I have been woefully remiss in not updating this blog in ages. The good news is that I have been writing! Yay! I'd been struggling to make a start on an introduction to the third Kat Farthing book and on a new book based in Anna's world so the relief was immense when I realised I'd come at it all wrong and the words started flowing. I'm now in the middle of Chapter 7, but here's a taster. Please note that this is pre-editing; it may look very different by the time the book comes out!
Chapter 1 Bay of Tritana, Costas The good-natured yells of a boisterous welcome streamed through the open window on rays of dusty sunshine. It was sufficient distraction for the young businessman to pull himself away from the pile of paperwork that reappeared every morning as if by magic. He looked down on a knot of unusual backslapping amongst the familiar busy scene, but the ocean soon drew his gaze. A bronze-tinted glimmer appeared in his brown eyes as he breathed in the salty promise of strange lands and adventure. He allowed himself a moment’s escape then sighed, feeling every ounce of the responsibility that demanded he learn to love his new station in life. His belly grumbled painfully. “Be quiet,” he snapped, “there’s nothing happening.” A second sigh escaped through pursed lips. “There’s never anything happening.” His gift had been pestering him for months, even before Sofia and he had moved here. It had started quietly with the sort of gentle hint that meant ‘choose the whiskey’ or ‘bet on the piebald’ but it was now at the level he associated with the need to duck the sweep of an invisible sword heading straight for the back of his neck. Except there was no sword; there was no danger at all. It was unsettling, irritating and confusing and, despite his determination to ignore every spasm of his belly, his fingers eased themselves towards the decorative dagger on his belt. They drummed themselves against the hilt in time to the waves. A puff of lilac cloud caught his eye as it raced across the horizon on a stiff breeze. He willed it on, hitching his luck to its battle for survival. If it made it to the harbour, he’d take Sofia for a leisurely lunch. If it made it to the mountain, he’d take the rest of the day off. If it made it to… It fizzled into the endless blue without making it even to the large ships anchored in the deep water of the bay. Was it possible to hate blue sky? He hadn’t thought it possible, not after the snow of Mastra. With Mastra came thoughts of Sy, Finn and Beitris, of Seleste and Malik, of Anna and Ewan, of Jimmy and a pocketful of King’s medallions. Homesickness and grief near overwhelmed him, but the sudden squeak of a stair had him instantly grabbing up a scroll to attempt a more professional pose; successful gold merchants did not generally spend more time pacing before their office window than sitting behind their desk. He did a double take at the squiggles on the parchment and turned up to down just as the door opened. The clerk was kind enough to pretend she hadn’t seen him. “Sir, there’s a messenger below. Shall I send him up?” “No, I’ll come down once I’ve finished this. My legs could do with a stretch.” The hint of a giggle sparkled in the woman’s wide eyes, but she schooled her mouth into stern obedience. “Yes, sir, Master Peyton.” He’d been doing a fine job of keeping up the act until that moment. His undoing was not her obvious disbelief that he wanted to read the scroll. It wasn’t even the ornate, completely incomprehensible calligraphy emblazoned across the top of it. Instead it was the single line of translation in Standard that lay beneath this: ‘An analysis of ancient records of Vilenchian trade in gold bullion, told in the original language.’ A quick glance through thick brown lashes told him that the clerk knew full well he didn’t read ancient Vilenchian. Their lips twitched as one then Spider let out an enormous guffaw, dropping the scroll on top of his abandoned paperwork. “Caught red-handed!” “Yes, sir, Master Peyton,” said the laughing clerk before quietly closing the door behind her. Two minutes later, he stood frozen before the noisy main office, his hand on the doorknob, his belly telling him he shouldn’t enter or he should enter or there was an assailant with a blade behind him or before him or, for all he knew, the world was about to end. In a rare moment of clarity, he realised he’d lost all sense of himself in trying to become what Sofia and her father expected of him. The chatter silenced as he turned the handle only to start up again as he walked straight across the room and down the back stairs rather than take the stairs to reception. “But what about the messenger?” he heard. “Let him wait!” he called, a jubilant schoolboy truant.
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