6

A toddler darted past Amberlyn with a lurching unsteady gait, paused to recover his balance and then ran again.  She spun about to grab him before he could get into anything.  "Josaerin!"

The bell hanging from the doorknob rang as a customer entered.

Josaerin made a beeline for the door before it could close.

"Don't let him get out!"  Amberlyn shouted at the customer and lunged after her son.

The customer swept Josaerin into his arms and the toddler giggled as the mon poked the tip of his nose playfully with the end of his pipe stem.

Amberlyn took him from the mon's arms.  "You're new, aren't you?"

"Ieuan Cardew."  He extended his hand to her in greeting.  "Got in a few weeks ago, but my employer has kept me too busy to explore until today."  Ieuan waved a slender finger at Josaerin's nose, making baby noises at him for a moment, before noting the difference between the child's fair skin and brownish blond hair, and that of his dark, coppery-skinned, black-haired mother.  "He's yours?"

"Yes."  Amberlyn turned a skeptical eye on Ieuan.

"Must look like his daddy then.  Mind if I have a talk with the mister?  My employer has a long list of things we need."

"My husband is away."

"Well when he comes back then?"  Ieuan chuckled when Josaerin grabbed his waving finger and stuck it in his mouth.

"Nasty!  Josaerin, that's nasty."  Amberlyn snatched the Ieuan's finger from her son's mouth. 

"Your husband will be back when?  I really wish to speak with him."

"He's in Red Wolf.  There's a war up there."  Amberlyn shifted the toddler on her hip.

Lildh, Amberlyn's senior assistant, stepped through the door of the hallway leading to the back rooms and brushed a strand of nutmeg hair back.  "Oh, there he is!"

"Just put him in the playpen, Lily."

Amberlyn's assistant lifted the boy from her, carried Josaerin behind the counter and plunked him into a playpen that had a cloth lid over the top with braids of spellcord across it.

"Cute little tyke."  Ieuan waved at Josaerin and the toddler waved back giggling.  "Now, what was I saying when I was so pleasantly distracted?  Oh, yes.  Bulk buys that I wanted to discuss with your husband."

"Your employer will have to do business with me, if he's looking for bulk purchases.  I assume you're talking dark arcanes?  I'm the only one who sells them."

"Then we're dealing with you."  Ieuan gave her his most charming smile and watched her thaw toward him.

"You're a mage?"

"Dabbler.  Bio-alchemist by trade."

"Gormandi?"

"Spot on."

"There are a lot of Gormondi here these days." 

Ieuan tucked his pipe in the pocket.  "That's to be expected.  What with the arrival of Prince Richard Gryphonheart imminent."

"True."  Amberlyn doubted that she would ever be comfortable with the custom of child betrothals and the youthful consummation between them, which the nobility demanded at the onset of puberty.  That situation seemed to be worsening since the destruction of the Hilloran League two years ago.  The Minnorian Empress had extinguished several royal families when she conquered that region.

Ieuan sighed.  "That's what has brought us all here.  The alliance means trading relations, establishing routes, and other matters."

He unshouldered his satchels.  "In addition to buying bulk items that cannot be found in Gormondi, we wish to demonstrate our own wares.  Allow me to show you some samples."

***

Intermission: Details details

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#5

Ieuan Cardew arrived at 57 Argent Lane – the address that Wesley had given him in the cloth district – and was pleasantly surprised to find what appeared to be a converted inn attached to a modest warehouse.  As fronts went, it was very convincing.  It became even more convincing when he went inside and discovered that it was a real business.  A clerk at the elegant front desk, rose and extended his hand to Ieuan.  "Master Cardew, I assume?"

"The same."  Ieuan favored him with a roguish smile and clasped his hand.  "Can I assume that my office is ready?  And my samples in order?"

"Oh, absolutely, Master Cardew.  And Master Douglas will be along as soon as I inform him of your arrival.  He's most eager to finally meet you."

"I'm certain he is."

"Come this way and I will show you to your office."

"And your name?"

"Quaymark, sir.  Anything you need – anything at all – I will be more than happy to acquire or arrange for you."

The clerk led Ieuan down a long corridor to the far rear of the building.  Ieuan grew edgy at seeing they had put him in the office farthest from the rest of their people.  It would either reduce his importance in the eyes of his customers or make them suspicious of him.  His pride itched.  Ieuan's more legitimate family members had frequently treated him as an object of shame, despite everything his father had done to persuade them to accept Ieuan.  It only became worse when his half-brother became Lord Cardew on the death of their father.

Ieuan's training could not completely suppress his irritation.  "Is there a reason for putting me back here?"  Like some unwelcome mongrel…

"Oh, yes, sir."  Quaymark nodded, smiling as if he found the idea quite brilliant.  "We were told that you would want access to the private stairway and the garden entrance.  We don't wish for our competitors to gain access to goods as expensive and rare as what you deal in before you have had ample opportunity to secure our various trading deals."

Ieuan gave him a long, considering glance as they stopped at the last door and Quaymark opened it for him.  He stepped inside and a wide grin lit his face.  The large office had deep, expensive carpeting in shades of lush green.  Chairs and a matched pair of brocade sofas framed a low table.  A huge hard rock maple desk dominated the rear with ornate, overstuffed chairs before it.  A liquor cabinet and a wine rack took up the corner left of the desk with a private bar in front of it.  Shelves lined two walls, filled with various products in green glass jars, bottles, and small piles of burlap bags, all meticulously labeled.  In a corner behind the desk waited dozens of crates with Ieuan's name stenciled on them.

He strolled over to the bar and nosed in the cabinet before checking out the bottles.  It was all well-stocked with the finest that could be had.  Ieuan took a bottle of Faewinian Blue Rose from the wine rack, fished a corkscrew out of the cabinet drawer, and a delicate wine glass from a shelf.

"Make yourself comfortable, Master Cardew, while I fetch Master Douglas."

"I intend to."  Ieuan opened the bottle, inhaled the exquisite bouquet and then filled his glass.

As soon as he was alone, Ieuan went to the crates.  He took a long swallow of wine, set the glass on his desk, and used his belt knife to pry the lid off a crate.  Nestled in cotton were bottles of Fire Blossom Absinthe, a highly addictive liquor from the east coast, hideously expensive to import.  There were two kinds in the crate, some with a red label and others with a green one.  It was absinthe blended with fermented Pollendine and just enough spices and fruit extracts to flavor it in an interesting fashion.  The connoisseurs of the Larquentali City State knew not to drink much of it at a time, and they always sipped it very slowly.  They respected its dangers while savoring its taste and effects. 

Green Label Fire Blossom was strong stuff, but relatively milquetoast compared to Red Label.  He would introduce his targets to the lighter stuff first.  Once he was ready to close the deals, he would bring out the Red Label.

"Close the deal.  Rolls off the tongue nicely, don't you think, Master Cardew," he said to himself, dragged his finger across his throat and chuckled.  "Of course, Lord Cardew will sound even better when opportunity presents."

Wesley's network could actually move supplies and fill orders from a variety of places.  It was the kind of set up that only a vampire could achieve because of their longevity – immortality until someone puts a stake through their hearts or tears their heads off.

He moved to the desk, settled into the well-padded leather chair, and began opening all the drawers to investigate the contents.  The largest drawer on the bottom right had four sturdy leather satchels and a matching knapsack in it, all very expensive and well-tooled.  He pulled out two of them and tossed them atop the desk.  Then Ieuan perused the shelves with his wine in hand, picking out his samples with care and carrying them to the desk, which he soon had filled with what he believed would sell best, including several sampler-sized bottles of Fire Blossom.  Then he sat down and packed his satchels. 

"This is going to be a very productive day."  Ieuan patted the satchels, looped their broad straps over his head and settled them at his sides.  He stood, drained the last of his wine and worked the cork back into the bottle.

"Master Cardew?"

Ieuan turned at the new voice and faced a rotund mon of business in a blue linen tunic over trousers, his neck, wrists and fingers awash in expensive jewelry.  "Master Douglas!  What a delight to meet you at last.  My employers in Gormondi have had nothing but praise for your efforts here."

Douglas beamed.  "I work hard at it.  Very hard.  Whatever the company requires.  You'll tell them that at the main office, won't you?"

"Of course, I will."

"Let me show you around and introduce you to people.  You'll want to know where to go for things.  Who to talk to.  You've no idea how excited everyone was to hear that you were coming."

"Really?"  Ieuan schooled a pleasantness into his voice, forcing a smile to match Douglas' own.  A trace of misgiving danced along the edges of Ieuan's mood.  If the story had become too complex, it would be very easy for him to slip up somewhere.  He intended to ask Wesley for more details.

Douglas bustled down the hallway with Ieuan in tow.  "Oh yes, indeed.  We're all very excited about the new markets that this venture will open up for us.  Since the destruction of Charas three years ago, there has been only two places on the west coast for the mages to gather: Ildyrsetts, which has become far too stodgy for the young folk, and our own Azure Circle Mage School.  As a result, we're awash with young mages of every stripe.  It's a growing market, ripe for exploitation.  It's veritably screaming for goods and services."

"And that's why the main office sent me."

"Precisely."

Although Douglas moved with great alacrity, by the time they reached the end of the hallway, he was breathing hard and his face had gone red.

"You don't look well."

Douglas stopped in his tracks and drew himself as erect as possible, which only made his girth that much more noticeable.  "I'm quite healthy, really.  It's just that I don't walk much.  I spend so much time at my desk…"

"Where you do wonderful work."  Ieuan patted his shoulder.  "Before we get this tour underway, let me make a suggestion?"

"Oh, but of course.  Suggest away, Master Cardew."

"You're much too important for a mere tour.  How about I take you and the missus to dinner tomorrow night after I've had time to get settled into my apartment and visit all of my contacts in Rowan City?"

"Oh, but…"

Ieuan wagged a finger at him in gentle approbation.  "You've much more important matters to care for than exhausting yourself over a mere tour.  One of your aides should be perfectly capable of providing that.  No, I think that dinner is in order.  Is there a place you fancy?"

"Hinkty Molly's.  It has a singer there with a voice from heaven.  And the food is without peer.  All the youngsters from the school and the faculty go there to dine.  Even the king has been seen to sup there."

"That sounds perfect.  So are we agreed to dinner at Hinkty Molly's at say, oh, eighteen bells?"

"It will be a pleasure."

"Of course it will."  Ieuan administered another friendly pat to Douglas' shoulder.  "Now, I mustn't dally.  I've people to see and places to visit.  Tomorrow night we can discuss the company's new venture to our hearts' content."

Ieuan gave him a nod and strode off through the building.  Once outside, he headed for Dock Street.  He knew where he was going without having to ask directions.  Ieuan had spent hours pouring over maps of Rowan City while waiting for Corradeo and Eginhardt to arrive.

As Ieuan walked, he took in the decorations going up to welcome Prince Richard Gryphonheart.  King William Gryphonheart, desperate for an alliance and military aid against the Minnorian Empress, had promised his nine-year-old son to King Aejystrys as husband to her five-year-old daughter, Elynnis.  In return, Aejystrys had marshaled her forces – the largest standing army in the region – and marched to his aid.  The child was to be handed over upon Aejystrys' arrival in Merkreth's Crossing, and then Jumped to Rowan City by a translocationist mage in the Sacred King's employ.

It would be rather amusing if the boy died.  It would serve King William right for being such a pain in the ass.  William and his inner circle had snubbed Ieuan after his father died.  Suddenly bereft of his father's patronage, Ieuan, the bastard son of a Gormondi noble, had found himself unwelcome at court and at home.  His legitimate and now ruling half-brother had made it clear that he had no use for him.

Ieuan resisted the impulse to try and worm his way into the palace.  Much as he would like to see the little prince dead, the palace was not part of his job: that assignment belonged to Vakadis.  The school and the lifemages were Ieuan's targets.  Corradeo had a simple strategy: get in and get out and never let the enemy know they had been there.  Someone else either did most of the work for them or caught the blame without having done anything at all.  The back of his throat itched, alerting Ieuan to the one appetite that he was still getting accustomed to: a craving for fresh blood, preferably straight from pulsing veins.

His initial destination was the Azure Circle Mage School, anticipating that meeting Headmaster Miccan Heyers would require an appointment.  The school lay in the northwest, upon a series of terraced shelves carved into initial rises at the foot of the South Talon.  Rowan City had plenty of room to grow compared to the crowded cities and towns of Ieuan's homeland.  The houses, many of them built of logs, were fine dwellings with expansive yards.  The closer that Ieuan came to the school, the more often he saw wide, cobble stone drives and carriage houses to the side of the main houses.

This was not the place to sate his arcane appetites, although the well-dressed females made his throat itch.  New to the changes in his body since becoming sa'necari, it seemed that Ieuan was constantly hungry for another taste of blood.  Corradeo had assured him that it would ease in time.  The arcane components of blood could not be found in simple meat and drink – which Ieuan also consumed – and his cravings frequently drove him to distraction.  Wesley had informed him that there were poor districts, inhabited mostly by refugees from the Minnorian War, where he could sate himself.  He intended to tour them once he had made his initial contacts.

An ornate wrought iron gate stood open at the entrance to the school and people were flowing through it in large numbers.  The air crackled with energy to his necromantic senses.  Ieuan could taste anger, outrage, and a heady mix of fear in their auras as they crowded past him.

Fear.

It tickled his senses.  He paused to inhale it, savoring the flavors and the way it spread pleasure through him.  His loins tightened, his throat itched more intensely, and his fangs were threatening to descend.  Ieuan took a pocket flask from his shirt and swigged blood wine from it.  The blood eased him and he recovered his self-control.  It reminded him that he had not had his fangs in a vein since dawn.

Returned the spelled flask to his pocket, Ieuan noticed the way that the guards at the gates were watching him.  He sauntered over.

"Pardon me, I'm Ieuan Cardew.  I was told to speak with Elizar Meggs about getting an appointment with Master Miccan Heyers.  If you could direct me, I would appreciate it."

They pointed him at the far side of the school commons where a stately stone building dominated the lower terrace.  Beyond that Ieuan caught a glimpse of the student dormitories.  He had not required the directions he asked for, but was loath to betray the slightest knowledge of the grounds.  Again, Wesley's maps and diagrams were firmly at the front of his mind – until he passed the first cluster of trees and emerged into the open grounds.  In the very middle of it wood had been piled up for an enormous bonfire.  In the center of that stood a gigantic wickerman shaped by craft and magic into the likeness of a mon whom Ieuan recognized from sketches Wesley had provided him with: Headmaster Miccan Heyers.  The students were going to burn him in effigy.  Myn circled the effigy with their hands linked, and it took only a sweep of his eye to determine they were all women.  Male students dotted the grounds in little clusters, watching the women with expressions ranging from nervous to supportive.

A student lit the pyre with a gesture.

Then the chants began.  At first, it was just the women, and then some of the male students joined in.

MICCAN IS A DICKSTAIN.

MICCAN OUT!

NO MORE BUGGERING BASTARDS.

MICCAN STINKS.

An incredulous grin quirked the left side of Ieuan's mouth.  He shook his head, laughing.  Apparently the headmaster had student troubles.  Opportunity glimmered before him.  He watched a little longer, and then made his way through the clamoring throng.

#4

Taun no longer hid his small pouchy gills under a neckband.  There had been a time when he frequently lost patients to less talented, but more racially acceptable healers.  However, the little Nerien healer had benefited over the years from the patronage of the King of Rowanhart and the humans had warmed toward him.  The other seafolk, tritons and Neriens alike, still looked askance at Taun's interracial parentage, despite going to him for treatment.  He had gotten his brown skin, black hair and blunt face from his Kwaklahmyn sire; his small stature, green eyes and the gills in his neck from his Nerien mother. 

People greeted him as he passed, walking west along Dock Street toward Beach Road with his two satchels of medical tools and medicines hanging from his shoulders.  Each morning, Taun made his rounds, leaving his twin foster-sons with his mate, Skree.  On the days that Skree could not watch them, Taun would drop the boys off with Florry Bergstrom at the palace.

Taun and Skree kept the fact that the boys were the King's nephews a closely guarded secret.  However, in a place as filled with gossip as Rowan City, keeping such things under wraps often proved close to impossible.  The patient he was going to check on first was a very good example of the difficulty of maintaining secrets in Rowan City.

Everyone in town knew her story.  The gossips in the taverns spoke of little else.  She had opened her legs to Miccan, headmaster of the Azure Circle Mage School, because he said he loved her, and thereby brought dishonor upon her esteemed grandfather, the shaman Broken Branch, when she became pregnant and the mage refused to marry her.  All the mid-wives in Rowan City had pressed her with tansy to lose the child, but Bluewings had refused them all and kept her lover's baby.

He turned north on Beach Road and saw the palisade fence around the Kwaklahmyn trading settlement come into view.  Taun could see the upper part of the huge totem poles that stood before the houses.  He rounded the east side and came around to the front gate, passing the frames where the Kwaklahmyn dried their fishing nets.  The boats had already put out to secure the day's catch and the beach was empty.

Bells attached to the gate rang loudly as he lifted the catch and stepped into the yard of the settlement.  Children ran about playing and Taun smiled at them as he passed.  He loved children.  Their innocence and joy touched his heart.  Most adults seemed to have forgotten how to be that simple and happy.

All but one of the huge homes were traditional three-story Kwaklahmyn long houses, the carved wooden jaws of strange beasts jutting out above the doorframes.  The only Vorgeni style home belonged to the shaman Broken Branch who ruled the little settlement.  Yet even that had interesting Kwaklahmyn additions, such as the tremendous crow's beak jutting out above the door.

Branch sat upon a spruce round in front of his house, his pipe clenched in his teeth, a small knife in his hand as he whittled on a piece of cedar.  He wore soft, deerskin breeches, a loose-sleeved black shirt and soft boots.  His lower lip hung away from his teeth, weighted down by a heavy labret.  He had broad, high cheekbones, a strong cleft chin, full lips, and large, black, long-lashed eyes.  He wore his black hair in two braids.  His skin was a shade more brown and less bronze than the Sharani.

He nodded at Taun.  "She's inside."

Taun nodded thanks and went into the house.  "Bluewings?"

"I'm in the kitchen."

He detected an edge in her voice that suggested she had been crying again, and when he stepped into the kitchen, Bluewings' reddened eyes proved him right.

She sat at the table staring at the wall.  Her hugely swollen belly distorted her slender frame.  "I'll be fine, Taun.  You didn't need to check on me again."

Taun sighed and sat down beside her.  "Thinking about Miccan?"

"Arguing with Grandfather over Miccan again.  He's very angry about this."  She touched her belly with a trace of sadness.  "Miccan says the child isn't his.  That I'm a slut."

A fresh wave of weeping took Bluewings.

Taun patted her arm.  "I confirmed the genetics.  It's Miccan's child."

"I know.  I was a … a virgin when he … persuaded me into his bed.  He said he loved me."

"Miccan doesn't love anyone but Miccan.  He's got Birdie pregnant also.  There are six others that I’m certain of.  And that's not counting the ones I dispensed tansy to."

"I know.  He just always seemed so honorable."

"Well, he is in some ways.  Skree says Miccan thinks with his cock more often than not."

Bluewings dried her eyes.  "Skree's right."

"When it comes to the Azure Circle School and magecraft, Miccan is the soul of honor.  Women?  Well, that's another story, obviously.  Now, give me your wrist so I can Read you."

Bluewings extended her arm. 

Taun grasped her wrist and Read her.  A smile spread across his face.  "You're very healthy.  And the child … well, I believe you have another six weeks or so.  Have you thought of a name?"

Bluewings shook her head.  "We don't pick out names, Taun.  Once he's born, Grandfather will look into his soul and know his name."

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

A saturnine mon of average height and slender build rode down Sophren Bay Road, a basket-hilted broadsword at his hip.  His companion, a six three blond, had heavy-boned features and a square jaw; a cross-hilted longsword jutted above his shoulder.  They drew rein before a sprawling two-story house with dormer windows that nestled in a pine thicket.  Those who did not know where to look would never have seen it from the road.

Their approach must have been noticed, for a servant emerged from the small stable beside the house and took their reins as they dismounted.  Before they could even set foot upon the steps that led to the veranda, a mon in butler's livery opened the door.  He ran his eyes across the dark mon.  "Corradeo?"

"Yes."  Corradeo Vorsini's expression twisted into a sneer.

"And this is Eginhardt?"

Eginhardt Lutz's eyes narrowed and he demanded in a deep, guttural voice, "Who else would I be?"

"Of course."  Taken aback, the butler's voice lowered and he showed them inside.

Five myn occupied the chairs and sofas of the sitting room.  Four of them belonged to Corradeo.

Tuketu Demothi, whose name meant 'Bear who Talks while Walking', nodded but said nothing.  He wore a warrior's feathers woven into his kwaklahmyn braids, a beaded shirt, and a necklace of turquoise and bear claws.

Ieuan Cardew tilted his head with a skeptical eye and took the pipe from his mouth.  He ran his hand through his long chestnut hair and scratched at the back of his head.  The bastard son of a Gormondi noble, he spoke with polished tones and a soft inflection.  "Good that you're finally here, Corradeo.  I've been getting restless."

"I'm certain you have, my friend.  What have you been doing while you waited?  I'm sure you have not been idle."

"I've acquired us three cottages.  I assume we'll be working this job in the usual manner?"

"No reason to change what has always worked so well for us."

Ieuan's smirk thinned his lips to invisibility.  "As I expected."

Vakadis Tullin's perpetual sneer unlimbered long enough to give Corradeo a polite smile.  "So you finally made it.  We were beginning to wonder."

"We had a bit of trouble…"  Corradeo said.

"I hope you rited it."

"What else would we do?"  Eginhardt bristled.

Vakadis pointed at Eginhardt's coarse short hair.  "I'm surprised you can keep your neck warm long enough to do anything."

Corradeo caught Eginhardt's arm as the burly blond started toward Vakadis.  "Don't bait him, Vakadis."

Xanthus Makaon chuckled, pausing with a whetstone in one hand and a dagger in the other.  He slipped the dagger into his boot top and shoved the stone in his pocket.  "Those boys will not be an easy kill, Corradeo.  That big triton seamage is going to be tough to get past.  If we're going to get the boys, we'll have to put a blade into him first."

"I've planned for all contingencies."  Corradeo turned to the last mon in the room.  "I assume that you're Wesley Lockhart?"

"You assume right."  The ash blond vampire displayed his fangs, favoring Corradeo with a cheeky smile.

"I don't like vampires, but I don't mind their money.  I assume you also understand that?"

"I do.  Lord Hoon instructed me to give you everything you wish.  Carte blanche, as they say."

"Then you got me a triton?"

Lockhart gestured for them to follow.  He led them down a corridor to a door and opened it.  They descended to the basement with Corradeo directly behind Lockhart.

A triton lay bound to a table, spread-eagle as if for a sacrifice, but on his back, not on his belly as the rites of mortgiefan required.  The mon was huge, larger than Eginhardt, and taller by five inches.  Wesley brought a chair and placed it near the triton's head.

"Magnificent creature, don't you agree?"

Corradeo shot a questioning look at Wesley.  "Are they all this big?"

"Mostly."  Wesley shrugged.

"What do you mean by mostly?"

"Some of them are larger."

Corradeo's mind spun in circles at the thought of going up against creatures like that.  He returned his gaze to the triton.  The mon's eyes were glazed and distanced.  "You drugged him?"

"I had to.  He kept snapping the chains."

Vakadis lost his sneer with a low whistle.  "Xanthus is right.  This isn't going to be easy."

Eginhardt's teeth curled back from his lips in contempt, his fangs descending from their sheaths as his eyes turned their true color: amaranthine without irises, pupils, and whites.  "No trouble for me.  I'll snap their spines."

The other five myn dropped their illusions and stood revealed as sa'necari.  Those necromancers were the only serious rivals within the ranks of darkness that the vampires like Lord Hoon had.  They had stolen all of the powers and abilities of the undead that they could take or control, assuming them through their rites, mastering and perfecting them in addition to their native arcane talents.  This had been gained at a price, for they also had the needs and cravings of the undead, the unnatural appetites for blood.  After generations of sa'necari being created in the rites, their very genes had altered until more and more of their descendants began to be born sa'necari with those appetites and powers manifesting in puberty.  Their rites of blood, rape, and death had become merely the means for increasing their powers through the shattering of souls.

A few were still created through the rites and indoctrinated into their culture.  Eginhardt, Tuketu, and Ieuan had been made sa'necari.  The others had been born such.

Corradeo stripped his clothes off and settled into the chair with a shrug.  "So there's some extra challenge to it.  My plans are sound."

He bent forward and nuzzled the triton's neck, sensed the artery with his arcane gifts, and felt the mon flinch when his fangs broke the flesh.  Corradeo wrapped the triton in his power as he hauled the blood from the creature's veins.  The triton's memories flooded into him first.  Corradeo shuttled that to a pocket of his mind to be examined at his leisure.  As he continued to suck, a change came over him.  His skin altered from copper to brown with a greenish tinge.  He grew larger and larger.  Scales erupted over him.  It had been decades since Corradeo had taken a creature so utterly alien to himself and so powerful.

"Shape-thief," Wesley murmured in awe.  "I've heard of your kind, but never met one before."

The triton stilled in death; his body a withered husk.  Corradeo lifted his head, exulting in the power of the body he had acquired.  He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from around his lips.  "Piquant.  I could get used to the taste of them."

Chapter Two

Temples to the Nine Elder Gods, as well as to many of the minor deities, had sprung up all over Rowanhart in the five years since its founding. A few of them were regarded with suspicion by the majority of the citizens of Rowan City. Some were spoken of as vague rumors, their existence questioned. Among those was the rumor that a shrine to the nethergod Hadjys the Dark Judge existed, hidden deep within the bowels of the city. His paladins comprised what the common folk called the Assassins' Guild and the believers referred to as the Hadjysheens.

Although feared by all, there was a little unprepossessing temple in the southeastern corner of the city that was feared far more than the Guild: the temple to Dynanna, God of Cussedness and Perversity. The trouble that minor godling could get people into and out of was both legion and legend. Her high priest was a scamp known as Birdie.

Skree

Those of you who have read the Journey of the Sacred King books will remember Skree, Wolf, and Dynarien as well as Aejys, and most of the other characters in this novel.

Dynarien also appeared in the pages of the Dark Brothers of the Light series.

Both series will be returning to publication over the course of this year.

Chapter One

Rosa 26, 1077

Skree Atronji stood upon the South Talon Cliffs, looking down into the windward side of Sophren Bay, watching the waves break against the stalwart stone. Every instinct in the big triton seamage screamed for him to jump into the sea, to find the safety of his kind. Such a jump – two hundred feet – would have killed a human, but it would have been nothing for Skree to achieve. What held him back was the child on his hip.

The four-year-old child had light copper skin, black-hair and green, slitted catkin eyes that danced with intelligence far beyond his years.

Leathery, sea-green scales covered the seamage, except for the palms of his hands, the bottoms of his feet, and his lips – reminiscent of a reptile, which he was not; his long hair, green to the edge of black, hung loose about his shoulders, draping the delicate lace-work of gills that ran from the back of his jaw down his long neck.

Skree gave a long, booming shout at the sea in a vibrant, basso baritone, which echoed from the cliffs. "The child is mine. The child is good. I will defy the gods themselves to protect him. The child is mine."

"Skree?" A gentle tenor turned Skree to face the mon who had joined him on the cliffs.

The newcomer wore golden armor, chain mail and breastplate, carried a shield on his arm and a longsword at his shoulder. His device on the breastplate and shield confirmed the triton's long held suspicions concerning the mon and the muscles crawled beneath his scales: a mighty eagle clutched a blue rose in each of its claws. A god had heard him crying his defiance and the Rose Warrior had come.

"Friend or foe, Dynarien?" Skree demanded.

"Friend. Always." Dynarien flicked back a strand of his red gold hair that hung to his narrow hips.

"You know what Wolff is?"

"More than you do."

"He's sa'necari born. He's a prodigy. He has had his fangs and an appetite for living blood for two years now."

The roar of the sea and sharp scent of brine filled Skree's nostrils as he waited for Dynarien's reaction.

Dynarien was yuwenghau, a demi-god and divine knight-errant. He reached out to touch Wolff and Skree stepped back from him.

A slow smile spread across Dynarien's almost feminine features. "He's far more than that. The child has both sides of the gift."

"I know that. He healed my mate."

"Protecting him will not be easy, Skree. Have you ever asked yourself why so many assassins have tried to kill him? Why he's been hunted since the day of his birth?"

"He's Prince Mephistis de Waejonan's son. The rightful King of Waejontor."

"Well, at least you figured that much out." Dynarien chuckled.

For the past four years, Skree had believed Dynarien to be a battlemage, married to a pair of taverners. Realizing that the gods had been watching him all that time made the triton uneasy, and that pricked his pride. "What more is there to know?"

"You hold in your arms the Sacred Child, who will restore the shattered souls and give peace to the dead. If he survives long enough, of course. But that's up to you."

Skree turned his face to the heavens, struggling to breathe as the fullness of the burden he had accepted four years ago came crashing down upon him like an avalanche. "Will you help me protect him?"

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"The Sacred King of Rowanhart is taking her army to Merkreth's Crossing tomorrow at dawn and I am pledged to go with her."

"Then what becomes of Wolff and his brother Fauxx without a divine guardian?"

"That's up to you. However, I'll make a suggestion. In fact, I'll make two. First talk to Amberlyn Willidar at the Manticore Bones. Second, if you're forced to flee this place, go in search of Isranon Dawnreturning."

"I will do that."

"And another thing. Don't stand on cliffs shouting. Next time the wrong god might hear you. The king is due to pass here in a few minutes. She's on her way to the temple to pray at her husband's sepulcher. I would keep Wolff well away from her, if I were you."

Golden light enveloped the godling and he vanished, leaving behind a circle of blue roses.

Skree shifted Wolff around, pressing the boy tight to his chest. His lips drew back from his shark-like teeth. "Though gods and myn desert us, my son, we will manage."

The jingling of spurs and armor announced that the king's company neared the crest long before Skree could see them. Sound carried far on the South Talon Cliffs. He walked to the ledge overlooking the wind-swept path that wound its way around and along the cliffs, and gazed down.

To his left, Skree could see the spires of the Azure Circle Mage School sitting on the summit of a low rise at the edge of Rowan City. Wolff gave his foster father a questioning look. The child tugged Skree's hand lose from his back, stuck the triton's finger in his mouth and bit it. Skree barely noticed the sting, having become accustomed to it, and ignored Wolff's sucking as the boy consumed the blood that kept him healthy. Wolff could not live on blood alone. It was not a conventional food source for him, and Skree had not yet been able to identify what component of living blood Wolff needed.

Thrusting spiny fingers into the light, patches of scrub oak and twisted pines lined the road. It had become well-trodden, as more and more pilgrims made the journey to the new temple atop the South Talons highest summit. Skree made out the forms of the king and her company riding.

He did not need to be close enough to see her gray eyes to know the light they held. Every few weeks, the haunted look would grow like a weed until it dominated them. Since the death of her husband, Josiah Abelard, there was very little left of the mon he had first met five years ago. The fairness and compassion had gone out of her, leaving only bitterness, anger, and – although he disliked calling it that – an unremitting hatred.

Once she had been human. Then she had drawn one of the nine sacred swords from an altar and it had transformed her. She had grown azure wings with scarlet tips, and her copper skin had turned sapphire blue. Skree wondered if the transformation had been more than physical.

He had known that she was going to the temple that day, since it would be the last time for many months before Aejystrys could pray beside her husband's sepulcher. Tomorrow she and her army were leaving for Gormondi to rendezvous with King William Gryphonheart. Until six months ago, Gormondi had been known as Gormond's Reach. King William had annexed neighboring Darr, and renamed his kingdom as sign of the changes.

Aejystrys had vowed to show no mercy to sa'necari, whether children or adults. Skree's people were much the same. The destruction of the sa'necari was a central theme of the triton religion, which centered upon Nerindalori of the Waves as their liege-god.

The seamage watched the king's company pass beneath a natural arch of wind-eroded stone and emerge onto the cliffs. Skree's moment of decision had arrived. He could either retreat into the rocky outcroppings until they passed, or go forth to greet his king.

Uncertainty gripped him. He faded back behind a rocky outcropping, and then slipped into a grove of bristlecone pines that dotted the bluffs in small clusters. Skree waited for the company to pass, and followed them. An hour's walk brought the triton and his son within sight of the king's destination: the Temple to Kalirion Sun-Lord. It rose in glowing splendor atop the highest point on the cliffs overlooking the southwest side of the city. The ivory columns of fluted marble supported an open gallery that wrapped the sides.

The Ha'taren Guard stood before the temple, holding the reins of their wynderjyns – unicorn-horse hybrids – which only the paladins of Aroana, Lady of the Walled Cities, could ride. They gave Skree polite nods as he climbed the temple steps, deferring to his rank. Skree was Admiral of the Rowanhart fleet, which mostly made him their head negotiator with the various triton kingdoms of the nearby islands. The king depended upon him to cross the cultural and linguistic gaps between their two species, and he did it well. The Rowanhart fleet had only ten warships. The various triton princes protected the trade routes from the pirates of Brundstrat and harried them along the coast line, since the opening of trade between their realms and the humans of Rowanhart benefited their peoples; so there was no need to build more warships. The end result was that Skree spent more time mediating disputes over fishing rights than on the decks of the clumsy human vessels. The humans had sails, but were still clinging to their oars.

Skree wondered, as he entered the temple, how many suspected the relationship between his twin sons and the king. From the brief flashes of odd looks, he felt certain that some knew. Two long rows of pews filled the center of the temple with open wings and alcoves to either side of it. Conchoidal arches filled it like a marble forest. To his left, close to the front, stood the sepulcher. The priests of Kalirion had interred the remains of Josiah Abelard Stormbird, last descendent of his legendary namesake's male lineage, within the temple itself as an honor to his courage and devotion.

The triton's throat tightened for an instant. Josiah had been his god-son, and as much as he had been able at the time, Skree had loved him. He felt partly responsible for Josiah's death. Skree had become disappointed in Josiah, and turned his back upon him in the moment of his god-son's greatest need. He would not repeat that deed with Wolff.

The king knelt beside the sepulcher, her head bowed in prayer. Skree could see the tears running down her cheeks. They both had their griefs and guilts over Josiah. Aejystrys had, for a time, been as harsh and unforgiving toward Josiah as Skree had been. However, she had forgiven Josiah while he still lived.

He waited out her prayers before approaching her.

King Aejystrys ran her hands over the marble likeness of her slain mate atop the sepulcher. "Josiah." Her tears worsened.

Skree kept an impassive face throughout it. He had not yet seen the prayers fail to comfort her.

Aejystrys mastered herself with obvious effort and rose to her feet. She turned, noticing him for the first time. "Skree?"

Her hand went out to ruffle Wolff's hair, her eyes fond. Yet Skree had to steel himself not to draw back and take the child beyond her reach.

That Wolff was lifemage born gave Aejystrys great pleasure and a sense of irony, considering that her sister and the child's sire had been both sa'necari. Aejystrys could only guess that the life magic must have come from the boy's womb-mother Dree. The Sharani were triadic requiring three parents to produce viable offspring: sire, bloodmother and wombmother.

Aejystrys' hand drew back as she stiffened and turned to face someone approaching from behind Skree. The triton glanced over his shoulder.

Dynarien had returned. The signs of his divinity had been set aside, and the yuwenghau seemed no more than a simple warrior mage in his chain mail, tunic and surcoat. He gestured for Aejystrys to come with him deeper into the alcove.

She followed him like a dog, stiff legged with anger. "If you have come to talk to me again about the Dark Brother, Dynarien, I don't want to hear it. He's sa'necari. Both sides of the gift or not, he's still sa'necari."

Skree tensed, his grip tightening again upon Wolff.

"Aejys, Talons is alive because of him." Dynarien flicked back a strand of red-gold hair.

"I don't want to hear it. Sooner or later, sa'necari will turn."

"Aejys…."

"I would kill my own blood if they were sa'necari. I have killed my own blood. So I will certainly kill this mon, this Dark Brother as you call him. Both sides of the gift or not. Now, Skree is there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

"It wasn't important, Aejys." Skree walked away, clutching the little boy tightly to his chest to conceal the fact that Wolff had again bitten the triton's finger and was sucking the blood.

"Skree…" Dynarien joined him, walking beside him, adding his body to Skree's to better hide the child's actions. "I told you to keep Wolff away from her."

"I had to ask her a question."

"What?"

"She answered it without my asking." The need for blood had begun when an assault by assassins left Aejystrys' na'halef, Tamlestari, wounded. Wolff healed her – using blood from Skree's hand to strengthen his powers. It shocked Skree speechless; fortunately, the only ones present had been himself and his mate, Taun, besides Tamlestari who had been unconscious. Skree swore Taun to secrecy and then struggled with his conscience. The child was both damned and sacrosanct and in the end his fierce love for the boy won.

Dynarien followed him to the far edges of the courtyard in silence.

Skree halted. "I fear for him, Dynarien. He has not harmed anyone. It is not anyone's fault, but I never dreamed it could manifest when I adopted him."

"From what Isranon told me, it is a matter of rearing. Just raise him right, Skree."

"I will, my friend. I will. First I must keep him alive long enough to grow up."

The child healed the bitten finger, raising his eyes to Skree's face worriedly. Wolff bad? The boy signed.

"See?" Skree frowned at Dynarien. "He understands everything. I can hardly speak in front of him. No, my son, you are very, very good." Skree hugged him fiercely, walking faster, soon he was almost running. Dynarien had to trot to keep up.

"I could Jump us."

"No. If you do that, then he will know how to do it. That's how he learns. The moment he sees a spell done, he knows how to do it."

"All-talents?"

"I suspect so. Tremendously precocious. You have given me hope. I don't want to lose him. Dear Gods, I – I could not bear to lose him. If Aejystrys found out what he was … or my own people…. They would kill him." Skree had covered the boy's ears tightly as he said this, extending his powers to shield his words from the child's hearing. He did not know how much longer he would be able to accomplish this, for Wolff's powers grew swiftly.

Today I am starting a new project.

I have not used this blog in two years.

But over the past few days I have been trying to decide which of my blogs had the most potential and the most versatility to start running a full novel for free.

The most important consideration has been gadgets and widgets that would easily support a click through table of contents. Since my chapters tend to be long, I will need to break them up into smaller chunks.

Also, my writing is not safe for work. I do have sex scenes and graphic violence. This may unsettle a few people.

The novel I am posting is the first book in the key series, Child Profane and Sacrosanct, that links together all of my previously published series and brings to a conclusion all the dangling threads left hanging in the others.

Here's spit in your eye

THE PRICE OF VENGEANCE

The pre-dawn mist off the bay still clung to the lanes and streets of Vorgensburg as Aejys walked to the dueling grounds at dawn. She had put aside her expensive new clothing, retreating into the comfortable old green pants, brown tunic and an old Kwaklahmyn fringed suede jacket which she had worn so often during her first months in Vorgensburg. She wore a different sword than usual; one she had carried during the war. The Aroanan rune graced the hilt and the blade bore the motto "For My God," on one side and "For Justice" on the other. It was Aroanan steel: one of the finest blades on the continent, ritually forged in the temple smithies. Her boot heels clicked on the cobblestones, seeming loud in the silence. The store windows were still dark, the doors not yet unlocked for morning commerce. She passed very few people.

Tagalong, Josh, Tamlestari, and Cassana followed at a respectful distance. Aejys wanted the silence and solitude. Grief gnawed at her as nothing had since Bucharsa. She blamed herself for Brendorn's death. She felt as if she could or should somehow reach back in time and change her decision, bring all her small family forward as if they had never been separated, though she knew such a thing was impossible. Aejys knew to think these thoughts, to feel them so intensely, was to court madness, but she could not stop them. She had watched such feelings destroy Tomyris Danae de Dovane – the Lionhawk – the great Sharani general whom she had followed into battle during the Great War.

Aejys shook herself loose from that. "Damn you, Brendorn! Why couldn't you have waited?" Even as she said it she knew the answer. "Because you loved me." When I left I betrayed you. Abandoned you. You would have come had I asked. All of you. Aejys drew a deep breath, mastering herself.

As she neared the dueling grounds, her palms began to itch, she could already feel the sword in her hand, her heart raced as anticipation sent that first eager rush of adrenaline through her veins. Her whole being seemed to throb as it had when she couched her lance and set heels to her mount during the war.

Farendarc lounged under a tree. He wore a long sleeved tunic and shirt to cover the bandaged cut in his shield arm. Aejys and Farendarc carried sword and dagger, nothing more. He stepped out to face Aejys directly. "You die first. Then the drunk."

Behind Farendarc and on either side of them people gathered under the trees. Becca and the servants had spread word of the duel. The more witnesses present, the less the likelihood of treachery. Becca had suggested it herself.
Aejys shucked out of the coat, dropping it on the ground. Becca stepped in, picked it up and moved away, handing the jacket to another servant. Aejys and Farendarc drew blades and circled. The crowd gradually moved closer to see better.
Becca's hand slipped into her pockets. She fingered her river stones, fidgeted with her sling and waited. The tavern master hoped that Farendarc would give her a reason to use them.

Aejys was a soldier, not a duelist, and overmatched from the start by Farendarc. It showed in the first meeting of their blades. His was a rare talent, an uncanny gift of eye and hand and body that surpassed and exceeded all but a handful of heroes Aejys had encountered in the entire course of her life. So far as she knew he was the only one of that degree of talent still living. Had his spirit matched his physical gifts he could have been a warrior saint; instead he was an oath breaker, a murderous blackguard as evil as any that climbed out of Bellocar's hells. Farendarc struck with great speed, his sword darted and thrust. She gave ground before him, barely turning his blade from her. Then with a sudden swift twist Farendarc's blade slid past her defenses and opened her shield arm from shoulder to elbow. The black armband fell away with Aejys' blood on it. Farendarc pressed in, slashing her side, then striking high. The point caught her in the upper part of the left breast, an inch below the juncture of chest and shoulder. He jerked it free.

Aejys' eyes widened at the shock of impact. She staggered two steps, reeling like a drunk. The color drained from her face. Her knees gave. She collapsed on her face, struggling to push herself up. Her strength failed. With each breath fire seared through her chest. She lay with her arms crossed beneath her. She could see the blades of grass as if they were a forest rising around her eyes; feel the chill moisture of the morning dew. Through the grass she could see the hilt of her sword glittering in the sunlight. She managed to roll up a bit, freeing her good arm, reaching for the blade. She was a soldier; she had been in many battles; been cut before; she was not going to let it stop her now.

Josh started forward. Tagalong stopped him. "Don't interfere. Ya promised. Besides, he won't outlive her by much. That's my promise. I'm gonna kill that asshole."

He made a small anguished noise and fled, unable to watch Aejys die. That name was in his head again: Abelard. This time he would not go back to the barn. He did not want to be where anyone could find him.

Farendarc sheathed his sword, drawing his dagger. He approached Aejys to make sure of his kill. He tangled his fingers in her hair, yanking her up. He put the blade to her throat.

"No!" gasped Tamlestari. At the flexing of her arm, a slender dagger slipped from an arm sheath into her hand.

Cassana caught her arm as she shifted her grip from hilt to blade. "You can't take him out, child! You'll get just one try."

"I can mark him," Tamlestari growled.

"And die."

An angry protest erupted from the crowd. A small shower of rocks from several directions pelted Farendarc. He released Aejys, straightening to find the throwers.
Aejys slumped at the waist, her good hand pushing up against the ground. Near her sword, obscured by the grass lay two smooth flat round-edged stones, red with blue and green veins. Becca's river stones.

"Back off, butcher! She's down, duel's over!" Becca barked. The leather sling whirled three times, then released the stone. It smacked Farendarc's cheek, drawing blood.

"First blood and no more!" shouted someone in the crowd.

Farendarc's expression turned savage. In the past two days he had been marked, cut and bloodied more than all past times combined. Being male of Sharani blood, a rare thing for that race, he had claimed his privileges and sat out the war. He had never been in a real battle. Now some members of Aejys Rowan's household had declared war on him. He gave a snarling shout "You're dead, bitch! You're dead!"

"Doubt it!" Becca spit, backing up as she slipped another stone into her sling. "You'll have to reach me, goat-jacker."

Her stone smacked Farendarc in the chest, staggering him.

Zacham reached into his pockets, brought out more stones, and pelted the duelist. Several ragged street children, friends of his, began to add their stones, chanting, "First blood, no more!"

Farendarc ignored the boy and the rest of his stone throwing friends, intent on Becca.

The certainty that Farendarc would kill Becca, and probably the others as well as Josh sent a dizzy rush of concern through Aejys. The soldier did what she should have done in the beginning. She quit fighting the pain and weakness, accepted it, focused herself away from it, and reached through it. Aejys' fingers curled around the hilt of her sword.

"One thing at a time," Farendarc said, reaching for Aejys again.

Snarling, Aejys rose to her knees, shoving her sword into his stomach before he even realized she had picked it up. Farendarc clutched himself, his fingers digging into his flesh around the blade. His eyes bulged in disbelief and he fell, his weight dragging the sword hilt from Aejys' hand. The children rushed in and began kicking the dying duelist.

Aejys swayed, trying for a moment to gain mastery of her body, then crumpled. She rolled onto her good side, curling into a tight ball of pain; each breath a searing agony. Tagalong's broad strong hands raised her, settling Aejys' head and shoulders on her lap. The stout dwarf stroked her hair, muttering worriedly, "Don't go following Brendorn. He'll still be waiting fer ya five score years from now. Ya hear me. Don't go, Aejys."

"Try not to," Aejys rasped. "Hurts to ... to breathe."

Cassana and Tamlestari knelt beside Aejys, checking her wounds. The arm and side bled heavily. Tamlestari opened Aejys' shirt. Pink-flecked white foam formed around the chest wound, increasing with each struggling breath. Tamlestari gave Cassana a worried glance. Then the youth's fingers stroked the bare flesh around the wound, her eyes going distant.

Tagalong's head came up and she looked sharply at Cassana, "Stone Father! She's a Reader!"

Cassana nodded and motioned for Tagalong to be silent. "And a damned good chirurgeon."

"Sucking chest wound. Internal bleeding," Tamlestari muttered. It did not include a punctured lung, although the pressure of accumulating blood could easily collapse the lungs. She pulled gauze and a jar of salve from her bag. She put a large quantity of the salve on the gauze, then pressed it down hard on the chest wound, sealing it. Aejys' breathing eased. Tamlestari brought Tagalong's hand over to hold the compress in place.

Tamlestari opened Aejys' shirt and bound her side up. Then she bandaged her arm and strapped it down.

"Take a little of this," Cassana said, raising a small flask of holadil to Aejys' lips.

Aejys swallowed the thick syrupy liquid. Warmth flooded her and the pain retreated. Her body relaxed and uncurled. Only the gnawing weakness of blood loss and shock remained. She closed her eyes and slid into sleep.

"How bad?" Tagalong asked Tamlestari.

"Bad enough. We must get her home quickly where I can repair that chest wound."
* * * *
A tiny matchstick of a mon in a black, knee-length sleeveless coat pulled at Thomas Cedarbird, hurrying him toward the dueling grounds. "Please, sir, you must come quickly." Darlbret continued to urge Thomas forward, shoving through the throng at the dueling grounds. People glared at them, then recognized the syndic, and opened a path.

Thomas Cedarbird's left braid hung half-finished and his hair on the right was still loose. "I don't know why you insisted on dragging me down here. You know I don't like watching duels ... oh ... dear gods, Aejys." Thomas rounded on Darlbret. "Why didn't you tell me it was Aejys?"

"I – I wasn't sure..." Darlbret stammered. "It might have been just a rumor... I just heard about it minutes ago..."

Thomas knelt beside Tag, his hand reaching almost of its own volition to touch Aejys' cheek: that was something he would never have done were she conscious. "Is she...?"
"Alive?" Tag said, "Somewhat."

"Why didn't you tell me about this ... I might could have done something..."

"Aejys pays her own debts, merchant," Tag said caustically. "And I pay the ones she can't. Now back off, we've heard enough from ya ta last ten lifetimes. Uh huh! Period. End of Story!"

Thomas winced and sat back on his heels, saying nothing more. He doubted he would ever know or understand why Tagalong Smith disliked him so much. And even if he did, he wasn't sure he could change it. But maybe Darlbret could either discover it or explain it.

Becca formed the servants into a protective circle just as the city guard arrived and took positions around Aejys. Then the tavern master, after spitting in Farendarc's face and scattering the children, methodically searched the slowly dying assassin, even pulling his boots off. Her hands, though roughed by years of work in the kitchens, were still surprisingly nimble. She found a small fold and ran her finger along it to reveal a pocket. Where most would not have found it, just right to have concealed some orders or a contract. In the concealed pocket in the left boot Becca found several papers. She shoved them into her pockets to share later. She placed her foot firmly on Farendarc's chest and yanked Aejys' sword free, wiping it clean on his pants leg.

"Becca, quick! We need a litter," Tamlestari told her.

"I will carry her," said a rough voice as a huge form rose from the deep shadows of a nearby oak cluster. Clemmerick lifted Aejys as tenderly and easily as a mother lifting an infant.

Becca gathered up Farendarc's belongings, handing them to Raim and Omer to carry. Tagalong had to trot to keep up with the ogre. Cassana and Tamlestari strode quickly along beside Clemmerick while the rest followed closely.

Spectators drifting past Farendarc paused to spit on his body, then trailed after Aejys' entourage to see if they could learn anything. Thomas Cedarbird did not want to draw Tagalong's ire, so he did not try to insinuate himself into the main group. But he followed and the crowd formed behind him of the curious and the concerned.
* * * *

American Society of Journalists and Authors on the amazon / booksurge situation

Dear fellow members --

In the last few days, Amazon has confirmed that as of April 1, it is requiring on-demand
authors and independent on-demand publishing houses to have their titles printed through
Amazon's own on-demand facilities, Booksurge -- or they won't be sold on Amazon. The big
red buy-it button will go away.

ASJA is investigating the situation and the possibility of joining any protest actions within
the industry. We will keep you informed. In the meantime, we suggest you read the material
on the links below and consider signing the two petitions, one of which asks the Washington
State Attorney General's office to investigate this action in light of restraint-of-trade
laws. (If you live in Washington state, please take particular note of this.) The other
petition basically tells Amazon "We noticed. We don't like it."

You may circulate this e-mail to non-member friends; in fact, the ASJA Board urges you to do
so.

Sincerely,
Salley Shannon, ASJA vice president and Advocacy Committee chairman

[Note: if you are interested in joining an ad-hoc committee on this situation, please write
me at VP@asja.org]

Wall Street Journal story: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB120667525724970997.html

Writer's Weekly page -- information clearinghouse:
http://www.writersweekly.com/the_latest_from_angelahoycom/004597_03272008.html

Petition to stop Booksurge requirement: http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/protectPOD/?e

Petition to the Washington State Attorney General:
http://www.amazontroopsurge.com/2008/04/write-government-about-amazons-illegal.html

________________________________________________________
PS from the Cuss: Please repost this statement and spread it around

Amazon / Booksurge controversy

authorsguild.org said...

Last week Amazon announced that it would be requiring that all books that it sells that are produced through on-demand means be printed by BookSurge, their in-house on-demand printer/publisher. Amazon pitched this as a customer service matter, a means for more speedily delivering print-on-demand books and allowing for the bundling of shipments with other items purchased at the same time from Amazon. It also put a bit of an environmental spin on the move -- claiming less transportation fuel is used (this is unlikely, but that's another story) when all items are shipped directly from Amazon.

We, and many others, think something else is afoot. Ingram Industries' Lightning Source is currently the dominant printer for on-demand titles, and they appear to be quite efficient at their task. They ship on-demand titles shortly after they are ordered through Amazon directly to the customer. It's a nice business for Ingram, since they get a percentage of the sales and a printing fee for every on-demand book they ship. Amazon would be foolish not to covet that business.

What's the rub? Once Amazon owns the supply chain, it has effective control of much of the "long tail" of publishing -- the enormous number of titles that sell in low volumes but which, in aggregate, make a lot of money for the aggregator. Since Amazon has a firm grip on the retailing of these books (it's uneconomic for physical book stores to stock many of these titles), owning the supply chain would allow it to easily increase its profit margins on these books: it need only insist on buying at a deeper discount -- or it can choose to charge more for its printing of the books -- to increase its profits. Most publishers could do little but grumble and comply.

We suspect this maneuver by Amazon is far more about profit margin than it is about customer service or fossil fuels. The potential big losers (other than Ingram) if Amazon does impose greater discounts on the industry, are authors -- since many are paid for on-demand sales based on the publisher's gross revenues -- and publishers.

We're reviewing the antitrust and other legal implications of Amazon's bold move. If you have any information on this matter that you think could be helpful to us, please call us at (212) 563-5904 and ask for the legal services department, or send an e-mail to staff@authorsguild.org.

Feel free to post or forward this message in its entirety.

Imposter accounts

Impersonator accounts
I am writing this post to bring to light a bad situation and warn people about it.

Any and all email accounts that contain the word “daveranaenterprises” are not mine. Yes, they are the name of my company. Ironically, they were originally set up for me at my request by someone I trusted.

On February 28th of this year, I decided to start my own company Daverana Enterprises. Even though I informed Joel Wideman at the time that I had only started working to get the company going three days before we spoke, he asked if he could make a “small” announcement at DAZ | Studio forums about how we would eventually be looking for cover art. He told me that if i would give him the title of Art Director so that he would have the cred, then he would slush art for me.

What he did was to make a splashy bragging post asking for not just art, but fiction. I didn’t even have guidelines up and I had not finished getting my site hosted. I had no email accounts set up to specifically deal with subs from people. i had only my personal gmail account set up.

I quickly became very worn out. Joel was frantically IM’ing me to answer all the questions that were being posted at DAZ and this consumed most of my time for several days that I should have been doing other things. So one night while I was very tired, i asked him to do me a favor and set up two gmail accounts artdirector.daveranaenterprises@gmail.com

and editor.daveranaenterprises@gmail.com.

I asked him to set them up FOR me. I told him to use the company name. He did so.

When we had our final falling out, Joel went and changed the passwords and security questions before I could. Then he passed them onto a third party. the accounts are still live.

Had he closed them down, I would have had no problems with that. Instead they are still live and claiming victims.

Janrae Frank wrote:

You changed the passwords and security questions for the accounts. I want those accounts back.

What do you mean “back”? I expended the effort to obtain them. That, and the emails sent to them, was my contribution. A contribution you made clear was unappreciated and unwanted.
Regardless, I no longer have the passwords. But if you really want them, ask Tommy Tutone.
Janrae Frank wrote:
I have reported them to google as stolen and if they are not returned to me within ten days, I will speak to an attorney.

Joel Wideman wrote:

Stolen? How do you figure? They were never yours to begin with. As you’ll recall, _I_ created the accounts. According to Google, that makes them _mine_. You have no legal standing here. Even so, I don’t have the passwords. I’ve already told you so. Threatening me is just a way to attack me. I haven’t attacked you, I’ve merely distanced myself from a former friend.
You told me that when things get rough, Jean gets to thinking she’s being attacked, and lashes out at people close to her. PROJECT MUCH?!?
–
Joel Wideman joel@joel-wideman.com http://joel-wideman.com/
http://www.daz3d.com/i.x/0/0/-/?refid=572895720

see you’re getting a little rattled, so I’ll combine your recent emails and address them together.

1) I’ve removed the images featuring your characters from the sites which I control. Likewise, I expect you to remove my artwork from the sites which you control. I’ll forget about the money you owe me for the one image. For any others, I do not offer refunds on commissions.
2) Google told you that, did they? Funny, they typically are slow to respond to such reports and when they do respond, it is with references to help files. What they actually say in their TOS however, is that one cannot transfer licenses without their written permission. That is to say, Google is as likely to remove the accounts as they are to give you the usual runaround.
Furthermore, I am not in possession of your property, however dubious that ownership may be. I do not use the accounts. I do not have any of my addresses listed as the secondary email. I do not have the passwords themselves.
3) You accuse me of treachery. The truth is, I’m not the one guilty of betrayal. That is what you did to Jean. Again, this is projection. All I’ve done is taken my ball and gone home. You know why? Because you tried to shit in my face and call it ice cream!
4) You speak of war, as if I have attacked you. I do not want war, Janrae. I wish to remember you as a friend who had a falling out with me, not as a bitter enemy.
I’m not going to engage in your type of war, either. I’m not going to make absurd threats of illegal acts. I’m not going to launch an unsophisticated smear campaign via a two-bit internet community. I’m not going to look for you posting about me under every rock on the internet then make some stupid whingy post about how you’re picking on me and it’s oh so unfair. That’s not a war. That’s an internet slap fight.
5) I know you want to hurt me. I don’t really know why, but I know that you do. But you know who else you’re hurting? Lilac. She’s trying to stay out of it, but the more you attack me, the more you’ll be attacking her. And she never hurt anyone.
Who else are you going to turn on? Who else are you going to hurt? Natalie? Stephen? I don’t think you and me can be salvaged. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, there is no you and me. But do consider that you will not do well all alone.
Tags: imposter accounts, joel wideman

Warriors for Innocence

Possibly my last rant.

Hypocrites for indency

There exists a vigilante group that is called Warriors for Innocence. Today they claimed responsibility for the deletion of 500 journals and communities at LJ.

The fact that most of these deleted journals were fandom sites, incest survivor sites, journals dedicated to literary discussion of the work of nabakov, and in a few cases fashion sites is unimportant to them. What mattered to them was that somewhere out there there might have lurked a pedophile.

At a time in this country when we are busily decrying civilian casualties in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, we have an example of people who have no care for the emotional and literary civilian casualties of an action that carried with it symbolic overtones of the callousness toward the innocent perpetrated in the name of the innocent that we are seeing elsewhere in the world.

What happened is simple.

Two months ago, WFI singled out LJ for action and posted about it on their site. I am certain that the real pedophiles immediately either cleaned up their act or vanished into the shadows. After all WFI had fired a warning shot that gave them plenty of time to get out of Dodge.

As far as I can discern, Six Apart/Livejournal was simply provided with a list of trigger words and then turned loose to do a random search and deletion of all journals and communities that had those words listed either on their posts or their profiles.

And, frankly, that was the only way it might have been achieved, considering how large LJ is.

It was like using a twelve gauge shotgun as a fly swatter.

There are two kinds of people. Those who believe that the end justifies the means. And those who believe that the means must be honorable, otherwise the cost of achieving the end is too great a price to pay.

One of Neitzche's most famous quotations is "Those who hunt monsters, must take care not to become monsters themselves."

By that definition, Warriors for Innocence have joined the ranks of the monsters.

It is not their goal that offends me. It is their way of achieving that goal.

Their gross insensitivity to the rights, needs, and freedoms of so many innocents is a terrible thing.

Blackstone's formulation is at the root of our own democracy and due process of law. It states "better that ten guilty persons escape than that one innocent suffer."

And yet, here we have an organization (I suspect it is actually a very small group of individuals) who would rephrase that wise and merciful dictum and say instead "better that ten innocent people suffer, than one guilty person go free."

When justice becomes unjust, by what right can anyone ever again call it justice?

More Naughty Peaches

Eventually I will move on to other subjects, but I have not yet said everything on this subject that I feel needs to be said.

I closed down my xanga blog a few hours ago. Peaches had left 60 footprints on my xanga in three hours. He just kept digging and digging and digging, looking for enough dirt to get it shut down.

I decided to curtail his activities by shutting it down myself.

I had been thinking about it for several weeks. It seemed the right thing to do.

When I created the ReynanSharani blog at xanga, I wanted it to be another fun spot much like LJ is. Yes, I have dozens of blogs. Well, maybe not dozens, but a lot of them. In fact I don't even remember all the places I have opened blogs.

The very first person to post a comment on that blog was Peaches and it was a threat.

He said that he intended to ruin my sales.

I archived that blog before I shut it down. It was a paid acct so that was no problem. I reactivated my Insane Journal tonight. I'll be posting there as well as all the other places. As always, I'm cussedness there.

Why so many blogs?

Well, that's what Naughty Peaches does. He gets blogs by the dozens. Most of them are dead now and haven't been posted to for years. And some have been taken down for TOS violations.

I got all of these blogs because I felt the need to have somewhere to flee to when he was bothering me too much at one of them. It gave me breathing room.

I use up a lot of emotional and mental energy working on my novels and short stories.

I can only handle Peaches in small doses. When I get too caught up in fighting with him, I become exhausted quickly. Then my writing suffers. So I needed these retreats to recharge my batteries.

Naughty Peaches

Today, Naughty Peaches demonstrated that he did not know what the word "plagiarism" means.

A critic reviewed his only not-self-published book, House of Spiders 3. In the review she parodied two of his characters from the novella having a conversation. He immediately accused her of ... you guessed it ... plagiarism.

That seems to be the flavor of the month with him. He picks up words and uses them without understanding what they mean.

During a particularly ugly period, I received phone calls from his mother, his grandmother, and his cousin, as well as numerous IM contacts and emails and comments posted to my other blogs. I later changed my phone number to put a stop to it again.

Naughty Peaches is 30 years old, and yet his family feels they must protect him from the hordes of people that he hurts and offends with his abusive behavior.

To be honest, Peaches is a somewhat pathetic figure. At times I pity him.

That does not mean that I'm willing to put up with his abuse, however.

Peaches was a special education child. He graduated from High School taking special ed classes and he has admitted that he has a learning disability, although he has never said what it is.

I can understand the angst and anger of the disabled because I had polio at age eight. At this point in my life I have no memory of ever having been "normal."

His cousin told me that most of the family is "slow."

What prevents Peaches from being pitied and ignored is his abusiveness and his relentless pursuit of anyone he thinks has wronged him.

I no longer loom as large on his hit parade as I once did, but he still comes after me.

Now, before you ask whether he has asperger's syndrome or some related condition, I can assure you that he doesn't. All the abusive obscene language is very consciously used on his part.

For a time he had an author blog on amazon.com. They call them 'plogs' and they are not selective about who gets them. Therefore, even though Peaches is self-published, he got one. He lost it. And they took away his product wiki also. The reason was the obscenities. Amazon.com has a software system that removes obscenities. So he began using alternate spellings and *** to get past it. And he crowed about his victory on his numerous blogs.

He posted a picture on all of his blogs that cost him his blogs on deadjournal and greatestjournal. He has a blogspot and a host of others. The picture? He put two pictures of writers he disliked into the toilet and pissed on them and then took a picture of his deed and put it up all over the place. It was childish and immature.

There are forums where young writers gather such as spinetinglers. There they post their work in a protected area where it can be critiqued by other members in the hopes that the feedback will help them to improve. What happened there is typical of Naughty Peaches. He posted one of his grammatically challenged stories there and people responded with their usual honesty. Several of them did what I had on first meeting him: they suggested he get a copy of Strunk and White.

He reacted by abusing them in harsh language on the forums, in private messages, and emails. If they had a blog somewhere, they also received ugly comments from him.

I pointed this out to his family once, and they laughed at it. I guess it runs in the family.

I suspect that he is, at least to some degree, delusional.

His accusations seem to come out of thin air and left field. They include sex, e-piracy, conspiracy, and now plagiarism.

during my early days of investigating him (I was looking for some explanation of why he was doing ugly things to me), two women contacted me who knew him personally. They had both gone into hiding to escape him, and asked that I not give out their names.

Where is all this going?

Well, my first reaction to his accusations of plagiarism was shock and anger. Then I became depressed (a normal reaction to getting as angry as I had) but today after a good night's sleep, I have leveled out again.

Hopefully, something can and will be done about him one day. He's making an entire community miserable.

The Tale of Naughty Peaches

The Tale of Naughty Peaches.

Naughty Peaches thinks I'm an internet bully.

Bullying

"Cyberbullying involves the use of information and communication technologies such as e-mail, cell phone and pager text messages, instant messaging, defamatory personal Web sites, and defamatory online personal polling Web sites, to support deliberate, repeated, and hostile behaviour by an individual or group, that is intended to harm others." -Bill Belsey http://www.cyberbullying.ca

I was still rather naive when I first encountered Naughty Peaches. At least as far as the internet is concerned. Back in 2003 I was extremely lonely and the Iraqi War was looming. I had several nephews shipping out to participate, both in the marines and the navy.

I had had the internet for close to ten years, but I had never gone to messageboards and chatrooms. I had been told that they were toxic.

I'm an active member of SFWA, having made pro in 1980.

Onr day, I was looking over the SFWA website and stumbled upon an article I thought was outdated. So I contacted the webmaster and got into a discussion with him about it. He discerned that I was lonely and introduced me to chatrooms and the people in the chatrooms introduced me to messageboards. One of the first messageboards I went to was gothic.net.

While I was there, Naughty Peaches approached me, introduced himself as a writer of great talent, and said that we should get together. He sent me some of his work to go over. I suppose he was waiting for me to praise his genius. What I found was a document rife with grammar problems, incoherent sentences, bad dialog, and other errors. I recommended that he get a copy of Strunk and White.

His reaction was to launch into me in the ugliest of language. I've always been a fighter and I replied in kind. Then I dropped it and quit going to gothic.net to get away from him. I had started at gothic.net in September of 03 and I quit going in December. I eventually heard that he had been banned, and in April 04, I went back for a brief visit. He must have been reading the board, because he knew I had been there, and he sent me a series of ugly emails. I fired back at him and thought that was the end of it.

Then on June 17th of 04, Naughty Peaches joined HWA and lit into me on sight. Naughty Peaches had joined under the affiliate rule which did not require possessing any publishing credits (that has since been changed). I was talking to an editor in IM and she said to me "Have you seen this?" From September of 03 to June 17th, Naughty Peaches had been bad mouthing me all over the net and accusing me of plagiarism.

The really odd thing about it was that Naughty Peaches thought I was a horror author (I still don't write horror). At that time, the only things I had out were Sword and Sorcery that had originally been published while Naughty Peaches was still in diapers. He had also written a story using my name as the main character and telling people that it was about me and the it was a "cautionary tale of plagiarism."

Well by that point I was becoming better versed in the internet and I googled. I discovered that Naughty Peaches had been Naughty with a lot of people. I got the story taken down several places by threatening legal action. It's still out there at two spots, and every time he gets angry at me he threatens to have it published.

I stopped going to the messageboard at HWA as a result of his presence, but as I got my legs under me I flamed back at him. No matter how hard I looked for a new messageboard to participate at he showed up soon after. By September of 04, I had become extremely angry. He had an anthology out that he self-published through Lulu.com. Most of the stories were available for free various places on the web, so I wrote a review of the stories that I could find. Admittedly, it was partly to get back at him -- at least in the beginning -- because I could not imagine someone as functionally illiterate as Naughty Peaches being able to edit an anthology. I have edited them. However, once I started, my past as a reviewer and critic for several publications led to my writing ah honest and perceptive review, but he viewed my criticism as libel and slander no matter how politely I phrased it. I offered helpful suggestions to his underage authors and many later thanked me.

By then he had moved from attacking me to also attacking my daughter who was in high school at the time and living on her own because she had not wanted to move to the other side of the state with me and give up her friends.

Eventually I went back to ignoring him and hoping that this time it would stick. It didn't. He came after me again. It became an endless round of him jumping me or my child and me jumping him back for it. When he was not jumping on me, he was jumping on others. The numbers of his "enemies" grew as a result of his stalking and abuse.

Naughty Peaches was banned from many boards and it gradually became safe for me to return to them. I would ignore him for months at a time and then he would try something new to hurt me and my child.

As more people were hurt by his abusiveness, Naughty Peaches found that his "enemies" had become so great in number that he was practically getting cornered with torches and pitchforks at every turn.

One of the things that he came back to again and again was to harp on my sexual orientation. He would jump on me with obscenity laden posts. Whenever I got a new blog in an attempt to gain a bit of peace, he would be the first one to post a comment on it. Those comments were threatening and abusive. There seemed to be no way to slow him down.

I tried everything I could think of, banning, blocking, and so forth, but he always got around them to have his say.

Finally his "enemies" became an impromptu vigilante group that stuck together and every time he launched into a fresh round of abuse, he was parodied and slammed. Some people continued to try and reason with him, but like the rest of us who had been around longer, they soon saw that there was nothing to be done about Naughty Peaches.

Now he wants to say that I'm a bully because I won't lie down and take it.

At this point, Naughty Peaches knew a lot about me, my work, and my family. He had not read anything by me, but he knew that I wrote dark fantasy and Sword & Sorcery. A few days ago he accused me of having plagiarized Robert E. Howard. The blow came totally out of left field and followed on a long string of fresh threats from him. When I demanded that he show me and my readers where I had plagiarized REH, his response was "I can't betray my sources."

What?

Parody

I'm writing a parody of a notorious piece of horror fiction. Every few days I'll add to it until the story is complete. Then I'm posting it to places like fictionpress for the hell of it.

The Fan Fiction Wanker
by
Janrae Frank

Nickolby Alberto Picyune was a fan fiction horror writer, a no-account wannabee who lusted after the bodies of lovely horror authors, especially Jennifer Franklin, Angela Lynn Holcroft, and Marion Saint George.