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The Outlaw and the Upstart King: The Map of Unknown Things Book II - Softcover

Buch 2 von 3: The Map of Unknown Things

Duncan, Rod

 
9780857667038: The Outlaw and the Upstart King: The Map of Unknown Things Book II
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0857667033 ISBN 13: 9780857667038
Verlag: Angry Robot, 2019

Inhaltsangabe

Elizabeth Barnabus returns, to uncover the secrets and mysteries of the Gas-Lit Empire, in the startling sequel to The Queen of All Crows.

As it is inked, so shall your oaths and bindings be.

Tattoos are the only law on the Island of the Free, and there can never be a king. Every clan agrees on that. But a returning exile has smuggled something across the water that could send the old ways up in flames. Elias wants revenge on the men who severed his oaths and made him an outlaw. But, if his wealth and honour are to be restored, he'll need help from the most unlikely quarter - a mysterious woman, landed unwontedly on Newfoundland's rocky shore.

File Under:Fantasy [ Indelible Promise | The End Begins | Heart on Sleeve | Castaway ]

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rod Duncan writes alternate history, fantasy and contemporary crime. His novels have been shortlisted for the Philip K. Dick Award, the East Midlands Book Award and the John Creasey Dagger of the Crime Writers’ Association. A dyslexic with a background in scientific research, he now lectures in creative writing at DeMontfort University.

Some might say that he is obsessed with boundary markers, naive 18th Century gravestones and forming friendships with crows. But he says he is interested in the way things change.

 
gaslitempire.co.uk
twitter.com/rodduncan
 
Author hometown: Leicester, UK

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1
 
Elias chose a booth at the back of the Salt Ray Inn. Furthest from the lamps. Hiding against the risk that one of the other drinkers might have known him from his life before. His eyes were the giveaway. Their upward tilt came from his grandfather, the gemstone blue from his mother.
Setting down his tankard, he hid his hands under the table and set to watching the room. A young trader here, a fishwife there. Most would be carrying knives. But no big weapons. Modest folk of modest means. No men of the Blood. Hushed talk made a gentle hubbub. He would be safe enough.
Even with those distinctive eyes, Elias would have been hard to recognise. His face had weathered in his time away. His rich clothes too, thinning and fading. The cloak had been a fine thing once. Now there might be only a year left in it. But tomorrow he’d buy himself a new one. It would be hemmed with silver thread. There’d be garnets big as blackberries in the clasp. Tomorrow he’d have the money. Tomorrow he’d get even.
Always tomorrow.
With enough time, he might have earned such silver and gold by regular means. He could have set up a place of his own. A fixed address with house rules and a roof that didn’t leak. He could have sold liquor and hash instead of paying to sit far from someone else’s fire, next to a wooden pail already half full from dripping rainwater.
He sipped the bitter ale, just to wet his mouth.
On seeing a man carrying three flagons from the tap, he beckoned. The man faltered, as if the “come hither” might have been meant for someone else.
So Elias asked him, “Have you seen this one?”
The man glanced to the booth where his friends were waiting for beer. Elias lifted a Lucifer from the uneven table, gripping it between two fingers. The man approached. Elias took a second match with his other hand, the same awkward finger-grip. He turned them until they were end on end in a vertical line, then let go the top one, as if attempting a balance. It fell. No surprise there.
“What?” the man asked.
“I bet I can make one stand on top of the other.” This spoken in a whisper, so the man had to come closer to hear.
“How much?”
Sliding a clipping from a silver coin over the table, Elias took a deep breath and held out the matches again. The man set down his flagons. He sat, leaning closer for a clearer view in the low light. Some people want their money taking.
“Ready?”
The man nodded.
Elias struck one match on the rough wall and held the flaring head against the other, lighting that also. He blew out the flame. The phosphorus of the two match heads had fused forming a single lump of ash, fixing them together.
“You cheated!” the man said. “They’re not balanced!”
“I never said they’d balance. I said they’d stand. And they do. Look.”
The man balled his fists. “I did not agree to the bet!”
Elias leaned back and waved in dismissal. “No matter,” he said. “I don’t want your silver.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” he said. It must never be him against them. “But I’ll teach you how to play the same trick. Then you can bring your friends over. If it works, you can give me a tip. What do you say?”
So it began. The playful bet of matches first. Then cards. He did the setting out of them, so the men could be sure there would be no double dealing. For an hour he had them. Until their tempers frayed. With each other. All he’d done was take the dealer’s cut, once in a while, when the hands scored like for like.
After they left, stomping out into the squally night, Elias began drinking the rest of the half pint in his pint flagon. He’d planned to make it last, then head out to the back and sneak past the stable boy so he could bury himself in straw. Shallow enough to not be smothered. Deep enough not to freeze. Newfoundland could be cold in any season.
But the three gamblers had proved richer than their clothes and more drunk than the hour. They’d carried real American coins. He’d made enough to take a room for the night if he wished. Even a bath.
He was thinking on the sweetness of life, when a squat man stepped into the Salt Ray Inn, leaving the door swinging, as only one could do who’d forgotten what it felt like to need to be polite. His hair was long on one side. But as the wind pulled it back, Elias saw the scarring and the missing ear. On the other side, the man’s head had been shaved to stubble.
The rain outside had turned to snow. A flurry swirled in. Drinkers near the door hunkered down into cloaks and coats. They wouldn’t complain. The town was unaligned, meaning a fighter of any oath could show his face.
He took a couple of paces, peered into shadows here and there, as if checking for threats, then beckoned towards the open door. In marched half a dozen men with swords or pistols at their belts. The last of them had to stoop to pass under the lintel. His left coat sleeve had been knotted below the elbow. A missing forearm. Most had lost something: a finger, a hand. Hazards of the oath-bound life. But not the man they guarded. That was Jago: unmistakably barrel-chested. No other Patron would have dared to travel with so small a band.
Elias had already scooped the hack silver and foreign coins from the table. He hoped the shadow had covered his move. The drinkers in the best seats had been evicted. They stood, bowed and gestured for the warriors to take their places, as if making the offer by choice.
Patron Jago sat, propping his feet on a stool near the fire. His muddy boots steamed. The men sat with him, but for the knot-sleeved giant who remained on guard in the draft near the door. Elias watched it all over the rim of his empty tankard, trying to seem more casual than he felt. The owner of the Salt Ray was hurrying across, arms laden with bottles. Imported wine most likely. She wouldn’t risk offering them the ale they brewed at the inn. A dark haired barmaid followed with glasses and a tray of something. It made for a fair distraction. The girl bent to serve food. The man at the door leered at her arse.
Elias picked up his hat and slid out from behind the table. A narrow passage led towards the rear yard. It had been the first thing he checked on arriving. Patron Jago was a man he’d need to speak to. But not here. Not yet. Elias would need to choose his own place and time.
Lifting the latch, he slipped out into the night. A storm lantern squeaked as it swung on its bracket, lighting a halo of drifting snowflakes. Slipping the winnings and cards into the pocket at his belt, he drew the old cloak tight around him. One more night in a hay loft wasn’t going to hurt. He started across the yard towards the stables.
But a figure loomed from the shadow to block his way. A gatherer. One of Jago’s men. Damn, but of course he’d left a guard at the back.
“Where are you going?”
“Going for a pish,” said Elias, adding the slur to seem more helpless.
“Then you’re going wrong,” said the man, pointing towards the latrine with a long knife. “The pisser’s over there.” He must have done something to displease his Patron or he wouldn’t have been given that dismal watch.
“Drunk too mush,” said Elias.
“Show me your face,” said the man.
Elias removed his hat and scrunched his eyes in a squint that he hoped would seem drunken.
“Have I seen you before?” asked the man.
“Dunno.”
“Got any money?”
Without waiting for an answer, he patted down Elias’s side with his free hand,...

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Verlag
Angry Robot
Erscheinungsdatum
2019
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0857667033
ISBN 13 
9780857667038
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
384
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Angry Robot
https://www.angryrobotbooks.com

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