andpuff

The Quartered Sea Makes Four Quarters

Back on August 4th of 2015, SING THE FOUR QUARTERS came out as an ebook for the first time ever.  Yay!

1Q.jpg


On September 1st, FIFTH QUARTER, the second book in the series came out as an ebook for the first time ever! Again, yay!

2Q.jpg

And I wrote about them, with excepts and order links and everything here and here.


Then, on October 6th, NO QUARTER, the third book in the series came out as an ebook for the very first time ever.  But... the hardcover of AN ANCIENT PEACE also dropped that day and as it was a new book and NO QUARTER was a reprint, albeit in its original digital form, I concentrated on AN ANCIENT PEACE.

But today, November 3rd, THE QUARTERED SEA, the fourth and final book in the series comes out as (all together now) an ebook for the very first time ever.  And although THE FUTURE FALLS is also out as a paperback today, since I'm two quarters behind and with half as much time as I need, I'm going to wrap up my bards, and my boats, and my imperial assassins.


First an except of No,

3Q.jpg

    “Pirates.”
   The word was close enough to Imperial that she understood the meaning before Gyhard finished his translation. Shading her eyes with her hands, she peered back along the side of the ship. Just moving into the current behind them was a sleek, two-masted, narrow-hulled vessel.
   “The Raven.”
    It sounded like a curse. Two sailors spat over the side, giving water to the sea for luck, and a third traced the sign of the Circle on her breast, muttering, “Probably bin followin’ us since the outer islands.” When the lookout confirmed the identification a moment later, the crew of the Gilded Fancy raced to defensive positions.
   Vree put herself in the path of a running sailor and he skidded to a stop. The third night out, she’d barely managed to keep from killing their best knife fighter when he’d challenged her right to the long dagger she wore. After her easy victory, the crew treated her with the same wary respect she’d received from those around her most of her life. While they might not know what she was—had been—they’d been made very aware of what she could do. “Can we …” She hated having to search for words but her Shkoden was up to little more than the most basic of conversations. *Gyhard, how do you say, outrun her?*
   When he told her and she repeated it, the sailor shook his head, scalp locks whipping his ears. “No stinking way. They’re in the same stinking current, ahead of the same stinking wind, and they’re built for speed which we sure as fish shit aren’t.”
   “What will …”
   He didn’t wait for her to finish. “Happen? They’ll board us. Anyone who survives the fight’ll go over the side. Less, of course, they’ve got some stinking skill Edite i’Oceania …”
   *i’Oceania?*
   *She’s claiming the sea as her mother,* Gyhard explained. *It’s probably not true.*
   *Probably?*
   “… thinks she needs—healers, or sail makers, or stinking carpenters. You, don’t know what she’ll do about you, but the hucksters, his stinking Lordship, and his stinking Lordship’s servant, she’ll hold for ransom.”
   The hucksters were a pair of Imperial merchants and His Lordship was a Shkoden noble, who was involved in some way with the ambassador at the Imperial court. Vree knew nothing more about any of them, nor did she really care. As the sailor ran off to join others performing complicated and inexplicable maneuvers with a rope—the decks looked like an anthill stirred with a stick—she took another look at the Raven.
   Even in that short time, it had pulled closer—close enough to see that allexposed timber had been painted a deep matte black.
   *That’s conceit,* Gyhard growled. *All that black paint must’ve cost her a fortune. No wonder she turned pirate.*
   Conceit. Vree frowned.
   She felt Gyhard stir uneasily within the boundaries of her mind. *What are you thinking?* he demanded. *Vree …*
   *I’m thinking that there may be an alternative to going over the side with a pirate’s ax splitting my skull.*
   *What alternative?*
   She turned from the rail. *The usual one.* Ignoring the chaos growing around her, she made her way past frantic men and women fighting to get the last bit of speed out of the Fancy to the arms locker where the armsmaster was methodically setting out bundles of barbed arrows. As he’d spent some years in the Empire and spoke fluent Imperial, they’d not have to waste any of their rapidly decreasing time on translations. “Tell me,” she demanded without preamble, “about Edite i’Oceania.”
   “Good at what she does,” he grunted, not bothering to look up. “Almost as good as she thinks she is. Shkoden navy controls most of the sea-lanes through the Broken Islands, but they can’t catch her. And the Circle knows they’ve tried. From what I’ve heard, her crew adores her. They should. She’s made them rich. They’d die for her.” He pulled oilskin-wrapped packets of bowstrings out of the locker. “And some of them are going to.”
    “What about her? Would she die for them?”
   The armsmaster laughed, but the sound held little humor. “Her type thinks they’re immortal.”
   “How would she respond to a knife at her throat?” The tone of Vree’s voice lifted the armsmaster out of his crouch and turned him toward her. “Would thispirate call off an attack in exchange for her life? Would her crew listen if she did?”
   “Aye, the crew would likely listen,” he said slowly, studying her face, a slow realization dawning. “But i’Oceania wouldn’t give that order. If she’s taken alive, she’ll die ashore and she knows it. You kill her, though, and her crew becomes the stinking rabble it was before she forced order on it. Captain Edite’s the only thing holding that murdering bunch of cutthroats together. If she dies, they’d fall apart. If they fall apart …” His eyes still on her face, he closed his fist around the hilt of hisshort sword. “I can beat them.”
   Vree nodded and spun about on one bare heel.
   “Assassin.”
   She paused.
 “Do it quickly or there’ll be no point in doing it at all.”


Then Sea,



     The fishing boat rose to the surface of the bay like an abandoned vessel of the old gods. Such was the angle that the masthead, draped in pennants of torn and dripping sail, had barely emerged before the bow broke through, water sheeting over the gunnels back into the sea. A moment later the stern followed, cradled on the crest of an unnatural wave. Long ropes of weed trailed off the rudder as though the depths had attempted to hold their prize.
     Ignoring waves and wind, the boat cut across the chop toward a nearly identical vessel carrying four oilskin-wrapped people. Three of the four watched the approach, openmouthed. The fourth, a young man standing alone in the bow, watched the water and Sang.
     A few moments later, the salvaged boat drew parallel with the other and stopped, both boats keeping their position as though held by unseen hands.
     “That’s her, that’s my Second Chance.” Leaning over the gunnels for a closer look, one of the identical trio pushed her hood back off salt-and-pepper hair and squinted into the spray. “Well, I’ll be hooked and fried, they even brung up both pairs of oars.” Half-turned toward the bow, she lifted her voice over the combined noise of wind and sea and Song, “Hey bard! We’re close enough to use the gaff. Should I hook her in and make her fast?”
     Still Singing, Benedikt shook his head and shuffled around on his damp triangle of decking to face the shore. Shoulders hunched against the chill, he changed his Song, and both boats began to move toward the gravel beach at the head of the bay where the tiny figures of the villagers paced up and down.
     When the keels scraped bottom, he changed the Song again.
     Two roughly human translucent figures rose up out of the shallows on either side  of the bow and brushed against the ends of Benedikt’s outstretched fingers like liquid cats. Closing his eyes, he allowed the four notes of the gratitude to linger a moment or two after the kigh dissolved back into the sea.
     “Right, then!” The owner of the Second Chance took command of the silence with  an authoritative bellow. “Let’s have some help here before the tide turns!”
     His part in the salvage completed, the bard stayed where he was until it became obvious that there was nothing left to do but disembark. Clambering awkwardly over the side, he winced as the frigid water seeped into borrowed boots. The uneven footing threw him off balance. He staggered forward, then back, then forward again.
     A sudden grip on his elbow kept him from falling.
    The figure beside him, indistinguishable from all the others in the ubiquitous  oilskins, was considerably shorter than his own six feet. Under his hood, he felt his ears burn. Bards were not supposed to need rescue. Especially not from rescuers so much smaller than themselves.


And after that thematical salty set of excerpts, a repeat of the links:

SING THE FOUR QUARTERS
FIFTH QUARTER
NO QUARTER
THE QUARTERED SEA
ebooksshillingwow

LJ Video