Friday Snippet Meme
Sorry I'm posting this a smidge late. We're with
the baddie this time, in a scene that will almost certainly get cut - it likely
gives away too much information to the reader that Dubric doesn't yet have - but
it's next up in this draft, so here it
is.
**The
following excerpt is first draft narrative, likely full of errors, and many
changes are yet to come. Please do not quote or assume this is final text. All
words are ©2007, Tamara Siler Jones, all rights
reserved.**
Stain of
Corruption
Chapter
3
Scene
4
He stood in the shadows of the potter’s shed,
not far from where he’d watched the hanging. Unlike his vigil the previous
night, he felt exposed. There were too many people about, too much sunlight, too
likely that someone would take notice. Regardless of the risk, he had to watch,
had to be sure. The bottle had been delivered and filled, he’d questioned
the courier himself, but there’d been no sign of it from Dubric’s
suite, not one damn whimper. Either the
old bastard or his bitch has to die, he
thought, lighting another cigarette. If
I can’t kill him, I want him broken and blind with grief. The sooner the
better. We’re running out of
time.
Last night’s activities
had been a wash at best. Lord Brushgar had caught wind of the new plan and
nearly escaped, Dien had come home too early and ensured his daughter would
breathe another day, and the damn Byr still
lived.
How does the Byr
outthink us? he wondered as he flicked aside
his smoldering butt. He should have
gloated around his office for the better part of a bell rehashing the glory of
executing Newen, not sent Dien trotting straight home.
Piss.
Ignoring the urgent thrum
from the speak stone in his pocket, he lit his seventh cigarette shortly after
the noon bell rang. The Byr can’t
pass a spec of dust without examining it. He must have seen the bottle, must
have--
He took a staggering step
back as the upper floor of the north wing exploded, showering outbuildings and
the armory with stones. Smoke coughed up, black and roiling, brightened by red
flickers of flame. People ran toward the blast and away from it, screaming and
panicked.
About damned
time, he thought, crushing the cigarette
beneath his boot. Hope the randy old
bastard was home for his midday
romp.
Posted: Friday - August 03, 2007 at 09:37 AM
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