Chapter I
Most of you are aware of my rather large (150,000+ words) current project These Violent Times. I've finished a little over half the book but the first Act (it's divided into five acts) is quite a bit worse than the rest. So I'm posting the first chapter here and would like any and all comments.
Thanks!
Chapter I: Storms
The single tallow candle cast an uncertain glow across the vast space, hiding all but the closest objects in a mire of sketchy blackness and uneasy shadows. “The world is not as it seems, ever tempestuous, ever changing beyond our sight. We see but its shadows and secrets.” The Controller of Customs spoke with a crisp accent, marking the words in his book of entrances in similarly sharp form, a terrible boredom long since etched onto his face. The truth of his words were carried in the occasional thrum of thunder and the incessant torrent of rain like a thousand tiny footfalls on the roof, a great storm tearing at the city, at the entire island. The barest glimpses of lighting crept under the door, while the wind hurled itself at the walls, rattling them like the dice cups of hundred drunk gamblers vying to restore their fortunes.
“So we do,” Maen said. The Controller was slowly scrawling Maen Arigdil on the ledger, seeming to think neither of them had any time of value. Maen was sure the man was looking for an excuse to stay out of the storm. The remainder of the desks in the warehouse were empty, the other Controller’s having been too smart to go out into the unquenchable torrent. “Is there anymore you need of me?”
“Um, um, yes,” the man said, scratching his chin with his pen, seemingly oblivious to the ink running through his poor excuse of a beard. “I’ll need your signet hear,” he touched just below the name, “and the reason you are on the island.”
“My reason is my own,” Maen said softly, scrawling a mark on the paper.
“Well, yes, it might be, but I cannot allow you out of the docks on that alone.” The Controller laid his pen next to the ledger, scattering sand across the paper. “I’m afraid you will have to stay at the Bailer’s Inn. Yes, that’s all that’s allowed.”
“I have business that demands my presence and will not hold kindly to being slowed.”
“As I said, your purpose must be here.” He tapped the book, smearing the l at the end of Maen’s signature. “Yes, that’s the only way in.”
“Do you have a superior I may speak with?” Maen asked, holding his voice steady, a rumble of thunder drowning out his last words. The storm had already set him back many hours, if not days, and he could accept no further delays.
“Yes, but he is busy, so I think-”
“You will go get him.” Maen placed all of the authority he could command behind his voice and the little man at the desk squeaked.
“He is busy,” he repeated, “and I can’t bother him. The Chief of Customs has much work. . .”
“Then I will. Where is he?”
“No, no, you can’t leave the docks, the door is off limits.”
Maen ignored him and walked to the only actual door in the room, besides the one he entered by. He rapped on the wood twice, then pushed it open.
“What is it, Gerk?” The speaker sat at a cluttered desk pushed against one wall. Old ledgers were stacked on the floor and on the desk. The only other furniture in the room was a small table opposite the desk, a half completed game of storms played across it. A grimy window rested above the man’s head, showing little but dirt and rain, an equally dirty door next to it.
“It’s not Gerk,” Maen said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “He would not admit me to see you, nor would he let me off the docks.”
“I take it you refused to divulge some information? He is not one to ever break protocol.”
“Which is probably why he has no real job. My purposes on the island are my own.”
“I’m sorry, but that won’t get you onto Osperos. We are not made up of lawless madmen like Karini. You can stay at the Bailer’s Inn.” The man turned back to the page he was reading, hardly having acknowledge Maen’s presence.
Maen glared at the crown of his head, then dug into his waist bag. He drew forth a letter and set it on the desk before the man. “My name is Maen Arigdil.”
The Chief looked up at him, blinked, than glanced at the paper. “Maen, Maen . . . oh!” He jumped to his feet and lumbered to the inner door. He opened it quickly, glanced about, and shut it. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“I don’t like advertising my presence. My business is with the Council alone.”
“I was told that. If I knew who you were I would have rushed you through.”
“It is no real worry.”
“I was told to direct you to those who would provide you with anything you need for your work, or any sort of assistance. You have all my resources at your command and there are men ready to do anything for you.” The man almost bowed and Maen was sure he would have if not for trying to keep a constant eye on him.
“I need no assistance.” Maen returned the letter to his pouch and sealed it, taking time to make sure the oilskin was tight. “Others will only get in my way. Do not interfere with my work for anything short of murder. Even then, think first. If all goes well, you will not even notice I am on the Island.”
“And if it goes poorly?” The man could barely get the words out.
“Then there very well might not be any island.”
Thanks!
Chapter I: Storms
The single tallow candle cast an uncertain glow across the vast space, hiding all but the closest objects in a mire of sketchy blackness and uneasy shadows. “The world is not as it seems, ever tempestuous, ever changing beyond our sight. We see but its shadows and secrets.” The Controller of Customs spoke with a crisp accent, marking the words in his book of entrances in similarly sharp form, a terrible boredom long since etched onto his face. The truth of his words were carried in the occasional thrum of thunder and the incessant torrent of rain like a thousand tiny footfalls on the roof, a great storm tearing at the city, at the entire island. The barest glimpses of lighting crept under the door, while the wind hurled itself at the walls, rattling them like the dice cups of hundred drunk gamblers vying to restore their fortunes.
“So we do,” Maen said. The Controller was slowly scrawling Maen Arigdil on the ledger, seeming to think neither of them had any time of value. Maen was sure the man was looking for an excuse to stay out of the storm. The remainder of the desks in the warehouse were empty, the other Controller’s having been too smart to go out into the unquenchable torrent. “Is there anymore you need of me?”
“Um, um, yes,” the man said, scratching his chin with his pen, seemingly oblivious to the ink running through his poor excuse of a beard. “I’ll need your signet hear,” he touched just below the name, “and the reason you are on the island.”
“My reason is my own,” Maen said softly, scrawling a mark on the paper.
“Well, yes, it might be, but I cannot allow you out of the docks on that alone.” The Controller laid his pen next to the ledger, scattering sand across the paper. “I’m afraid you will have to stay at the Bailer’s Inn. Yes, that’s all that’s allowed.”
“I have business that demands my presence and will not hold kindly to being slowed.”
“As I said, your purpose must be here.” He tapped the book, smearing the l at the end of Maen’s signature. “Yes, that’s the only way in.”
“Do you have a superior I may speak with?” Maen asked, holding his voice steady, a rumble of thunder drowning out his last words. The storm had already set him back many hours, if not days, and he could accept no further delays.
“Yes, but he is busy, so I think-”
“You will go get him.” Maen placed all of the authority he could command behind his voice and the little man at the desk squeaked.
“He is busy,” he repeated, “and I can’t bother him. The Chief of Customs has much work. . .”
“Then I will. Where is he?”
“No, no, you can’t leave the docks, the door is off limits.”
Maen ignored him and walked to the only actual door in the room, besides the one he entered by. He rapped on the wood twice, then pushed it open.
“What is it, Gerk?” The speaker sat at a cluttered desk pushed against one wall. Old ledgers were stacked on the floor and on the desk. The only other furniture in the room was a small table opposite the desk, a half completed game of storms played across it. A grimy window rested above the man’s head, showing little but dirt and rain, an equally dirty door next to it.
“It’s not Gerk,” Maen said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “He would not admit me to see you, nor would he let me off the docks.”
“I take it you refused to divulge some information? He is not one to ever break protocol.”
“Which is probably why he has no real job. My purposes on the island are my own.”
“I’m sorry, but that won’t get you onto Osperos. We are not made up of lawless madmen like Karini. You can stay at the Bailer’s Inn.” The man turned back to the page he was reading, hardly having acknowledge Maen’s presence.
Maen glared at the crown of his head, then dug into his waist bag. He drew forth a letter and set it on the desk before the man. “My name is Maen Arigdil.”
The Chief looked up at him, blinked, than glanced at the paper. “Maen, Maen . . . oh!” He jumped to his feet and lumbered to the inner door. He opened it quickly, glanced about, and shut it. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“I don’t like advertising my presence. My business is with the Council alone.”
“I was told that. If I knew who you were I would have rushed you through.”
“It is no real worry.”
“I was told to direct you to those who would provide you with anything you need for your work, or any sort of assistance. You have all my resources at your command and there are men ready to do anything for you.” The man almost bowed and Maen was sure he would have if not for trying to keep a constant eye on him.
“I need no assistance.” Maen returned the letter to his pouch and sealed it, taking time to make sure the oilskin was tight. “Others will only get in my way. Do not interfere with my work for anything short of murder. Even then, think first. If all goes well, you will not even notice I am on the Island.”
“And if it goes poorly?” The man could barely get the words out.
“Then there very well might not be any island.”