Not Quite Scaramouche by Joel Rosenber EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Joel Rosenber
- Language: English
- Genre: Historical Fantasy
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Prologue:
A NIGHT IN BIEMEST
PIROJIL LIKED THE night. Yes, in part it was that the darkness hid his
face – in large part – but there was more to it than that. After all, a mask
could hide his face – although, under most circumstances, that would draw
more attention than even his ugliness did – and a beard and mustache did
just that at the moment
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No, it wasn’t just that it concealed his ugly face. Darkness was a
comforting thing, a blanket of shadows and grayness that warmed him like
a distant fire. With a quick motion of cloak and body, you could disappear
into that darkness, or reach out from it with the steely finger of a sharp
blade, darkened with lampblack.
Darkness offered detachment, both physical and emotional.
And detachment was a good thing in his line of work.
Nights in Biemestren were brighter than most; by edict of the lord
warden, oil lamps flared brightly from just after sunset until just before
sunrise in front of every commercial establishment along most streets,
including the one that was officially named the Street of Pirondael’s
Treachery – the new emperor, or more likely his mother, had gone in for
some serious renaming – but which, for reasons nobody seemed to be able
to remember, was called Dog Street by all the natives. It was filled with
lowerclass establishments – taverns and bordellos that catered to the soldier
trade, mainly.
Loud, drunken singing and a quartet of staggering Tyrnaelians poured
out through the open door of the Tavern of the Broken Mug – at least, that
was what Pirojil thought it was called, given that the emblem mounted at
the edge of the roof was a mug fit for a mythical giant, with a jagged crack
sawed down the side, still dripping water from the earlier rainstorm.
He took a battered leather eyepatch from his pouch and adjusted it
about his left eye, tightening the thong hard behind his head to prevent any
light from leaking in, then shrugged his cloak up to hide the Cullinane
green and gold stitching on his collar and epaulets, and shouldered his way
in, his left hand automatically going to the hilt of his sword to pull it
vertical so that the tip didn’t brush against anybody.
It made sense to be careful about that sort of thing. It would be easy to
start a fight, and at times when he had nothing better to do he might do just
that – he had, in the past, and he would again, some night where he needed
to feel blood on his knuckles even if that meant tasting his own blood in his
mouth – but he didn’t want to do so accidentally, and for no purpose. If he
wanted a fight this night, it would be easy to find a purpose.
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