She stopped and her eyes were haunted.

Sam put a comforting arm around her slim shoulders.

“It didn’t happen,” he said strongly. “Just hold on to the fact that it didn’t happen.”

She winked away a tear.

“You are so right. And thanks.”

 

Rod looked at the pair of them and a thought entered his head. He pushed it firmly down. Not your business Cracksman, he admonished himself, though they did look good together. Before he had time to work out something anodyne to say, Anna looked over his shoulder and grinned.

“Here come our hostesses.”

 

Rod screwed around in his seat, to see Chris and an elegant companion coming towards them, laden with many things. He pushed up from his seat, about a second ahead of Sam and they went to help.

“Thanks,” Chris said, “you two are real gents. Most of our customers figure that at least one of us is a bull dyke, so we should be capable of carrying anything unaided.”

Belle laughed.

“Plus, of course, this area is still one of those economies that runs on the physical prowess of little old ladies in black dresses.”

By this time they were at the door of the camper, and Sam was efficiently setting up chairs while Rod and Chris loaded the table with booze and nibbles.

“Ah. Here comes the coffee” Chris grinned as a black-uniformed waiter carried over a huge tray laden with enormous cups of cappuccino.

Jane Jago

I didn’t ask to be born, and yet here am I
Gifted with life, but knowing I’ll die.
The thrice tainted gift that none can refuse
Brings suffering: fear, pain and abuse.
And so we must strive to keep those at bay
There can be no rest, just fight every day.
For how can you sleep at peace in your bed
Knowing another still needs to be fed?
How can you lie to yourself with each breath,
And feel any joy when another fears death?
Oh why do we live each in silent enclave
And not have a care for those we enslave?
For our lives are lived on the backs of the weak,
The poor, the downtrodden, those forced to be meek.
We claim to be proud and clever and strong,
But still do not see what we do is so wrong.
I didn’t ask to be born, and yet here am I
Gifted with life, but knowing I’ll die.

Set in a world where the Roman Empire never left Britannia, the Dai and Julia Mysteries are a series of novellas about a crime-fighting couple. Dying to be friends explores their respective histories before they first met.

The boot would have caught him in the head. Dai rolled away as it swung in and he took it on the shoulder instead. But the rest of the pack were about to catch up and after the last experience of that, he knew he had two choices, surrender at once or hold on, count the moments and pray. The decision was taken from him as the whistle blew across the field.  Which was just as well because he could not have taken much more punishment.

A hand reached down, attached to a brawny arm.

“Well done, you’re not bad at this are you?”

The mud smothered ball was clutched close into his body and Dai, still winded and bruised from the last assault, took the hand, grateful for anything that might help him back on his feet. A moment later he was reeling back on the ground, shoulder probably half-dislocated as his erstwhile helper was holding the ball aloft and making an earsplitting hooting noise.

Dai lay still, closed his eyes and let the world revolve around him for a few moments. The jubilant cheers and back-thumping slowly faded. It was not the first humiliation he had endured since he had started his career in the Vigiles and he was willing to bet it would not be the last. But at least it would be the last he had to endure on this training course.

This ‘team building’ event was meant to be a treat for the final day. A reward for all the hard brainwork they had been required to put in to qualify for the rank of Investigator. Random draw assigned the teams and they had spent the morning training. Dai had contemplated feigning gut cramps to escape the afternoon match and now he wished he had.

He became aware it was starting to rain. Britannia in the early spring tended to wet and the ground they had been playing on was already part mudslide. The drops were heavy and he decided he was not hurting quite so much any more and probably ought to get up.

“Spado!” He recognised the voice of his team captain and opened his eyes, pushing himself to his feet one knee at a time. A far cry from the players you saw on the sports channels. They would take all kinds of a kicking and just roll to their feet and jog off.

“You must be the most stupid cunnus I ever played in a team with. Giving the ball away to the other side – and that after the whistle.”

“The game was over and I thought -”

“You thought you’d fall for the oldest trick in the book? The rules are merda, Llewellyn – just like what you keep inside your skull. This is harpastum. The Game. They had the ball when the ref got his first view of it after the whistle.”

The anger and disgust on the other man’s face was so intense Dai found himself sinking into a defensive stance. He had no idea how to play harpastum, the messy brawls for glory had never appealed to him, he’d avoided it like the plague during his school years opting for other sports, running and swimming being the ones he favoured most, but he knew how to fight when he had to, that had always been on the sports syllabus in his life. The other man seemed not to notice, he had already turned away and was jogging back towards the building.

Wiping at a splotch of mud which was sliding over his eye, Dai realised he was only spreading more mud as his hand was coated too. In fact, there was not much of him that was not. He squelched back across the pitch, the rain picking up as he did so, and by the time he stepped into the changing rooms, the mud was cascading in rivulets on the floor behind him. He pushed open the door and the conversation dropped as the entire nineteen man team glowered at him.

Dai shook his head and walked past them, heading for the welcome warmth of the shower room. He might have lost the game, but of the five points they had made, two had been his and owed more to his running skill than anything else. The other three had been scored by their team captain, but then that was a man who had been in the under 20s finals at Augusta Treverorum six years ago as he had proudly boasted when putting himself forward for the role. They also seemed to have overlooked the fact that Dai had been the one clutching the ball and defending it with his body when the whistle went. Which, he had been told, was the way to ensure victory in this game. No one had bothered mentioning anything about after the whistle.

They were all gone when he emerged from the shower room, much to Dai’s relief. He had already seen the first purple marks revealed as the mud was washed away and he had a feeling that the following day he was going to be stiff and sore. Fortunately, the following day he would be heading home to attend his half-brother’s wedding and have a week in the fond bosom of his family before starting work as a junior Vigiles investigator for the submagistratus in his hometown of Viriconium.

He was towelling his hair dry and was wondering if he could afford a massage in the baths next door, when the door was flung open by one of the women who had been leading the training course.

“Llew –” She choked off halfway through his name, her mouth open and her eyes wide. Then a light flush of colour brushed her cheeks.

Dai dropped the towel from his shoulders to wrap it around his waist. Well what did she expect bursting into the men’s changing rooms? Romans who did not respect the privacy of non-citizens could expect to get an eyeful of six-pack and extras.

“Apologies, domina,” he said, reaching for his tunic.

“Eh – yes. Well, you were not answering your wristphone so I had to come and find you in person.”

“We were told to keep them turned off or silent.”

“Yes. So you were. So here I am.” She gave a little smile.

Under the cover of his tunic, he undid the towel and finished dressing, aware of her eyes on him and more than a little resentful of the fact she felt free to stare all she wanted. He realised then that he would be glad to be home, away from the coldly Roman Londinium and back in a place where the majority of people he met treated him like a human being.

“What was it you wanted, domina?” he asked, trying to keep the bite from his tone.

“The Prefect wishes to see you immediately.”

The Prefect? He was the man in charge of operations for the Vigiles. A fair few steps down from the Caesar of Gallia maybe, but about as close to that as Dai had ever got. He opened his mouth to ask why and she made a dismissive gesture “That means now, Llewellyn – and after, how would you like to be my guest at this evening’s graduation dinner? We can skip the boring speeches and head back to my place.” She smiled again as she finished speaking and Dai decided she was not at all bad looking for a Roman and very well preserved for her age, which had to be at least ten years over his own twenty-four years. For a moment he was tempted, very tempted. “It’s a sub aquila apartment,” she said, no doubt hoping to sway him with the promise of the Citizen only levels of luxury which that implied. Instead, it had the opposite effect and Dai found himself shaking his head and tasting a bitter flavour in his mouth.

“You honour me too much, domina,” he said, coldly. It was very obvious she was not used to being refused because her anger was instant.

“The Prefect’s office – now, Llewellyn.”

Then she went, slamming the door behind her.

Dying to be Friends is also to be found in The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Dear Reader Who Writes,

As is my habit, allow me to present myself and my credentials for offering this wealth of writing wisdom. I am none other than the Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.  My seminal work of science-fantasy  “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”, once peaked to achieve the coveted Best Seller status of one millionth on Amazon – although I recently withdrew it from publication to allow other, lesser, literature an opportunity to ascend the firmament of popular appeal. But do not weep and rend your garments, oh deprived ones, this is merely a temporary arrangement.

Those who have been my most assiduous students in recent times will be aware that my parents are not on the best of terms. Not that this is anything untoward, of course, but my father is in paradise – Bali? Bahrain? Something sunny and starting with B anyway – and as such has become for my mother the archetypal antagonist. Oh if I had but a fraction of a penny for every sentence she has started with the immortal alliteration: “Your fucking father…” I would have saved enough for a deposit on my own home long since. Sadly, I can not profit from it in that way, but I can – and do – use the antagonism to fuel the formation of my own antagonists.

How To Write A Book – Lesson 18: The Write Antagonist.

Oh no, Mr Farquhar Metheringham IV, sir! I can hear your little voices cheeping in chorus, did you not already tell us how to do this? Did you not say they are just bad people and no more needs to be said of them than that? I say, well remembered my dear RWW. I did indeed say that was the summum bonum of the ideal antagonist. But, this is not speaking of the insignificant issues of personality, motive or malignancy. This, dear pupils, is a matter of physical characteristics – so when we first meet your antagonist we know from the off that is who it must be. So sit up, pay attention and make notes!

• Ugly Mug – ugliness is, of course, the first sign of evil. Make sure your antagonist has a hideous visage.
• Age – wrinkled age is evil – smooth youth is good. Everyone knows this, so use it.
• Dental Detail – villains always have bad teeth. Even the wealthy ones. And bad breath to go with it.
• Deformity – of course, evil is always deformed by something self-inflicted in the course of evil-doing.
• Dark Dressing – to be of the ‘dark side’ it stands to reason the individual must also always wear black. Red in accessories is acceptable.
• Gender – male is default. After all, we speak of ‘the bad guy’.

Of course there can be exceptions to these hard and fast rules. There is the evil-but-beautiful young woman who seduces our hero, for example. But for the novice writer, such as you are indeed, dear pupil of mine, keep to these basic guidelines and you will not go wrong.

Auf Wiedersehen, meine Schüler!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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