A Small Sample
I'm feeling rather pleased with my progress on Point of Knives, so I though I'd post a snippet from the beginning. The story takes place between Point of Hopes and Point of Dreams, so Nicolas Rathe is still Adjunct Point at Point of Hopes - second in command of one of the stations charged with keeping the peace in the city of Astreaint - and ex-soldier Philip Eslingen is still employed as bodyguard and sword-for-hire by one Hanselin Caiazzo, who's the man behind far too many of Astreaint's illegal and extra-legal businesses. As we begin, Rathe has been called out to view a body, and has followed a trail of blood leading away from it into the pre-dawn dark...
The light was better in the street, a good thing, since the trail was fading. Rathe lifted his lantern again, found the next mark, and then a scuffed place beyond it, as though the person had stumbled. Rathe frowned at that. It looked as though the attacker was worse hurt than he’d thought, and he quickened his step.
A few yards further on, there was a larger spot of blood, and when he looked up, there was a bloody smear on the whitewashed corner of the next building. He swore under his breath and drew his truncheon. The last thing he needed was to trap an injured murderer. But there was no help for it, no time to send for help. He opened the lantern’s slide all the way, and stepped briskly around the corner.
At the end of the little alley, a man knelt beside a heap of old clothes that quickly resolved itself into a body. His hat was tipped to hide his face, but it was obvious that he was about to go through the fallen man’s pockets.
“Hold hard,” Rathe said, but the next words died in his throat as the kneeling man turned. “Eslingen?”
“Oh. Hello, Nico.” Eslingen sounded more sheepish than anything as he pushed himself to his feet. “I might have known it would be you.”
“What are you doing?” Rathe asked. He refused to be distracted by his liking for the man. They had worked well together over the summer, when they’d hunted down the city’s stolen children, and slept together more than once in the heady aftermath of that success, but they served incompatible masters, and had, reluctantly, agreed to part. And that was where the matter had to rest, whether he liked it or not.
“I’ve found a dead man,” Eslingen answered, his voice suddenly sober. “Old Steen’s all the name I know.”
“What?” Rathe checked, startled, then moved in so that the light fell squarely on the body. That was the last thing he’d expected, to come chasing Grandad’s murderer, and find instead his dead son.
The light was better in the street, a good thing, since the trail was fading. Rathe lifted his lantern again, found the next mark, and then a scuffed place beyond it, as though the person had stumbled. Rathe frowned at that. It looked as though the attacker was worse hurt than he’d thought, and he quickened his step.
A few yards further on, there was a larger spot of blood, and when he looked up, there was a bloody smear on the whitewashed corner of the next building. He swore under his breath and drew his truncheon. The last thing he needed was to trap an injured murderer. But there was no help for it, no time to send for help. He opened the lantern’s slide all the way, and stepped briskly around the corner.
At the end of the little alley, a man knelt beside a heap of old clothes that quickly resolved itself into a body. His hat was tipped to hide his face, but it was obvious that he was about to go through the fallen man’s pockets.
“Hold hard,” Rathe said, but the next words died in his throat as the kneeling man turned. “Eslingen?”
“Oh. Hello, Nico.” Eslingen sounded more sheepish than anything as he pushed himself to his feet. “I might have known it would be you.”
“What are you doing?” Rathe asked. He refused to be distracted by his liking for the man. They had worked well together over the summer, when they’d hunted down the city’s stolen children, and slept together more than once in the heady aftermath of that success, but they served incompatible masters, and had, reluctantly, agreed to part. And that was where the matter had to rest, whether he liked it or not.
“I’ve found a dead man,” Eslingen answered, his voice suddenly sober. “Old Steen’s all the name I know.”
“What?” Rathe checked, startled, then moved in so that the light fell squarely on the body. That was the last thing he’d expected, to come chasing Grandad’s murderer, and find instead his dead son.