McGuire Untoward Induction

An Elliot May, P.E.D. Novel
1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-4835-5951-3
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 540 Seiten

Elliot May is a bitter, fifty-year-old unraveller of mysteries in the Kingdom of Brogonough. Unfortunately, his three decades of success have ultimately been bad for business, as months now pass between problems to solve. His only friend, Cullath, has grown tired of Elliot's new pastime - the boundless consumption of ale and spirits - and encourages him to take a look back. As Elliot writes his memoir, learn how an honor-bound twenty-year-old squire, about to be knighted, ended up spending the next thirty years chasing clues, solving puzzles, and breaking rules. As he writes his pages he will recall meeting a mysterious, beautiful prisoner in the castle dungeon, attempt to exonerate his friend's uncle - who faces death - and accept a change in the course he expected his life to take. Also follow the older Elliot as he pursues a new mystery, one which will take him into the Kingdom of Dennivar in pursuit of an assassin named The Dove. He and Cullath will join with a bright teenaged girl, Emmy, and attempt to avert a war between Brogonough and Dennivar. Will Elliot fight off his indifference, and his demons?

Autoren/Hrsg.

McGuire, Michael

Leseproben

The Old Bastard I wake to pain and darkness, a dull ache moving up and down my spine. More urgently, there is a pounding in my head like an angry heartbeat, punctuated each second by what must be a drumbeat elsewhere in the room. The darkness may be explained by my face resting upon my arms. Wincing, I raise my head, unwilling to open my eyes just yet. I must have fallen asleep in a chair, much of my upper body sprawled across the table. This would also explain the discomfort in my back. I summon what remains of my strength and channel it into my voice. "Will someone stop that incessant noise!" My tongue feels large and dry in my mouth. I lay my head back down.  "I see you are awake," the Old Bastard says. He laughs. "The only sound is my boots upon the floor." I refuse to lift my head again, fearing the light of day. The noise stops, then grows louder. A great deal louder. Simply breathing leaves my stomach churning, and is made worse by the fact that I must breathe through my mouth. I find my nose is still useless from congestion brought on by a recent illness. At least that has almost faded. I force my head up again and crack open my eyelids. The table before me bears an empty bottle of spirit lying on its side, an inverted pitcher of ale, and a clean glass. By some measure of fortune, I sit with my back to the windows, sparing my weary eyes from the sun's glare. My partner is stomping on the heavy oak floor. I know what he wants so I force myself upright. The soreness in my back spreads to my arms and legs, but I have achieved the desired result...the Old Bastard's boot stops an inch from the ground. "You were in rare form tonight, Elliot." Cullath, known only to me as the Old Bastard, throws a rag down on the bar and crosses his arms. "Even for you." His dark grey hair is cut short and begins well back from his forehead, the result of age. The Old Bastard's face is a sea of wrinkles that provide only the slightest hint as to the depths of his wisdom and experience, not to mention the hard years we have seen together. "Have I done anything I will regret?" "Do you ever regret what you cannot remember?" He approaches the hearth. A pot is set over the flames. I see he carries a clay pitcher in a strong hand that, on its own, one might assume belonged to a much younger man. "I do not wish to stay awake," I say. "I intend to disappear beneath the comfort of my sheets." Ignoring me, he ladles boiling water into the container. I shake my head sharply in an attempt to clear it. My stomach performs a somersault. "What time is it?" "A bit past two," the Old Bastard says, then adds, "In the morning." It would appear my concern for the sun's rays had been unwarranted. He picks up a mug from the bar as he passes by, then approaches me. I watch warily as he sets it down and fills it with an unappealing brown liquid. "The bean water will do you good." "Why in the name of the King would I wish to remain awake at two o'clock in the morning?" He points to the mug. "You are oath-bound to me. Drink." He returns to the bar. It is a simple thing. Thirty feet wide with no sides, but none of our patrons would be fool enough to attempt to step behind it. That is our domain. "I agreed to write it down, not when. Fuck it. I am going to bed." I rise but, impossibly, the entire tavern tilts to one side. I place my right hand on the table to steady myself but, finding a wet spot, it slides a few inches. I manage to grip the table's edge with my left hand. The Old Bastard is sixty-five-years-old, fifteen my senior. He has been my partner for the last thirty. Yet somehow, old or not, he can still move. He vaults over the bar and, with a few long strides, stands before me. I sway a bit as he squints, looking me over. I do not see his hand move, but there is no mistaking the sensation of his open palm striking me in the back of the head. Bright balls of light explode across my field of vision. I shout in pain, but he raises his hand again and I shut my mouth. "I needn't tolerate this," I say, rubbing the tender place just above my neck. "I am the P. E. motherfucking D." Then the room turns black.
The Purse  I wake up on the floor, something heavy across my chest. I suspect it is the table. The smell of bean water is all around me, my clothes are wet, and I ache everywhere. "Welcome back." The Old Bastard's voice is dull. "How long?" "Ten minutes. I hit you left-handed. Saved you your jaw." I close my eyes. The pain in my head remains, but the pain in my jaw is new. I gather as much strength as I am likely to summon without proper sleep and push the table aside. Slowly, I turn over onto my hands and knees, then rise to my feet. I take an unsteady step forward and hear the crunch as I grind shards of glass and clay into the floor. "You agreed," he says. "Part of that agreement was that you would have the chance to begin on your own within thirty days." It feels like he is standing over me, but we are about the same height. "You've become a bitter shit...a disgrace to your name and family." "My brother is my only family." For a brief moment, the Old Bastard looks wounded. The lines on his face deepen, and his eyes sink further into his skull. I regret my words but, just as quickly, his normal, irritated look returns. "You once believed we must honor those who came before. I called it horse shit but, over time, you convinced me otherwise." I laugh lightly, but even that is an effort. The room threatens to pitch sideways again. I wonder if I can grab onto the massive wooden chandelier suspended above me. Then I recall it is four feet out of reach. "I was once a naïve child who convinced you to work for me." "I recall that conversation differently," the Old Bastard says. "But no matter. The pages and quill are in the first booth. You will write your past, and you will recall a time when you possessed both pride and honor. Do it, or I will blacken your eyes." I stare at him. We are at a stalemate. If I do not do as he says, I will never get any rest this night. There is also the oath. Despite what I have said, I take my word seriously. I turn to the row of booths along the wall and shuffle to the first, grasping each table and chair I pass for support. A stack of blank paper and a fresh quill lie on the table. There is an inkwell and a box of matches beside an unlit candle. In truth, I do believe the writing will help, but I refuse to grant the Old Bastard an ounce of satisfaction. I reach for the tattered old curtain to pull it closed and secure some privacy, but before I can grasp it, the Tankard's heavy old door opens. I watch a man about my age enter. The stillness of a frigid February night follows him in, then is lost as the door thuds closed. Relief washes over his face when he sees the Old Bastard standing in the middle of the room. He looks gratefully at the dying hearth. The fact that I do not recognize him sparks some small amount of interest in me, but I choose to allow my partner to deal with him. "We are closed. Have been for nearly half an hour.” I turn in my seat and see him squinting at the man. "I have seen you in The Worm of Five, but only as of late." Looking miserable, the man nods. His back is slightly bent so he stands a head shorter than the Old Bastard, but may have once been just as tall. "I work there, it is true. But I have not come here for a drink, or to discuss my work." I smile from my place in the shadows. We have work, although I remain bound to my oath. No matter. Perhaps I can delay the writing. I look the Purse over. My initial assessment was correct. He is about my age; he has reddish stubble upon his face, which is being overtaken by grey; his head is shaved, although I can see new hairs emerging; his eyebrows are black as the night sky; he has a portly belly that spills over his belt; and his arms are thick and flabby. It remains curious to me that I don't know him, but I have had little cause to wander The Worm in the past few years. If the Old Bastard says he has seen him there, I accept it as fact. "Why do you bother us at this hour?" I say. The man looks at me and his relief doubles. "Thank the King you are here!" "You can stop right there," my partner says. "You are aware of the rules?" The man shakes his head, and the Old Bastard points over his shoulder. There is a sign above the bar, suspended by rope from the ceiling. The words carved into the old wood form two rules, left there by the previous owner. At the bottom of the sign are two large, iron rings connecting it to a newer sign, which hangs beneath it. Newer, but still two decades old itself. I hung it in a time of plenty. "What does the lower sign say?" His eyes never leave the man. The Purse reads aloud, "'Requests for assistance will be considered at The Bakery by The Bridge. NO EXCEPTIONS'." Of course, there had been many exceptions over the years, but no matter. There would be no unreasonable exceptions, to be sure. We may not be able to turn them away, but we can see them on our own terms. Those terms always included our space on King's Arc that, a generation ago, had served as a bakery. "This cannot wait," the man says, as they often do. Yesterday, the Old Bastard told me he was considering moving on. He said we’ve been too successful. Between us and the army of fools in steel, who would be so foolish as to break the King's Law? I knew it to be bluster then, and I know it now. He has been at my side for thirty years. He will die here. The only question is whether it comes of boredom or blade. The Old Bastard's eyes meet mine and we each know we...